His anger flared up as well. “You are always right, aren’t you? You have one flimsy piece of counterevidence and you come galloping in like some damned Amazon, quivering with omnipotent self–righteousness, and based on your say–so I’m supposed to abandon an investigation I’ve worked hard on. Well, take your story to the Enquirer, or put it on the Web. A lot of people out there love conspiracies. And unless Frenada’s sister is a major enemy of yours, don’t egg her on against the studio: Global breaks bigger people than Celia Caliente like crackers over soup.”

“That what they’re threatening you with?”

His face turned the color of Lake Calumet brick. “Get out! Get out and don’t come near me again.”

I got to my feet. “I’ll give you a hint for nothing. The story on Frenada and Global isn’t about drugs. I’m not sure, but I think it’s about T–shirts. Mad Virgin T–shirts. We could have a nice little coup together—if Global didn’t own you. I mean, the paper, of course.”

He put a hand between my shoulders and pushed me toward the door. When he slammed it behind me, I dearly wanted to put my ear to the keyhole to see if I could hear him on the phone: would he go straight to Alex? I was glad I thought better of it: as I started down the stairs his door opened.

I turned to look at him. “Second thoughts, Murray?”

“Just wondering if you were really leaving, Vic.”

I blew him an airy kiss and continued down the stairs. At the bottom I wondered what I’d really gained from the encounter. It’s a mistake to try to interrogate someone when you’re angry. But at least that cut both ways with Murray this morning.

My car was still in the alley when I got there. One of the few pluses of a difficult day.

Chapter 28: Friendly Warning

28 Friendly Warning

I was explaining to a woman from a temporary agency how to match invoices and case reports when the call came. “Collect for V. I. Wachewski from Veronica Fassler,” the operator said.

I thought for a minute but couldn’t place the name. “Sorry. I think she’s mistaken.”

“Tell her from Coolis, she met me at the hospital,” a voice at the other end gabbled frantically, before we were cut off.

Veronica Fassler. The woman who’d had the baby and was shuffling along the hall chained to the orderly when Mr. Contreras and I left. So much had happened in the last week that I barely remembered the event. I wondered how she’d gotten my name and number, but that wasn’t important—I’d been strewing my cards wholesale around the hospital.

“Oh, yes,” I said slowly. “I’ll accept the call.”