Garrett Trimble was not happy to see us. “It’s eleven-thirty in the evening, Detective, Mr. Valdez,” he said. He was dressed in a polo shirt and slacks; for him I suspect that was the equivalent to padding around the mansion in pajamas. The security guard-slash-butler—not Cody but a different one—was dressed to the nines. As of course he would be.

“We’re well aware of the time,” Langdon said.

“Then you may also be aware that Mr. Wooldridge is elderly and doesn’t keep late hours. Especially now with the passing of his wife, he needs his rest more than ever. I’m going to have to ask you to schedule an appointment for tomorrow.”

“That’s not going to be a good time for us.”

“With apologies for my bluntness, Detective Langdon, I don’t care if it’s a good time. Lester,” Trimble glanced up at the butler, “please escort these two back to their vehicle.”

“Hold that thought, Lester,” Langdon said. She kept her gaze on Trimble. “Mr. Trimble, when a police officer shows up at your door at eleven-thirty in the evening, it’s not for a social call. You do understand that, right? We’re here to talk to Mr. Wooldridge. Now,” Langdon held up her phone. “Either Mr. Valdez and I have a nice little chat with Wooldridge, just the three of us, nice and cozy and informal, or I pull up the number I have for Judge Kuznia here on the speed dial and get a warrant to search the premises. Judge Kuznia has never met a warrant request she didn’t like. I’ll get that warrant in five minutes, tops. And I’ll make sure that every cop in a ten mile radius tracks their dirt all up and down these halls. Pretty sure that’ll wake up Mr. Wooldridge.”

“A warrant for what?”

“To search the premises for information and evidence concerning the disappearance and attempted murder of James Albert.” Langdon lowered her phone.

Trimble looked horrified. “Mr. Wooldridge has nothing to do with Mr. Albert’s disappearance.”

“Mr. Trimble, we both know that’s not true, now, don’t we? And what you decide, right now, determines whether we handle this quietly and calmly, like civilized adults, or whether we drag Mr. Wooldridge down to the precinct in his pajamas, and the pictures are up on the Trib and Sun-Times Web sites by 3 a.m. Your call.”

Trimble looked like he was seriously considering his options. “Lester,” he said. “Show these two to Mr. Wooldridge’s private office.” Lester nodded. He turned to us. “I’ll go wake up Mr. Wooldridge. It may take him a few moments to prepare. See that you don’t flood the foyer with policemen if it takes slightly longer than you expect.” He marched off. Lester motioned for us to enter and to follow him.

“Can you really get a warrant in five minutes?” I asked.