The impulse to smash in his face was so strong that I just pulled my fist back before it connected.

“Very smart, Warshawski. I don’t know who your police contacts are, but I don’t think they’d get you off an assault charge.” He was a little pale, breathing hard, but in control.

I turned without speaking. I felt beaten. I wasn’t going to add to it by spewing out empty bravado.

“Have a nice night, Warshawski.” Todd’s mocking voice followed me down the walk.

How could he have done it? I had only the vaguest idea of how probate court and guardianship worked in Cook County. All my legal experience had been on the criminal, not the civil side, although some of my clients had children for whom we’d had to arrange custody. Could you just go to the probate judge and get care of someone else? Mrs. Frizell wasn’t deranged or senile, just unpleasant and reclusive. Or maybe it was her son—in my anger I couldn’t think of his name—maybe all he had to do was call up someone and turn the rights to his mother over to them? That just couldn’t be.

My neck muscles had turned so stiff from rage that when I got to my own front door I was trembling violently. I poured myself a large whisky and started running a bath. While Johnnie Walker worked his magic on my tense shoulders I called the animal control office. The man on the other end was pleasant, even friendly, but after leaving me on hold for ten minutes he told me apologetically that Mrs. Frizell’s dogs had already been destroyed.

I pictured Mrs. Frizell, her wispy gray hair scattered on a hospital pillow, turning her face to the wall and dying when she learned her beloved dogs were dead. I could hear that hoarse whisper of “Bruce,” and Mrs. Hellstrom’s promise that she would look after the dogs. I hadn’t felt this helpless since the day Tony told me Gabriella was going to die.

The sound of water splashing on tile brought me back to life with a jolt. The bath had overflowed while I sat in a stupor. I was tempted to let the water find its own way out, especially since that would eventually be through Vinnie Buttone’s ceiling, but I made myself fetch a mop and a bucket and clean it up. The bath was tepid by then and the hot water tank empty. I gave a howl of frustration and flung the whisky glass across the room.

“Very smart, V.I.,” I said aloud as I knelt to pick up the pieces. “You’ve shown you can destroy yourself if you get angry enough—now figure out what you can do to Todd Pichea.”