Dornick interrupted Peter to warn him again not to talk. “They’re recording all this, Warshawski, so shut the fuck up.”
“Lamont Gadsden had the negatives all along,” I said quietly. “He took the pictures with his Instamatic. He’s been missing since the night of the big snow of ’sixty-seven. Three months ago, his auntie hired me to find him. She filed a missing persons report all those years ago, but George and Larry or their friends treated her like scum and didn’t try to find Mr. Gadsden. Now his aunt is dying, and she wants to see him, or know where he’s lying, before she can rest.”
Dornick was fidgeting in his seat, trying to interrupt, but Terry Finchley shut him up. “Did you find him, Vic?”
I shook my head. “No, but I found these pictures. Mr. Gadsden had put the negatives inside his Bible, and he left it with his aunt the last night he was seen alive. She gave it to me last night, not knowing it held dynamite, just wanting me to return it to her nephew when I found him. It was a pure fluke that I found them . . . thanks, really, to you, George. If you hadn’t tried one fancy touch too many—fingering me for Alito’s death—I wouldn’t have been on the run. I wouldn’t have dropped the Bible. But that cracked the spine open, and the negatives fell out.”
Bobby flicked a glance in my direction. “Some time you’re going to tell me how you got out of that Lionsgate Manor without my people finding you.”
I smiled bleakly. “Magic, Bobby. It’s the only way a solo op like me can function against high-tech crap like George here has.”
“Those negatives,” Dornick said, contemptuous, “they don’t exist. You manufactured these prints . . . and not by magic. Anyone could create these out of stock shots of the riot.”
“Yes,” Bobby said. “Where are the negatives, Vicki?”
Vicki. So we were friends again. I looked at my hands.
“Here.” Petra spoke into the silence around the table. “I took them with me into the river.” She pulled the black plastic bag from under her blanket.
49
GUILT ALL AROUND
DORNICK LUNGED FOR THE BAG, BUT ONE OF THE UNIFORMED men put a hand on his shoulder. Another picked up the bag and handed it to Bobby.
“Let the record show that these negatives, which had been in Claudia Ardenne’s Bible and came into my possession last night, are being given to Captain Robert Mallory. There are two dozen negatives, in two strips of twelve each, from film Lamont Gadsden shot in Marquette Park on August 6, 1966.” Nothing in my voice betrayed my overwhelming relief or surprise that Petra had saved the negatives.
Bobby sent for an evidence technician. While we waited, the black trash bag sat next to him on the table. A pool of brackish water spread around it. Dornick couldn’t take his eyes off the water or the bag.
When the tech arrived, Bobby told her that there was valuable evidence in the bag, that he wanted to see the negatives after they’d been saved and logged in. She put the trash bag in a bigger bag, saluted, and left.
There was a commotion in the hall about then, and Harvey Krumas came into the room, trailing lawyers, like a peacock spreading his tail feathers. Freeman arrived at the same time. He was impeccable in black tie, his white-blond hair trimmed within an inch of its life. Les Strangwell was at Harvey’s side.
Freeman inserted a chair next to mine. “Vic, why is it that when you’re in extremis, you stink from mud wrestling? Why can’t you ever call me when you’ve had a shower and are wearing that red thing?”
“I want to be sure you love me for myself, not for the outer trappings of frilly femininity. There are a couple of waifs at the table who need help . . . Elton Grainger”—I gestured toward Elton, who’d shrunk deep inside himself while we had been talking—“and my cousin, Petra Warshawski.”
“Petra doesn’t need your help!” Peter said. “She’s got me here.”
“You’re a suspect in a murder case, Peter. And your shenanigans put her life in danger. So I think it would be best if you let Freeman represent her for the time being.”
“Peter, George, Bobby,” Harvey interrupted, “this is shocking. Let’s get it all sorted out fast so we can go home to bed.” Harvey, the big man, very much in charge.
“In a moment, Mr. Krumas,” Bobby said. “Let’s just finish with these pictures. I think you’ll recognize them.”
He nodded at a uniformed cop, who took the photo book from the table in front of Peter and opened it at the page that showed a young Harvey doing a victory dance while Peter pointed a finger at him.
“That’s you in Marquette Park in 1966, Mr. Krumas,” I said helpfully, “seconds after you threw the nail-studded baseball that killed Harmony Newsome.”
Krumas stared at the photo. One of his lawyers kept a firm grip on his shoulder.
“Just before you got here, Captain Mallory was explaining that Larry Alito picked up the baseball,” I added. “Why did he do that?”