“I’m going down to the probate court this morning to see what I can do to challenge that guardianship agreement.”

“Be my guest, Ms. Warshawski. But I gotta warn you, Mrs. Frizell does not act mentally competent. Even if you arrange a full-blown hearing instead of the shotgun affair we had last week, no one is going to think she can look after herself.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I hung up disgruntled. The only person with legal standing to complain was Byron Frizell, and he’d approved Pichea’s appointment. I drove downtown to the Daley Center, where the civil courts are located, but I wasn’t optimistic.

The probate court was less than sympathetic to my inquiries. An assistant state’s attorney, who’d been in Little League when I went to law school, greeted me with the hostility typical of bureaucrats whose deeds are challenged. With a lofty tilt to his chin, he informed me that Mrs. Frizell’s guardianship hearing had followed “appropriate procedures.” The only grounds for challenging Pichea’s guardianship—especially in light of Byron Frizell’s support—would be incontrovertible proof that he was denuding the estate.

“By which time she’ll be dead and it won’t matter what he does with her estate,” I said savagely.

The attorney raised supercilious eyebrows. “If you find any grounds for questioning Mr. Pichea’s probity, you can come back to see me. But I’m going to have to report your inquiries to him; as the guardian, he needs to know who shows an interest in his ward’s affairs.”

I felt my eyeballs bulging with frustration, but forced an affable smile to my lips. “I’d be glad for Pichea to know I’m interested. In fact, you can tell him I’ll be sticking to him like his underwear. There’s always the faint chance that will keep him honest.”

To make my morning as useless as possible I stopped across the street at the city’s Department of Human Services to find out why they’d labeled Mrs. Frizell’s dogs a menace to her health. The bureaucrats there weren’t as hostile as the ones at the probate court; they were merely lethargic. When I identified myself as a lawyer with an interest in Mrs. Frizell’s affairs, they dug up the report that had been filed with Emergency Services when the paramedics picked her up last Monday. Apparently Mr. Contreras hadn’t scrubbed down the front hall well enough: one of the paramedics had trod in “fecal matter,” as the report identified it, on her way out the door.

“That was just because Mrs. Frizell had been lying unconscious for twenty-four hours. She couldn’t let the dogs out. The rest of the house was clean.”

“The rest of the house was filthy, according to our report,” the woman behind the counter said.