It was close to midnight when I finally helped my hostess pull the sofa apart and turn it into a guest bed. For the first time in a week, I slept eight hours. Like a tranquil baby.

45 - THE GOOD BOOK . . . AND THE BAD BALL

45

THE GOOD BOOK … AND THE BAD BALL

KAREN HAD ALREADY LEFT FOR HER EARLY MEETING WHEN I woke up. She’d made coffee and put a note next to the carafe, asking me to call her on her cellphone before I took off. “Someone needs to know where you are. I’m your pastor. They can’t compel my testimony.”

I smiled a little at the thought of Karen as my personal pastor. She didn’t get a morning paper, so I took a cup of coffee back to the sofa bed to watch the television news. After the daily economic horror story, Alito’s death dominated the morning shows.

Only Beth Blacksin, on Global Entertainment’s Channel 13, suggested a sinister falling-out among friends as the motive behind his murder. And while she didn’t name any names, she did say that Alito had been doing freelance security work for an important Illinois political campaign. I blew Murray a silent kiss. He must have talked to Beth, since the Star was also owned by Global.

Beth’s story would force Dornick and Les Strangwell to spend some energy on damage control, which would take a little heat away from their searches for me and Petra. On the other hand, two of the networks mentioned the “Chicago private eye, whom police badly want to question, after hearing of threats she made against the dead man.” One of them even had put my photograph on the screen, fortunately an old one copied from a newspaper. It had been taken when I had a head full of curls, not my current Marine cut.

“And I want to question you, too, Bobby,” I muttered. “Who are you covering for? How much did you know back in 1967? You, too, were in Marquette Park during those riots.”

I got dressed, in my jeans and Karen’s T-shirt. I’d rinsed my underwear out in her bathroom last night, but my socks were kind of funky. I decided to borrow some from Karen, although I felt a few qualms going through her chest of drawers looking for a pair. Her underwear was severely utilitarian, but her socks were fanciful, almost kiddish. I skipped Hello Kitty and some bright red devils and angels and settled on a pair showing Lisa Simpson jumping rope.