“I’m not, but maybe I should, the way you’re stirring the waters,” Gisborne said. “Marx called me. You’re in a small town now, Warshawski, not the big city. We all know each other, we all look out for each other. You may think you’re moving around stealthily, but everyone knows where you are and what you eat for breakfast.”

“That’s good. If you decide to lock me up, you’ll know just what to bring me.” I’d forgotten I wasn’t going to bait him. “Since you’re on me like my underwear, you know I was at the hospital. Did you also know that neither Nathan nor Shirley Kiel has been to see their near-dead daughter? Randy Marx either.”

“That’s just what I mean, Warshawski,” Gisborne said heavily. “You don’t know jack shit about these people. Sonia forfeited her right to parental regard a long time ago.”

I nodded slowly, as if he’d said something particularly meaningful. “Before she passed out, Sonia said she’d seen Emerald Ferring in the place where Matt Chastain lies buried. Where is that?”

Gisborne’s eyes darted around the interrogation room, as if a good answer might be posted on one of the walls, next to the don’t spit or smoke in here signs. “If these friends of yours were staying out at Doris McKinnon’s farm, you need to get them in here to answer questions about her murder.”

“Sheriff,” I said gently. “Number one: I’ve never met them, they’re not my friends, I’m here in your county hoping to find them. Number two: this means you’ve identified the body and the means of death already, which is massively impressive. I’m going to get Nick Vishnikov from the Cook County ME’s office to phone your pathologist so he can find out how you did this in three hours. I’ll put it out on my Twitter feed.”

“That’s not for public consumption,” he growled. His phone rang just then, sparing us both further escalation. He picked it up, snapped his name into the mouthpiece but put it against his chest while he told me not to leave his jurisdiction.

Must not bait the sheriff, must not bait the sheriff, I chanted to myself. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Sheriff. I’m having way too much fun.”

21
Voices from Home

It was close to nine when the law decided they’d spent enough time with me for one evening. Before I could get out of the Judicial and Law Enforcement Center, Sergeant Everard and his superior, a Lieutenant Lowdham, had scooped me up to ask the same questions as Gisborne. I guess cops don’t feel they’ve earned their pay if they can’t drag a simple inquiry out for most of a shift.