Nancy had been in love, been pregnant, had an abortion. Since she and Charles broke up five years ago there hadn’t been any special men in her life. And no close women friends down here, either.

“It wasn’t really a good place for her to meet people. I hoped maybe after she bought that house—South Shore is a little livelier neighborhood and lots of university people live down there now. But there wasn’t anyone in this area she would’ve been close enough to talk to. Except maybe Caroline Djiak, and Nancy thought she was such a hothead, she wouldn’t have told her anything she wasn’t dead certain about.” The unconscious phrase made her wince.

I rubbed my eyes. “She talked to one of the state’s attorneys. If it had something to do with SCRAP, she might’ve talked to their lawyer too. What’s his name? She mentioned it that night she came by Caroline’s and I can’t remember it”

“I guess that would be Ron Kappelman, Vic. She went out with him a few times but they didn’t really click together.”

“When was that?” I asked, suddenly alert. Maybe it was a crime of passion after all.

“It must have been two years ago, I guess. When he first started working with SCRAP.”

Maybe not. Who waits two years to revenge himself on love gone sour? Outside Agatha Christie, that is.

Mrs. Cleghorn couldn’t tell me anything else. Other than the date of the funeral, set for Monday at Mount of Olives Methodist Church. I told her I’d be there and left her to the ministrations of her grandchildren.

Back at the car, I slumped dejectedly against the steering wheel. Except for the financial searches I’d done on Tuesday, I hadn’t had a paying customer for three weeks. And now, if I was really going to look into Nancy’s death, I’d have to talk to the state’s attorney. See if Nancy had revealed anything when she told him she was being followed. Talk to Ron Kappelman. See whether he might’ve felt like a man scorned or, failing that, if he knew what she’d been up to the last few days.

I rubbed my head tiredly. Maybe I was getting too old for gestures of bravado. Maybe I should just call John McGonnigal, tell him about my conversation with Caroline, and go back to what I know how to do—investigate industrial fraud.

On that sensible, even rational, note, I started the car and took off. Not toward Lake Shore Drive and common sense, but to the south, where Nancy Cleghorn had died.

13

Dead Stick Pond

Dead Stick Pond lay deep in the labyrinth of marsh, landfill, and factories. I’d been there only once, as part of the Girl Scout bird-watching expedition, and wasn’t sure I could find it again. At 103rd Street I headed west to Stony Island, the street that threads the maze. North of 103rd it’s a major thoroughfare, but down here it turns into a gravel track of indeterminate width, worn to potholes by the giant semis chewing their way in and out of the factories.