“No, I didn’t,” he shouted. “But I read my own damned paper to see what they’re printing. And yes, I usually get the early edition as soon as it’s out. If you’ve made yourself the guy’s champion you are going to have egg all over your smug face. And I for one will not be sorry to help plaster it there. My story will run on Friday, and it will sizzle.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Did going on TV make you feel checking facts was for little people? I looked into Frenada’s finances when you and Sandy Bitchbein came around last week. He’s clean as a whistle.”

“Clean as a whistle? One that’s been in the sewer for a week. I did a priority check on Frenada when I learned Regine was running this little tidbit. Guy’s got money parked all over the globe.”

“Bullshit,” I screamed. “I looked him up on LifeStory on Sunday and he doesn’t have a dime except the pittance that little T–shirt factory makes for him.”

“No.” Murray was suddenly quiet. “You didn’t. You couldn’t have. I just ran a check on him, a priority–one, two thousand bucks to turn it around in ten hours, and it’s not true. He’s got three accounts in Mexico that are worth a million five U.S. dollars each.”

“Murray. I ran the check. I did at the deepest level of numbers. That’s why I turned down Bitchbein’s offer.”

“Her name is Fisher. Why you have a knot in your ass about her—”

“Never mind that. Don’t let her wave so many Golden Globes in front of you that you’re too blinded to see the facts, Murray. And by the way, if you’re planning on leading your story with, “There was egg all over smug V. I. Warshawski’s face,’ don’t, because there won’t be. I’m leaving town in the morning, but as soon as I get back I’ll fax you a copy of that LifeStory report. If I were you, I’d hold off running your sizzle until you’ve seen it.”

I hung up smartly and went back to packing my gun. I’d been feeling irritable about going to rural Georgia, but taking on some punks putting nails under truck tires was beginning to sound downright wholesome compared to what I was looking at here in Chicago.

I was too tired, and too agitated by Murray to figure out what was going on with all these people. If Frenada manufactured the dress Nicola was wearing when she died, how had she gotten it? Had he given it to someone at Carnifice? Given it to Nicola herself? Or to Alex Fisher?