9.

“Hey, Doogie pal. ¿Qué pasa?”

Dugan, startled, looked up from his desk. Kirsten had left two hours ago and he was deep into a client’s tax returns. “Jesus, Larry. Try knocking, huh?” He’d long ago given up trying to get Larry Candle to can the “Doogie” crap.

“What’s to knock on? Door’s wide open, partner.”

“We’re not partners.” He’d never give up on that. “You work for me.”

“Figure of speech, pal. Figure of speech.”

Larry was incorrigible. He was also short and round, with a head the shape of a bowling ball and covered with lots of curly black hair—certainly permed, probably dyed. He had a bottle of beer in each hand.

“It’s not six o’clock yet, Larry. We made a—”

“Think fast!” Larry yelled, and tossed one of the bottles across the office. Dugan caught it with two hands before it hit him in the face.

Larry balanced himself on the edge of one of the client’s chairs—probably so he could see what was on Dugan’s desk—and twisted the top off his beer. A Berghoff Dark. Larry loved microbrews, and he had taken over the beer buying from Mollie, Dugan’s office manager, whom Larry liked to call “the Enforcer.” Mollie always bought Miller’s or Bud, whichever was on sale.

“I’d watch out for that,” Larry said, pointing at Dugan’s beer.

Dugan swiveled away from his desk, held the bottle away from him, and twisted the cap just enough to let a little beer fizz out and drizzle down over his hand and into the wastebasket. He swiveled back and lifted the bottle and drank. You couldn’t fault Larry’s taste in beer, anyway. “I’m, uh, kinda busy here, Larry. What’s up?”

“Whatcha got there? Myron Tarkington’s tax returns?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can see the defendant’s lawyer now. ‘Well, Mr. Tarkington, you testified that you lost seventy thousand dollars because you couldn’t run your car repair business for a year. So tell the jury, are you lying now? Or have you been lying to the government, since you’ve never reported more than thirty-five thou in your life?’”

“Don’t worry,” Dugan said. “This’ll never get to trial.” Dugan handled only injury cases, lots of them, and his goal was to settle and never go to trial. But he also never lowballed a client. If he couldn’t get a fair offer from an insurance company he referred the case to another law firm to take it to trial, and they split the fee. Saved Dugan a lot of headaches. And if a court appearance was required before he could send the case out, he had Larry handle it. Larry loved arguing with lawyers and judges, and he never got headaches. He gave them.

“Not to change the subject,” Larry said, “I saw Kirsten here a while ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But she got away before I could talk to her.”

“Uh-huh.” Larry irritated the hell out of Kirsten, so she avoided him.

“She gonna try to help those priests?” Larry asked.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Hey, don’t forget. I’m the one called her on the phone that morning after the first guy got it. Y’know, on I-90? Kanooski, Kanowski, whatever. Anyway, then there’s this one in Minnesota. Guy messed with some little girls, they say. Now he’s dead. And I’m thinking Kirsten might get involved, you know, because her uncle was on the same list in the paper along with those two, and—”

“How do you know all this stuff, Larry?”

“Hell, I pay attention, read the papers, ask around. Do that for twenty-five years and you get to know things … and people. I told Kirsten I knew someone who could give her some facts on that I-90 murder, but she blew me off.”

“Who do you know?”

“Just the detective in charge of the goddamn case, that’s all. Winnebago County Sheriff’s Office. Ex-client of mine. Years ago I got him off on a police brutality rap when he was with the Cicero Police Department. He owes me, y’know? ’Cause to get him off I hadda—”

“Wait.” Dugan raised his hand. “Don’t tell me.”

“Anyway, his name’s Danny Wardell. He’s a sergeant now, I think. She can use my name. He owes me.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see if she’s interested.”

“She sure as hell wants this guy caught before he gets down the list as far as her uncle.”

“No one even knows if those two killings are related. It could be a coincidence.”

“Could be, I guess. But it’s a hell of a coincidence, Doogie pal.” Larry drained what was left of his beer. “Because this afternoon? It was on the news. They found priest number three. As dead as the first two.”

*   *   *

Five minutes later Dugan had managed to get Larry out of his office. He wished Larry hadn’t told him anything at all. He didn’t want any part of helping Kirsten get more deeply involved in a series of homicides, or in helping a bunch of creeps who … Damn! He punched out her cell phone number.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” he said. “You in the car?”

“Yes. Taking Michael home. What’s up?”

“You have the radio on?”

“I did,” she said, “but Jesus, it’s all Iraq, Iraq, Iraq. I put in a CD. Why?”

“Larry Candle heard on the news that a third priest got murdered. Or ex-priest, I guess. The guy was on the list.”

“You mean they said that?”

“No, but Larry’s got a copy of it.”

“Why would—”

“Says he likes to stay on top of things. Anyway, it happened sometime early this morning. In the victim’s apartment, somewhere on the northwest side. Name’s Emmett Regan. That’s all I know.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

“Okay, then. I guess I…” There was a pause, and then she said, “Larry told me two weeks ago he knew someone with information about … you know…” She obviously didn’t want to talk with her uncle there in the car with her.

“About the first murder, yeah. He told me that today, too. A detective with the Winnebago County Sheriff. A sergeant. Name’s Danny Wardell. Larry says you can use his name.”

“I give the guy Larry’s name, he’ll throw me out the door.”

“I don’t know. Larry says Wardell owes him.” Dugan wondered why he was encouraging her, for God’s sake. “Anyway, why would you need to talk to some police investigator? You’ll just be providing security, right?”

“Uh … yeah. Right.”

“Plus, you don’t want to get so wrapped up in this that you forget that other problem. You know, that ‘Here I come’ note?”

“I’m thinking that was bogus,” she said. “I’ve put it completely out of my mind. You should, too.”

“Yeah? Good. Okay.”

He hung up, then realized he’d forgotten to ask what time she’d be home that night. But he didn’t call back. Wouldn’t want her to think he was worried, right? Or that he wanted to clip her wings, or anything.