Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

“Did they find anyone?” I asked.

“Boys playing hide-and-seek behind the altar was all, thinking it was a good joke to jump out on a cop. Gave them what for when I found them. But if you’re bringing cops into the church, you’d better find someplace else to worship-too disruptive of education here.”

Meaning, if I understood him right, that he’d put Benji in the crypt, which lies behind the altar, but that I’d better move him in case the Feds came again.

“Is this something I have to figure out tonight?” I asked. “You know I don’t go to church very often-1 don’t have a second one right at my fingertips.” He grunted. “Can wait until tomorrow. Maybe the next day, not much longer.”

The Feds might have gone to St. Remigio’s because they’d done so much research on me that they knew Father Lou was a friend of mine and Morrell’s. Or-they’d installed an electronic gadget on my car so they could follow me without putting manpower on the street. My stomach turned over.

I tried to remember if I’d gone anywhere else incriminating the last few days. The hospital, the university library, back up to the Loop, then home. Maybe agents would next be down at the University of Chicago, demanding to know what I’d read today. Under the Patriot Act, they didn’t need a warrant or probable cause to make the library tell them, but if the librarians told me the Feds had come around, the librarians would go to jail. So I’d never know-unless, of course, Pelletier’s archives disappeared.

I’d been tired all day, but now I felt completely exhausted. It was what I’d tried to tell Lotty last night: I didn’t know who frightened the more these days, radical Muslims, or radical Americans.

I hadn’t eaten dinner and I certainly didn’t have the energy to cook for myself. I went inside the diner and took a seat at the counter.

The diner is a gallant survivor from the days when Lakeview was a bluecollar neighborhood, from when Mr. Contreras and I had bought shares in our co-op. Now it’s become a neighborhood we can barely afford. The diner has changed, too-I guess it had to in order to survive. The Formica tables are gone, and the chicken-fried steak, replaced by polyurethaned wood and grilled salmon. I didn’t want modern trendy food tonight, but they still had some old diner standbys on the menu. I ordered a plate of macaroni and cheese. It wasn’t anything like what my mother used to make, with her hand-rolled pasta and homemade white sauce, but it was comfort food nonetheless.

While I drank a cup of weak diner coffee, I tried to imagine where I could put Benji. I couldn’t bring him home, either to me or Mr. Contreras. I certainly couldn’t ask Lotty or Max to put him up. I hardly knew Amy Blount, and, anyway, she lived in a studio apartment. If I could get in to see Catherine Bayard in the morning, I’d see whether she had some fallback place. Maybe the family apartment in Hong Kong or London. No, that would mean getting him out of the country past a security screen. I gave up on it and went home to bed.

When I woke, the sun was out for the first time in days. Perhaps that was an omen. I had slept for nine hours, deeply, hardly stirring, despite the anxieties I’d taken to bed with me. Another good sign.

I dressed for the day in jeans and running shoes. Since the cops had trailed me to St. Remigio’s, I was going to leave my car at my office; I wanted to be able to move fast through the city. The dogs got the shortest of walks. I left them with Mr. Contreras, then drove to my office, where I went inside just long enough.to check my messages. No tox report. No messages that couldn’t wait. I put a fresh battery pack in my cell phone and took off.

On my way to the El, I turned abruptly into a bakery, then stuck my head out the door. No one had halted on the walk behind me. I bought a ginger scone and a bottle of orange juice, picked up the morning papers and hurried to the train.

The detective’s life is harder on public transport. The train was so packed I had to stand. I couldn’t eat or read and when I got out, I was still two miles from my destination, since the line to the Gold Coast is different from the one near my office. At Division, I flagged a cab to the corner of Banks and Astor. When I got out, a young woman swung into the backseat

before I finished paying-it was eight-ten, the time when aggressive young lawyers and financiers race to their desks.

I crossed the street to where I could see the Bayard apartment. With the Herald-Star in front of my face, I called up and asked for Renee. She was still inside; I hung up just as she came to the phone. I made a little eyehole in the Herald-Star; while I ate my scone, I watched nannies and mothers hurry their children to school. I also got to see a ferocious competition for cabs among the work-bound-including a shoving match between two women. The one I was silently betting on lost.

Renee Bayard could probably have won a battle for a taxi, but she didn’t have to fight: a dark sedan was waiting in front of the Banks Street apartment. At eight-forty-eight, the driver climbed out and stood by the rear door. At eight-fifty, Renee came through the front gate, a commanding figure in navy wool. Her son was with her. The driver tucked Renee into the backseat, but Edwards walked over to State Street and headed north.

He could be going anywhere, but the Vina Fields Academy lay in that direction. If he was going to pick up books or lesson plans for Catherine, Elsbetta would know about it, and I couldn’t use that as my pretext for getting into the building. I bit my lip in indecision, but finally crossed the street and rang the lower apartments, starting with the first floor. No one answered there, the second floor hung up on me, but the third floor buzzed me in as soon as I said I was from the Vina Fields Academy. They buzzed me again through the inner door. Just to minimize suspicions in the building, I rode to the third floor, said I was there for Catherine Bayard and was directed to five. So far, so good.

On the fifth floor, the entrance to the Bayard apartment stood openthey assumed the locks on the gate and lobby doors were enough protection. I shook my head disapprovingly: this is how ax murderers get into your home.

I slipped into the entry area, pausing to admire a Louise Nevelson bronze before passing through the arched doorway that led to the interior. I tried to remember how to find Catherine’s room. The path to Renee’s study lay to the left; I thought Catherine’s bedroom was in the opposite direction.

As I walked down the hall, a vacuum cleaner roared into life. I jumped, but moved boldly forward. A furtive glance showed me a cleaning crew in action. Elsbetta stood with her back to me, barking orders in Polish. Excellent.

At the end of the hall, I came to Catherine’s room. The door was shut. I gave a perfunctory knock and went in. The bedroom was empty, but an open door on the near wall led to a bathroom. When I peered around the door, I saw Catherine in front of a dressing table trying to button a man’s shirt with one hand. Her dark hair fell unbraided down her back. She didn’t look around at my entrance, but kept stubbornly trying to manage the buttons.

“It’s easier if you don’t watch in the mirror,” I said.

She turned, startled. “Oh! It’s you. I thought it was Elsbetta. Why are you here? Is Benji okay?”

I pulled up a chair to face her. “I saw him yesterday. He seemed fine, he asked after you, but there are a couple of problems.”

Her eyes grew dark with dismay. “Like what?”

“Like the Chicago cops showed up late yesterday to look for him. Apparently, because I’d been there. So we need-“