“They weren’t wearing seat belts. I’m not saying it would have saved them, but it might have helped. It certainly saved your life when your car went over on its side. We arrested the truck driver—not a scratch on him, of course—reckless driving and involuntary manslaughter.”

“Did you inspect my car?”

He looked at me curiously. “Someone had emptied all the brake fluid for you. And cut through the power steering cables. You had enough left to get you going, but moving the wheel would have worked through the last bit of the cables for you.”

“How come I could stop at the lights down on 130th?” fluid left in the lines to hold you. But if you slammed on the brakes you wouldn’t get anything … Now who would do a thing like that? Where had you parked your car?”

I told him. He shook his head. “Lot of vandals down in the Port. You’re lucky you got out of this alive.”

“There’s a feeble excuse for a guard down at the Tri-State yard. You might have somebody talk to him and see if he noticed anything.”

McCormick said he’d think about it. He asked a few more questions and took off.

Someone brought in an enormous bouquet of spring flowers. The note read:

Vic:

So sorry to read about your accident. Speedy recovery.

Paige

That was kind. Bobby Mallory’s wife sent a plant. Murray Ryerson came in person, carrying a cactus. His idea of a joke. “Vic! You must have cat blood. Nobody ever gets hit by a semi and lives to tell it.”

Murray is a big guy with curly reddish hair. He looks sort of like a Swedish Elliott Gould. His hearty voice and forty-six-inch shoulders contracted the hospital room into half its size.

“Hi, Murray. You read too many sensational newspapers. I wasn’t hit by a semi—it got off my tail and ran into some other poor bastard.”

He pulled a vinyl-coated chair over to the bedside and straddled it backward. “What happened?”

“Is this an interview or a sick visit?” I asked crossly.

“How about an interview in exchange for the story on Paige? Or are you up to that sort of thing?”

I brightened up considerably. “What’d you find out?”

“Ms. Carrington’s a hardworking girl—excuse me, young woman. She has one older sister, no brothers. She had a scholarship at the American Ballet Theater when she was fifteen but wasn’t good enough for them in the long haul. She lives in a condo on Astor Place. Father’s dead. Mother lives in Park Forest South. Her family doesn’t have a lot of money. She may have a rich friend helping her out, or the ballet people may pay her a lot—you’d have to sic a detective on her to find out for sure. Anyway, she’s lived at the same place for several years now.”