Driving with Lotty is almost more adventure than I wanted at the end of a difficult day. She thinks she’s Sterling Moss and that urban roads are a competitive course; a succession of cars with stripped gears and dented fenders hasn’t convinced her otherwise. At least the Lexus she was driving now had a passenger–side air bag.

“The paramedics would have filed a report at the emergency–room admitting station,” I explained as we drove across Diversey. “I want a copy of that—I’m hoping it will include the names of the officers on the scene, and maybe even a copy of the police report, which the Rogers Park station says has disappeared.”

“Disappeared? You think they lost it on purpose?”

“That ape Lemour might have. But reports get misfiled every day; I’m not going to be paranoid about this—yet. Could you keep your hands on the wheel even if you’re alarmed or annoyed?”

“You can’t come to me for help, Vic, and then start criticizing me,” she snapped, but she looked back at the road in time to avoid a cyclist.

I tried not to suck my breath in too audibly. “The other thing is, I’d like the dress Aguinaldo was wearing when she died. Cheviot Labs needs to inspect it to see whether there are signs of any car—especially my car—in the fabric. They wouldn’t tell me at the morgue if her clothes came over with her, but I’m betting they’re still at the hospital, assuming they’re not in the garbage. Could you get Max to track them down? Or ask him for permission for me to call the ER staff? It’d have to be tonight, I’m afraid—the longer we wait, the more likely the clothes will be pitched.”

She turned left at Racine after the light had changed—in fact after the eastbound traffic had started to roar through—but I didn’t say anything, in case she became cranky enough to cut in front of a bus or a semi.

“We can do it by phone in Max’s car. If I can get his attention away from Walter Huston and his horse.” Her tone became sardonic: Max has a passion for old Westerns which seems utterly at odds with his other passion, Chinese porcelains. It’s also at odds with Lotty’s tastes.

“So you’re off to watch a Western just because your man likes them.” I grinned at her as she pulled up in front of my building. “Well, Lotty, it’s taken you over sixty years, but you’re finally learning to be graciously submissive to male authority.”