I hung up and massaged my calves, sore from standing so long in one place. U.S. Met had persuaded Mrs. Frizell to put her money into a load of junk. Maybe it was time to pay them a visit.

The Bank of Lake View stood just across the street from the el. Rather than hike back home for the Impala, I climbed the rickety stairs and rode downtown. The train was one of the old green models, with windows opened wide to bathe the riders in gusts of hot air. These old-fashioned cars make me nostalgic for my childhood, for trips downtown with Gabriella on the old Illinois Central, her in gloves and a pillbox navy hat with a small veil, me on my knees next to the open window, excitedly reporting on the passing scene. The scrub around the tracks used to house pheasants and rabbits; once I saw a raccoon.

Today there was nothing but pigeons and broken bottles on the rooftops. The only wildlife I spotted was a man with a three-day growth lying next to one of the chimneys. I hoped he was still alive.

I got off at Chicago and walked west to U.S. Met’s headquarters. They’d always been a maverick, outside the mainstream of Chicago finance—their location a mile north of the Loop was just a physical manifestation of it. They had built themselves a modern building about ten years ago, though, and it rivaled any of the West Loop architecture for gleaming glory. Only ten stories high, it still had all the green stone, smoky curved windows, and brass inlays of the bigger modern towers to the south.

The owners had been shrewd gamblers on where the city’s growth would take place when they put up the new offices—or their politically connected directors had nudged them in the right direction. A decade ago this area had bordered Skid Row. Now it was home to a high-end retail area that abutted the new gallery district. Judging by the lights at the windows, all ten floors were rented out.

I presented myself to an information officer in the corner of the chrome and green lobby. “I have an appointment with one of your bankers, Vinnie Buttone.”

She ran a long magenta nail down a phone list. “Your name?”

I let out a tiny breath of relief. I’d been ninety-eight percent sure Vinnie was here, but it was nice to be proved right. “Chrissie Pichea.” I spelled it out for her.

She tapped out Vinnie’s extension. “Someone’s here for Mr. Buttone. Chrissie Pichea.” She stumbled over the last name. I was glad I hadn’t tried “Warshawski” on her.