“Ever since that wretched party you threw here last week, I’ve been running around in circles. Like my dog Mitch chasing his tail, come to think of it—exhausting and about as meaningful.” I told her what I’d been doing. “And don’t tell me it’s none of my business, because it is, even if no one is paying me for it.”

“Get off your high horse, St. Joan.” Sal poured me another finger of Black Label. “It’s your time and money; do what you want with it.”

That encouragement didn’t cheer me as much as it might have, but dinner at Justin’s in the west Loop—where the owner knew Sal and whisked us past a dumbfounded line of beautiful Chicagoans—made me much happier. At least until I caught sight of Alex Fisher halfway through my tuna in putanesca sauce.

I couldn’t help staring. Alex was at a table with Teddy Trant and a bald man with the kind of shiny face all Illinois politicians take on after too much time snuffling around in the public trough. Jean–Claude Poilevy in person. If Trant would rather eat with him and Alex than the exquisite Abigail, there was something seriously wrong with his taste.

When we got up to leave, Alex and her convoy were still talking over coffee. Sal tried to dissuade me, but I went to their table. Trant was as perfectly groomed as his wife, down to the clear polish on his manicured nails.

“Mr. Trant,” I said. “V. I. Warshawski. I wanted to let you know I appreciate your willingness to send me some work. I’m sorry I couldn’t take it on for you.”

Alex gave me a look that could have done laser surgery on my nose, but Trant shook my hand. “Global tries to do business with local firms. It helps us anchor ourselves in cities we’re new to.”

“Is that why you’ve been talking to Lucian Frenada?” It was a guess, based on the Mad Virgin decal I’d glimpsed at Special–T earlier in the evening, but everyone at the table froze.

Poilevy put down his coffee cup with a clatter. “Is that the guy you were—”

“Lucian Frenada is the man who’s been harassing Lacey.” Alex cut him off quickly and loudly.

“Sure, Sandy, sure. It’s not a bad story, even if it has a few holes around the edges. Alex, I mean. She changed nicknames in the last twenty years,” I added to Trant. “We were such good pals when she was Sandy, I keep forgetting she’s Alex now.”

“What do you mean, holes around the edges?” Poilevy asked.