I frowned at the fast–food stalls in the lobby. You used to be able to get a bowl of homemade soup or a deli sandwich in the mom–and–pop diners that dotted the Loop. The new buildings had moved all their shops inside, to so–called plazas, where they control the take, then brought in chains that drove the coffee shops out of business. I picked up something called a Greek salad—I guess because it had two olives and a teaspoon of feta on it—and went back to my car.

Mary Louise had given me the Baladines’ home number this morning. I sat in my car, trying not to spill oily lettuce on my lapel, and phoned Oak Brook. If Robert Baladine broke my legs or bombed my office I’d let Freeman chant “I told you so” over my hospital bed a few hundred times.

A woman with a heavy accent answered. After some prodding she put me through to Eleanor Baladine. “Ms. Baladine? This is V. I. Warshawski. I’m a Chicago detective. Did you know that Nicola Aguinaldo had escaped from prison?”

The silence at the other end was so complete, I thought for a moment the connection had gone. “Escaped? How did she do that?”

It was such a strange answer that I would have paid good money to know what went through her mind in the seconds before she spoke. “I’ll tell you what I know when I see you. We need to talk as soon as possible. Can you give me directions to your house? I have your address, but the suburbs are a mystery to me.”

“Uh, Detective—uh, does it have to be this afternoon?”

Bridge club? No, not for the contemporary rich woman. Tennis, or something more recherché. Her Artist’s Way group, I bet.

“Yes, it does. The faster I get information, the sooner I can figure out where she was headed when she left Coolis. I understand she was with you for two years. I’d like to find out what you knew about her … associates.”

“She was a maid. I didn’t gossip with her about her associates.”

“Even if all you ever said to her was, “Change the baby’s diaper,’ or “Make sure you vacuum under the beds,’ you must have had some references before you hired her.” I tried to sound reasonable, not like an irritable old leftist.

“Oh, very well.” She sighed mightily but gave me detailed instructions: the Eisenhower all the way to the end of the expressway, out Roosevelt Road to the winding side streets of one of the area’s most exclusive small communities.

Chapter 8: Poolside Chat

8 Poolside Chat