2.

The mutilated body of a man was found shortly after five A.M. by Mort, a Doberman pinscher who’d been dragging Alvina Martin by a leash along the edge of the southbound rest stop on I-90, just south of the Wisconsin border.

Dugan was in the kitchen eating breakfast and saw the news report.

“My husband used to say that the dog walks me,” Alvina told the woman who stuck the mike in her face. “Anyway, like I told the troopers, all the sudden Mort goes into a crouch and starts one of them low growls, like it’s somethin’ up ahead there and he don’t like it? And so I shorten up on the leash,” she went on, “and go and look down into this here ditch, like a culvert? And when I seen it I said to myself, ‘Oh, my God,’ and ran back and hopped Mort in the truck and called it in. And after that I … you know … I throwed up all over—”

“Authorities have identified the victim as one Thomas Kanowski,” the TV reporter said, “but are releasing no further information. Meanwhile, police say this rest stop will be closed to traffic for several more hours while officers comb the scene of this horrific crime.” The reporter gave the camera what Dugan figured was her best version of grim-and-solemn, and turned it “back to your local station.”

Jim and Carol in the studio in Chicago did their own imitation of grim-and-solemn, and then Carol promised, “Up next, startling new claims from Viagra users.” She gave a sly wink and they broke for commercials.

Dugan went back to his oatmeal and just then Kirsten stepped into the kitchen. She took the remote from the table and hit the mute button.

“Not interested in startling new claims?” he asked.

“No, but you might—” She shook her head. “Forget it. What was that business about a murder … on I-90?” She poured herself a mug of coffee and set it on the table.

“I might what?”

“That murder,” she said, dropping half an English muffin in the toaster. “I didn’t get the victim’s name.”

“Thomas Kanowski. I might—”

“Kanowski?” She seemed stunned. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what they said. Thomas Kanowski. So what did you mean when you said I might something?”

“I know that name,” she said. “I mean, it’s possibly not the same—”

“Jesus, I might what, dammit?”

She popped the muffin prematurely out of the toaster and sat down across from him. “You might … I don’t know … might listen to what I’m saying and not fixate on something I didn’t say.”

“But you started to say I might something … about Viagra. I mean have you noticed any—”

“Don’t be silly. I don’t remember what I started to say. God, is it just you macho lawyers? Or are all men so sensi—”

The phone rang and Dugan grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Doogie pal, how they hangin’?” The day wasn’t starting well.

“Christ, Larry, it’s only eight o’clock.” Larry Candle, one of the three lawyers who worked for Dugan, was a pain in the ass sometimes—in fact, always—but he could work his round little butt off when he wanted to. The caller ID showed he was already in the office. “What’s so important?”

“Nothing. I’m calling for— Hey, hold on.” There was a pause and then Larry said, “I got the TV on here, and there’s this doctor on, talking about Viagra. He says a lotta guys who use it discover they—”

“Yeah, that’s interesting, Larry,” Dugan said. “But I hope to God you didn’t call me about some bullshit you saw on TV.”

“Actually, it is about something on TV, but I’m calling for Kirsten. ’Cause I think this guy they found—”

“It’s for you,” Dugan said. He handed the phone to Kirsten and went to take a shower.

*   *   *

Half an hour later, Dugan and Kirsten were in a cab on their way downtown. It was a bright, warm September Monday and Dugan would have been happy to go anywhere other than his office. But he was the boss, after all, so he had to show up.

He’d given Kirsten the business section of the Tribune, but she just held it on her lap and stared out the window. Finally he couldn’t out-silence her. “So … you gonna tell me what he wanted?” he asked.

“What?” She seemed startled to find another person in the same cab with her. “Oh, you mean Larry?”

“No, I mean Moe.”

“He wanted to know if I’d heard the news about the body on the interstate, wondered if I recognized the name.”

“And you did, right?”

“Yes, and Larry’s wondering if it’s the same Thomas Kanowski I know. I mean, not know. Just know of.”

“Really? Who is he? Or was he?”

“There was an article in the Sun-Times a couple of months ago. I’m sure I showed it to you, or told you about it. It had a list of names of Chicago priests—some of them ex-priests, I guess—who had sexual misconduct charges against them.”

“It was abuse, wasn’t it? Not just charges. And involving children?”

“What the hell, Dugan? You’re the lawyer here. The article said there was ‘reasonable cause to believe’ the charges were true. Not that all of them were proven, like in court or something. And minors, not necessarily children.”

“Minors are children. Anyway, I didn’t actually read the article. You told me about it, and you felt bad because your uncle Michael’s name was there, and— Damn! Was one of the names on the list Thomas Kanowski?”

“Yeah.” She shook her head. “I suppose even if it is the same man, there doesn’t have to be a connection. I mean, the fact that someone killed him doesn’t—”

“They said the body was … what?… ‘mutilated’ or something. But no, it didn’t have to be because he’s a pedophile.”

“You don’t know that he was a pedophile.”

“Yeah, right. Just allegations, which there was ‘reasonable cause to believe,’ you said. The cardinal removed them all from their positions, didn’t he?”

“But Kanowski wasn’t necessarily a pedophile. He could have had sex with a minor, say a seventeen-year-old, not necessarily a young child.”

“You mean like your uncle,” he said. “Anyway, the man’s dead. Or someone named Thomas Kanowski is dead. And maybe it’s the same guy.”

“If you were one of the priests on that list, wouldn’t you be wondering? And maybe scared?”

“If I were on that list I’d have blown my brains out long ago. I wouldn’t wanna live inside the skin of someone like—”

“Hey!” It was the cab driver, and the cab wasn’t moving.

“Oh,” Dugan said. “Here’s my office. You going to yours?” When Kirsten nodded he gave the driver her address. “This nice lady will pay you,” he said.

*   *   *

As he rode the elevator up to his office, it hit Dugan that Kirsten’s being actually worried about her uncle Michael pissed him off a little. Jesus. Father Michael Nolan. Dugan hadn’t spoken ten words to the guy since he represented him two years ago—but he wasn’t about to waste any sympathy on him.

And why the hell Kirsten still cared at all about Michael Nolan he couldn’t understand. She said she continued to get together with him from time to time, not because she still felt close to him but because she owed him that much. That made no sense to Dugan. The guy had obviously shredded any familial obligation she owed him. But she seemed to care more than she admitted, maybe more than she knew. And now?

Dugan didn’t even want to think about where that might lead her now.