“Hey, Detective—lay off. We’re on the same side on this. You find who killed the Cleghorn woman and I’ll prosecute hell out of him. I promise you that. I don’t think it was Steve Dresberg, but hey, I’ll call Haas and feel him out.”

I grinned savagely and stood up. “Better leave that for the police, Mr. Mclnerney. Let them investigate and find someone for you to prosecute hell out of.”

I strode arrogantly from the office, but once I got on the elevator my shoulders sagged. I didn’t want to mess with Steve Dresberg. If half the things they said about him were true, he could get you into the Chicago River faster than you could change your socks. But he hadn’t done anything to Nancy or Caroline over the incinerator. Or maybe he figured the first time around you got a warning; the second time meant sudden death. I soberly merged the Chevy with the rush-hour jam on the Kennedy and headed for home.

14

Muddy Waters

When I got home Mr. Contreras was in front of the building with the dog. She was gnawing on a large stick while he cleaned debris from the little patch of front yard. Peppy jumped up when she saw me, but sank back down when she realized I didn’t have my running clothes on.

Mr. Contreras sketched a wave. “Hiya, doll. You get caught in the rain this morning?” He straightened and looked at me. “My, my, you’re certainly a sight. Look like you’ve been wading through a mud puddle that came up to your waist.”

“Yeah. I’ve been down in the South Chicago swamp. It kind of stays with you.”

“Oh yeah? Didn’t even know there was a South Chicago swamp.”

“Well, there is,” I said shortly, pushing the dog away impatiently.

He looked at me closely. “You need a bath. Hot bath and a drink, doll. You go on up and rest. I’ll look after her royal highness here. She don’t need to go to the lake every day of her life, you know.”

“Yeah, right.” I collected my mail and moved slowly up the stairs to the third floor. When I saw myself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, I couldn’t believe I’d gotten Mclnerney to talk to me without a struggle. I looked as though I belonged with the fishing couple out at Dead Stick Pond. My panty hose were in shreds and my legs were streaked with black where I’d tried washing the mud off down at the county building. The hem of my dress was heavy with caked dirt. Even my black pumps had gotten dusty from the dirt on my legs.

I kicked the shoes off outside the bathroom door and threw out the panty hose while turning on the bath water. I hoped the cleaners could rescue the dress—I didn’t want to sacrifice my entire wardrobe to the old neighborhood.

I took the portable phone from the bedroom into the bath with me. Once I was in the tub with whiskey at close reach I checked in with the answering service. Jonathan Michaels had tried to reach me. He’d left his office number, but the switchboard was closed for the day and I didn’t have his unlisted home number. I stuck the phone up on the sink and leaned back in the tub with my eyes closed.