“Not my first or my last. Go home.” I slammed the door shut.

I stood and watched as Jung started the iffy Chevette, which, once the engine caught hold, shook like a janky washing machine. This was the vehicle he chose to go stealth in? Slowly the car sputtered away on a cloud of mean-smelling exhaust. I watched it belly crawl out of the lot and make the turn down the Drive before I turned away.

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Later that afternoon, I swiveled in my office chair, staring at my computer at all the write-ups on the Ayers family. They, apparently, were quite the society swells. One particular photo, taken in Stephen Ayers’s massive office, his seat of power, showed the pompous-looking man sitting in his chair, legs crossed, languid hands resting on armrests that looked like lion heads, every bit the regal king. I’d just hung up from talking to his snooty-sounding receptionist who’d told me quite coldly that Mr. Ayers was in a meeting, which everybody knew was code for “go take a flying leap.”

I left my name and number and a brief message, omitting the words “murder” and “lying bastard.” I wanted to know why he sent Felton, the family lawyer, to claim Tim’s body instead of coming himself, after making such a show of concern for his brother’s welfare. And why had he made such a point about telling Cap about Tim’s past troubles? Of course, he’d never call me back, but that didn’t worry me. I knew where to find him. In the meantime, I’d start with Tim’s ex-partner, Teo. He knew Tim intimately. If there had been something going on with him, Teo would know about it, so I headed out to see him.

Cantu lived in a studio loft in River North, a gentrified enclave of fussy millennials filled with bohemian nightspots and quaint bistros that thrived, despite hawking six-dollar pastries and high-hat coffee blends nobody normal had a taste for. Parking anywhere up north was always a crapshoot, and I had to circle the block five times before I found a spot I wouldn’t get towed from. I gave the city meter the stink eye, though. It was going to cost me one quarter for every nine-minute interval, and I resented it. It was highway robbery, pure and simple, and as I slipped my credit card into the meter’s voracious maw, I couldn’t help but feel as though someone had just picked my pocket.