Page 26 of Fade Out
“Typically, mother’s maiden name.”
“She’s going to stick to what she knows. She knows how to fake identities. Either she’s taught herself how to forge a driver’s license or she knows someone who’s good at it.”
Jill considered that a moment and then said, “As soon as you have what you need we should close these accounts,” Jill said. “They represent a significant liability to the company.”
“Of course. Should I wait for the report?” I asked.
“No, we run those reports at night,” Raymond said. “They take up a lot of server space, so we try not to run them during the day.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Do you really think she’ll try it again?” Jill asked. “I mean, you found her at Andrew Happ’s. She has to know we’re looking at these accounts.”
That was something to consider. Rita was nothing if not smart. “I don’t know,” I said. “She might not have a choice. Regardless, it would be foolish not to keep an eye on the accounts, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry, it’s just that our department gets charged for each report.”
“Let’s do it for a week. If we don’t have her by then we’ll think of something else.”
“That’s reasonable,” Jill said. To Raymond she said, “So you’ll have the first report for us Monday morning?”
“Sure thing.”
* * *
Twenty minuteslater I was at Cooke, Babcock and Lackerby sitting across from Owen Lovejoy, Esquire. The offices at Jackson and Michigan Avenue were only a few blocks from Peterson-Palmer, so it didn’t make sense not to stop by and see him. After all, he was, grudgingly, my attorney.
Wearing a pair of obviously new gold-rimmed glasses, he sat behind a large slab of glass sitting on a metal frame. There were a couple of filing cabinets and several boxes of files on the floor on one side of the room. Behind the desk, in front of a window that had a sliver view of Grant Park and the Art Institute, was a black credenza which held his phone and a large box-like machine that hadn’t been there last time I was. I had no idea what it was.
“Congratulations darling, you’re on page three of theDaily Heraldand the front page of theTribune’s Metro section.”
My stomach churned like a cement mixer.Why didn’t I know this?I’d read theDaily Heraldin Jill Smith’s lobby but only the front page. Why hadn’t I looked—
He recited from memory: “‘Private Investigator Nick Nowak, 37, has been arrested for murdering fellow Private Investigator Rita Lindquist, 32, in an apparent turf war.’” He pulled a face, “Really, where do they come up with this stuff? Neither of you makes enough money for a turf war. They make you sound like gangsters.”
“Do they mention the body in the box?”
“No, that’ll be tomorrow’s headline. ‘PI puts woman in box, sends to self.’”
“Great. Today I’m a murderer. Tomorrow I’m a stupid murderer.” I flashed on the possibility I was going to have to endure a long trial in which the state’s attorney trotted out every dumb thing I’d ever done in my life to prove that yes, I was stupid enough to mail myself a corpse.
Owen was saying something, “What? I’m sorry—"
“I said, ‘What have you done so far?’”
“Oh, um… I talked to someone I know on the job. He told me about Gunner Lindquist. Rita’s father.”
“I don’t know that I can do much with that,” Owen said.
“Someone killed him and left him in the Chicago River.”
“Interesting. But it’s not getting you off a murder charge.”
“There’s a building at 618 North Wells—well, half a building. It has a long saga of criminal—”
“Yes, I’ve heard the story. Tell me how it’s useful.”
“Well, I don’t know yet. All I know is that Rita had a file on the building, so she was interested.”
