“So you want to check on this guy, this Simon, whose last name Warshawski doesn’t know? What’ve you dug up down there?”

The next few minutes were a series of grunts. Before he hung up I tapped him on the arm.

“Mind if I ask a question, Rawlings?”

He covered the receiver with one large palm. “I’ll be glad to pass it along, Ms. W.”

Even good cops like to play power games. I curled my nose and turned away. “It’ll keep until morning. Tell him I said ‘hi.’ ”

Rawlings tapped my arm. “Don’t get on your high horse, Ms. W. Enough bad will around here tonight already.… Terry? Vic Warshawski wants a word with you.”

“Hi, Terry. How’s it going? Did you locate Mitch Kruger’s son?”

“You feeling good tonight, Vic? I did ask—beg—you to leave the investigation to me. Now that Dr. Herschel’s been hurt, can’t you understand why?”

I stiffened, but kept the anger out of my voice. “I didn’t authorize the attack on her, Terry. You change your mind about Mitch? He didn’t fall drunk into the canal after all?”

“I told Rawlings what progress we’d made on our investigation. If he wants to pass it along to you that’s his decision.”

“A citizen gets attacked and you guys turn ugly on me. I guess there’s a connection, but it’s not especially attractive. Before you hang up all hot and bothered, did you ever locate Kruger’s son?”

Finchley breathed heavily. “He’s been gone thirty-five years. I didn’t think we needed to invest resources into tracking him down. Are you working on a theory that he came back to Chicago and killed his old man in a fit of rage over some hurt that happened all those years ago?”

I couldn’t help laughing a little at the idea. “Gosh, I don’t know. It’s neat—I like it. If it was Ross Macdonald I’d even believe it. Just wondering. You want to talk to your buddy again before I hang up?”

Rawlings snatched the phone back from me. After a few more grunts he finished with, “You’re the boss, Finch,” and hung up.

“So what have the police found out about Mitch Kruger?” I asked.

“They’re following some leads, Ms. W. Give them time.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Rawlings. I’m not the local news. They haven’t done anything, for the simple reason that his death doesn’t seem important. Why can’t you spit it out for a change? Have they even canvassed the neighborhood?”

His brown eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

I smiled. “A week of my pay against a week of yours that they haven’t talked to the neighbors.”