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Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for the novels of Sara Paretsky
  3. ALSO BY SARA PARETSKY
  4. FIRE SALE
  5. Copyright
  6. THANKS
  7. CHAPTERS
  8. PROLOGUE
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I promised to call him if I was going to be a minute later than seven-thirty. When I’d hung up, I frowned at the phone. Something had clicked at the back of my mind when I answered Morrell’s call. Before I could ferret around for it, the phone rang again.

It was Conrad, wanting to know if Morrell would have ditched Marcena’s computer to keep the cops from looking at it. “He says his place was busted, but how can I know he’s telling the truth? I sent my detective up just in case, but anyone can throw their papers around.”

I burst out laughing, which miffed Conrad. “Morrell just asked me the very same question about you. Now at least I know you’re both telling the truth.”

Conrad laughed reluctantly, but added what Morrell and I had already been discussing, that someone thought Marcena’s notes mattered. Which meant Morrell shouldn’t hang out alone anywhere because whoever had come into his place after the computer might think Marcena had confided in him.

A shiver ran through my body. When we’d finished, I called Morrell again and told him if he was home alone, to put on a chain bolt. “And look out where you park; don’t come into your condo through the alley for a while, okay?”

“I’m not going to start living in fear, V. I. It’s mentally exhausting. I’ll take sensible precautions, but I’m not going to find a concrete bunker to hide in.”

“Morrell, I saw Marcena and Bron. Whoever attacked them has a very ugly imagination, and a disposition to match. Don’t be an idiot!”

“Oh, Christ, Vic, don’t you go telling me not to be an idiot when you’re down there on the South Side where it all happened. If you’re attacked again—”

He broke off, unwilling to complete the sentence. We both hung up without saying anything else.

32

Time to Nail the Pastor to the Cross

The construction crew had made good progress on the four little houses where the pastor was working. One seemed finished, while the second, where I’d found Andrés two weeks ago, now had a bright red front door. The remaining two were still skeletons of poured concrete with a few boards outlining their ultimate shape.