Fire Sale

With my eyes shut, I let Bach float my mind away. Recordings. Sandra said Freddy had demanded recordings. When I was young, that meant 45s. That was why Sandra had said Freddy was talking to her as if she were a radio station. I had a brief memory of secretly listening to WVON when I was in high school-it was a black station, where the coolest music was played, and in those civil rights battle days, white girls who listened to WVON could get beaten up by their enlightened peers.

But a recording, that could also be a record of a conversation. I saw Marcena Love’s wolfish smile as she held her fountain-pen recorder out to catch people’s comments during the By-Smart prayer meeting we’d gone to. She recorded everything. Her little gizmo held up to eight hours of conversation; she could download its digital brain into her computer. So someone had taken her computer to destroy those records. But they didn’t have the device, that red recording pen. If she had dropped it when she was in the Miata, it might still be back under the Skyway. Someone had searched the Miata pretty thoroughly, so if she’d dropped it in the car the people who searched it would have it-and they wouldn’t have hired Freddy to look for it here. It could have fallen out when Marcena was dragged from the Miata-if that had happened under the Skyway, the pen might still be there.

I didn’t relish a return to the underpass at this time of night. In the morning, I could bring Amy Blount down to help me look, if I didn’t have any appointments. I pulled my Palm from my bag and saw the time: I’d told Mary A

I tapped the screen with my pen. I should stop at her apartment on my way home-her ma

I looked at my Friday appointments. Nothing until one o’clock. I’d have the morning free, a welcome breather-I could sleep in, I could go to the Belmont Diner for corned beef hash and eggs. The thought almost made me drool, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since grabbing that bowl of chicken noodle soup nine hours ago. I went to the trunk and broke off a piece of the goat feta I’d bought for Mary A

As I started back up Route 41, I wondered if Marcena had left her pen at Morrell’s. Carnifice, or whoever it was, had searched his place, but maybe they didn’t know what device they were looking for. I called Morrell.

“Hippolyte! How’s Your Majesty tonight?”

“Not very majestic, I’m afraid-I couldn’t even slay an ordinary street punk, so I don’t think I’m ready to take on a real warrior.”

I told him about my encounters with Freddy. “He’s looking for Marcena’s recorder, and I think that’s what they were hunting for up at your place, if that’s any consolation. I know I’m too late for di

“I should drive down to South Chicago and carry you home on your shield after all you’ve been through. Since I can’t, I think you should go to your own place-it’s a shorter drive, and I don’t like you on the roads when you’re this beat. Don and I will have a look around-I’ll call you if I find anything. And you call me when you get home.” When I didn’t answer, he said sharply, “Okay, Warshawski?”

My own untidy home with my dogs-I realized uneasily they sounded more comforting than Morrell’s scrupulously clean condo. Maybe that was just because Don was visiting-I’d be filled with longing for Morrell as soon as I could see him alone.

It was only when I’d hung up that I remembered Carnifice or someone might be monitoring my phone, or Morrell’s. I tried to remember the whole conversation. Not that I wanted strangers to hear my insecurities, but what I shouldn’t have been talking about was the recorder. I called Morrell back, just to warn him. He was predictably a

“Anyway, Don is still smoking like a fiend. Anyone comes in, he can give them lung cancer while we wait for you and your gun.”

I laughed more naturally. I’d been doing the irresponsible thing of talking while driving; I was at Mary A

It wasn’t all that late: lights shone from most of the windows-I thought there was one on even in Mary A

The dog came skittering down the hall to meet me, but I put the groceries down and picked him up before he could make a noise. He licked my face with delight but wriggled free and ran back toward the kitchen. I picked up the bag and followed him. Mary A

Fumbling with the locks to the back door, their faces tight with terror, were Josie Dorrado and Billy the Kid.

43 The Fugitives

I was so stu

Billy was shielding Josie from me as if I were going to wreak retribution on them. He swallowed nervously. “What are you going to do now?”

“Now? I’m going to unpack Mary A

“You know what I mean,” Billy said. “What are you going to do about-well, seeing us here?”

“That depends on what you tell me about why you’re hiding out.”

When I put the perishables into the refrigerator, I saw the kids had bought themselves Cokes and pizzas. I thought longingly of the bottle of Armagnac in my liquor closet, but I put on water for coffee and made myself toast.

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” In his truculence, Billy sounded much younger than his nineteen years.

“You don’t have to,” I agreed, “but you can’t stay at Coach McFarlane’s forever. If you tell me what you know, and who you’re hiding from, I might be able to sort it out for you, or run interference, or, if you’re in serious danger of your life, get you to a safe place.”

“We’re safe here,” Josie said. “Coach doesn’t let anyone see us.”

“Josie, use your brain. If someone in your building had two strangers staying with them, how long would it be before you heard about it?”

She flushed and hung her head.

“People talk. They like to have news to report. Billy’s family has hired the biggest detective agency in the world, certainly in Chicagoland, to find him. Eventually one of the investigators will talk to someone who knows Mary A

“So we need to find another place,” Billy said bleakly.

I poured out coffee for myself and offered the pot to them. Josie went to the refrigerator for a soda, but Billy accepted a cup. I watched, fascinated, as he stirred about a quarter of a cup of sugar into it.