Page 33 of Fade Out
“The account is Winslow Porter. Do you want his address?”
“Sure.”
“He’s at, or he was at, 300 North State, unit 3535.”
It was nearby. I thought about where I was and then asked, “Is that Marina City?”
“Um, maybe. I don’t know.”
“Do you know who handled the transaction?”
“D. Blanski.”
“And where is this office?”
“Hubbard and LaSalle. Um, 428 Hubbard.”
“All right, thanks.”
I was about to hang up when he asked, “I didn’t offend you, did I?”
“No. I’m not offended. Just… it’s not the right time.”
“Well, you know, if there ever is a right time.”
“I’ll let you know.”
I hung up and walked back up to street level. Coincidentally, both the apartment that Rita might be staying in and the Peterson-Palmer office where a check had been cashed were within a few blocks of me. So, what to do first? It was possible Rita was hiding out at the Marina City apartment. Bold, but possible.
That it was nearly five o’clock made my decision. I hurried over to the Peterson-Palmer branch to see what I could find out. I half-ran the four blocks down Hubbard and found the Peterson-Palmer office at the bottom of an older, ten-story brick building. My guess was it wasn’t long for this world.
Walking through the glass door, I found myself in a lobby very similar to a bank’s. I walked over to the nearest desk and asked a young woman in a smart, gray suit where I could find D. Blanski. She pointed at a desk across the lobby where an older woman sat. Even from across the room I could tell she was tightly wound. She also looked very professional and I suspected she set the tone in the office.
I went over and without being asked sat down in one of the leather guest chairs in front of her desk.
Looking up, she studied me a moment then glanced at her watch. She frowned. “Can I help you?”
“You’re D. Blanski?” It said so on a little black at the front of her desk but it was worth asking anyway.
“I am. And you are?”
“I’m a private investigator working for Jill Smith in your main office. You handled a transaction on Wednesday for a Winslow Porter?”
She thought for a moment. “Oh, you mean the guy who got mugged. That was very sad.”
“He? A man withdrew the money?”
“Yes. Winslow Porter is a man.”
Of course it was a man.What was I thinking? Was I thinking?
“Was there a woman with him?”
“No, he was alone.”
“And he’d been mugged. He told you that?”
“Well, no. He didn’t. He told me a story about losing his wallet on a trip to the Indiana Dunes last weekend. But… well, he had scratches on his face and someone had given him a black eye, so I assumed he was lying. You know, the male ego.”
