“Any special reason you think a cop and a politico—a big Gorgon zola politico, from what Google is telling me—would be involved in a two-bit home invasion?”

“Alito’s an ex-cop, and he’s sniffing around this story somewhere, somehow. Strangwell is my cousin’s boss at the Krumas campaign.”

“And that’s reason enough to suspect he’s a villain, because anyone who tries to boss the Warshawski women around must be a criminal?”

“I can’t talk about this now. Not with you hostile and me out of my head with worry.” I pressed the OFF button.

A detective who’s out of her head with worry is useless. I slipped off my shoes and pulled my feet up to sit cross-legged on the seat. Took deep, low breaths, tried to empty my mind of fear, to fill it with a useful to-do list.

The police and FBI had both canvassed the street where I have my office, to see if anyone could describe the men who’d been with Petra, or at least the car they’d driven—if they’d come by car. Naturally, they wouldn’t share the results with me. I didn’t want to retrace all those steps, not on my own: there must be several hundred people in that section of Milwaukee, between the businesses and the apartments. But I could talk to Elton Grainger. I couldn’t remember whether I’d seen him yesterday or not. He was usually at the coffee bar across the street during the day. If he hadn’t been too drunk, he might remember seeing Petra with her entourage.

Petra’s college roommate, Kelsey Ingalls. My aunt wouldn’t give me her phone number, but Kelsey was the person Petra might have confided in. I could surely find her in one of my subscription databases.

Those two tasks meant I should go to my office, but when the train pulled into the Randolph Street station I realized I was underneath the building where the Krumas campaign had its headquarters. Maybe Petra had confided in one of her coworkers. Maybe Les Strangwell would tell me what she’d been working on. What was it Johnny’s daughter had said? Enough “maybes” make a hive.

I went through the maze of underground corridors and found my hat where I’d left it, stuffed behind the potted palm: not a good mark for the cleaning staff but easier for me. I put the Cubs hat and CHICAGO sweatshirt in my briefcase. I kept forgetting the Nellie Fox baseball. It was in there, too. My case now bulged so much with discarded clothes that I couldn’t zip it shut.