I squinted at his name badge. Officer Karwal, not a name I knew. He was in his fifties, with deep lines around his eyes and the usual slow moves of the traffic detail. He frowned over my license, then looked at me intently.

“Warshawski? Any relation to Tony Warshawski?”

“He was my father. Did you know him?” Tony had been dead thirteen years now, but there were still plenty of men on the force who’d worked with him.

It turned out Officer Karwal was one of the many rookies who’d trained with Tony during the four years my dad spent at the police academy. Karwal spent a good ten minutes reminiscing about my dad with me, patting my arm as he told me how sorry he was Tony had died.

“And you’re all alone, huh? I never knew your ma, but everyone who did was crazy about her. Now, you know what Tony would say if he heard you’d been hot-rodding in that sports car of yours.”

I did indeed. I’d been grounded for speeding when I was eighteen. Tony had pulled too many bodies from mangled cars to tolerate stupid driving.

“So you be careful. I’m not going to write you up this time, but I will if I have to stop you again.”

Promising to be good I meekly put the Trans Am back into gear and drove to the Belmont exit at a placid forty-five. It was when I was stopped at the light on Broadway that I saw the Honda again, two cars behind me. Under the streetlamps I couldn’t be sure it was maroon, but it looked that way.

Of course, Hondas are a dime a dozen and maroon is one of their more popular colors. Could be coincidence. I flashed my right-turn signal and dawdled up Broadway to Addison, then made a quick unsignaled turn onto Sheffield, where I parked next to Wrigley Field.

I walked briskly to the ticket booth, made a show of examining the hours it was open, then swung around to my left. The Honda had pulled over on the far side of Clark. I didn’t stare at it, didn’t want to let the guy know I’d spotted him, but walked briskly back to the Trans Am. He was in trouble, anyway; I could just head up Sheffield into the night and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

I made a quick right onto Waveland, then took Halsted down to Diversey, where I headed for home. With an effort I remembered the name of the man I’d met at Diamond Head on Friday. Chamfers. He’d said he was going to investigate me—it looked like he was doing it.

16

Showdown at the OK Morgue