“Damn straight,” I said. “Why don’t we bring the dogs up here for the night and let Robbie sleep downstairs with you? That way if BB shows up he’ll get an earful of Mitch but no son.”

Robbie cheered up at that. I helped him back down the stairs to Mr. Contreras’s and held the dogs while he went inside. The old man said he reckoned Robbie could wear one of his pajama shirts to sleep in tonight and they’d get him some blue jeans and T–shirts in the morning.

“I know you’re really tired, but could you answer one question for me before you go to bed?” I was unfolding the sofa bed while Mr. Contreras brought in clean sheets. “What were you wanting to tell me when you phoned me last week?”

He’d forgotten about it in the stress of his journey. That phone call to me was what made BB and Eleanor decide to send him to military camp, but it had lost its importance to him. He blinked his eyes anxiously, then suddenly remembered.

“You know that man who got pulled out of Lake Michigan? I’m pretty sure he came out to see BB. With Mr. Trant, you know.”

“Teddy Trant from Global? Are you sure?”

“Come on, doll. Boy’s asleep on his feet. This will wait until tomorrow.”

“You’re right. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” I said, but Robbie, taking off his military shirt with a sigh of relief and putting on one of Mr. Contreras’s violently striped pajama tops, said, “Of course I recognize Mr. Trant, and I’m pretty sure it was the guy I saw on television with him. He was really, really angry, but I couldn’t hear what he said and, well, they kind of locked me in the nursery with Rosario and Utah. On account of Mom said I was—a little snoop—who’d go telling tales out of school. But I woke up in the middle of the night because they were standing under my window and Mr. Trant was saying that should solve the problem for the time being if only Abigail—Mrs. Trant, you know—didn’t start getting helpful ideas again.”

“Okay, Victoria. Boy’s going to bed now. No more detecting tonight.”

“Ms. Warshawski, thank you for letting me stay here, and you too, sir, only I’m sorry I don’t know your name, and I’m sorry about the dogs, about making them leave. Maybe—maybe tomorrow I won’t be so chicken around them.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “Get a good sleep. Like the man said, tomorrow is another day.”

It was only as I started back up the stairs that I remembered my fears about BB bugging my apartment. I hoped I was wrong, but my stomach turned cold as I imagined what Baladine might do next.

Chapter 33: Thrown in the Tank

33 Thrown in the Tank