Freeman inserted a chair next to mine. “Vic, why is it that when you’re in extremis, you stink from mud wrestling? Why can’t you ever call me when you’ve had a shower and are wearing that red thing?”

“I want to be sure you love me for myself, not for the outer trappings of frilly femininity. There are a couple of waifs at the table who need help … Elton Grainger”—I gestured toward Elton, who’d shrunk deep inside himself while we had been talking—“and my cousin, Petra Warshawski.”

“Petra doesn’t need your help!” Peter said. “She’s got me here.”

“You’re a suspect in a murder case, Peter. And your shenanigans put her life in danger. So I think it would be best if you let Freeman represent her for the time being.”

“Peter, George, Bobby,” Harvey interrupted, “this is shocking. Let’s get it all sorted out fast so we can go home to bed.” Harvey, the big man, very much in charge.

“In a moment, Mr. Krumas,” Bobby said. “Let’s just finish with these pictures. I think you’ll recognize them.”

He nodded at a uniformed cop, who took the photo book from the table in front of Peter and opened it at the page that showed a young Harvey doing a victory dance while Peter pointed a finger at him.

“That’s you in Marquette Park in 1966, Mr. Krumas,” I said helpfully, “seconds after you threw the nail-studded baseball that killed Harmony Newsome.”

Krumas stared at the photo. One of his lawyers kept a firm grip on his shoulder.

“Just before you got here, Captain Mallory was explaining that Larry Alito picked up the baseball,” I added. “Why did he do that?”

“George …” Peter said hoarsely. “George told him to do it.”

“Goddamn it, Peter, I can sue you for slander if you say one more word,” Dornick said.

“You threatened my daughter, you threatened my wife and little girls, you want me to watch your back now?” Peter said. “Jesus! It was a riot, we were young, we were hotheads. Harve and I, we went over to the park to see what was happening. We wanted to see the famous Dr. King who all the hoopla was about. Harvey brought his Nellie Fox ball. He showed it to me, it was packed full of nails. ‘If I get a shot at King Nigger, I’ll take it.’ That’s what he said.”

“Warshawski, after all we did for you, for you to turn on me like this, it’s really hard,” Harvey said, more in sorrow than anger.

“Yes, your father gave me a job, he got me my big start in life. But did that give you the right to try to kill my girl?”

“Don’t get so emotional, Pete,” Dornick said. “No one wanted to kill your girl. We just were getting her to help us with Harve’s boy’s Senate campaign.”