“My cousin—the tall kid you may have seen around here—she has a bit part in the Krumas machine. She dragged me to a high-end event. At least my ex saw me looking my best, not the way my clients will in a few hours.”

“Oh, these exes! At least yours probably isn’t an oboe player. Their main relationship is with their reeds.”

“Mine was wound up most in his billable hours. But I brought my own faults to the table,” I added somberly, thinking again of Morrell and my failure to make that relationship work.

I left Jake Thibaut at the third-floor landing and went back inside. I tried to sleep the few hours that remained before I had to go downtown for my seven-thirty meeting. After I finished my presentation—more by luck than skill—I went to my office to check in with Marilyn Klimpton from the temporary agency. I tried to focus on reports and e-mail, but I was too sleep-deprived. I went back home to bed.

15 - OLD TRIAL . . . OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

15

OLD TRIAL … OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

I WAS AWAKENED A LITTLE BEFORE THREE BY ANOTHER family drama: Mr. Contreras’s daughter, Ruthie, arriving from Rolling Meadows with her two sons, was shouting at her father from the doorstep. Mitch and Peppy were barking furiously.

Once again, I went to the street window to look down. The dogs were waving their tails as they barked to show they didn’t mean serious harm. Ruthie was standing on the cement slab in front of the door while her teenage sons lingered behind, looking as though they’d rather be anywhere than here. From above, I had a clear view of the black roots sprouting in Ruthie’s bleached hair.

“We have to find out about you on the news. You don’t have the common decency to call and say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m going to meet all the bigwigs on earth,’ let alone invite me and your grandsons to go with you. Your own flesh and blood, and you show up on TV with that so-called detective.”

My cousin Petra suddenly appeared in the scene, dancing up the sidewalk, in stovepipe jeans and her high-heeled boots, clutching a sheaf of newspapers. The dogs ran to greet her, barks turning to squeaks of pleasure.

“Uncle Sal!” Petra’s husky voice drowned out Ruthie’s nasal whine. “Uncle Sal, just look! Wasn’t that a fabulous party? Weren’t we all incredibly brilliant? And you are a star, Uncle Sal. Did you see the Herald-Star? And the Washington Post used the same photo.”

I ran to the bathroom and stood under a cold-water shower for a minute. I hadn’t bothered with the papers on my blear-eyed way to and from the Loop this morning, but I’d tucked my copy of the Star into my briefcase. I looked at it now.