“I know Lieutenant Weir isn’t working tonight,” she told the switchboard operator, “but could you ring his office anyway? I can’t get him at his club or at home or anywhere else.”
“As a matter of fact,” the operator said, “the lieutenant was in until about twenty minutes ago. I put through a call he was waiting for and right after that, he checked out.”
“Is Sergeant Gordon in the building?”
“No, ma’am, he went off duty at six o’clock.”
“Look, I realize this is irregular, but could you try to rouse the lieutenant on his police signal for me? If he’s in the squad or tuned in on his two-way, maybe we can reach him. It’s urgent.”
“May I ask who’s calling, madam, and the nature of your business with the lieutenant?”
“Well, it’s rather personal. Just tell him his first wife needs to talk to him.”
Lieutenant Weir was alone in the squad car, driving along the lake front near the city limits when the dashboard phone rang. On the tape deck Willie Nelson was singing loudly about “the good times.” Weir turned down the volume and picked up the receiver.
“Weir,” he said.
“I know you’re off duty, lieutenant,” the headquarters operator told him, “but the lady insists it’s urgent. Says to tell you, it’s your first wife calling...”
Mark Weir felt a slight quickening of his heartbeat. “Thanks, operator, put her through,” he said. Willie Nelson’s voice, now in muted miniature, was singing something about “Sunday mornin’ comin’ down...” The inside of the blue and white car with its worn leather seats, the rain-misted windows and the glowing signals on the dashboard seemed suddenly to be the whole world to Mark Weir, enclosed, personal, valuable.
He heard a faint click in the receiver and before she could speak, he said, “Mark here. I’m listening to you, Bonnie.”
“Oh, Mark,” she said, her voice small and hurried. “There is something I need to talk to you about. Did you speak with your father this morning?”
“Yes. We spoke, but he said he wouldn’t raise a finger to help me. That was the essence of it anyway.”
“Then that isn’t it. I’m trying to consider everything,” Bonnie said. “I know I need your help, Mark. Could you give me a ring from a public phone? This may have something to do with that call I made for you this morning...”
Weir checked the street signs at the intersection, then looked at his watch. “Listen, baby,” he said, “I’m just cruising around waiting for an important call to come in on this line, something about a case I’m working on. I should hear in about twenty minutes, then I can head for your place. I’d be there about eight forty-five, ten to nine at the latest. Can it wait that long?”
“Yes, yes, that’s just fine,” Caidin said. “But if you’re going to be later than ten to nine, call me, will you? That’s how important I think this is.”
Mark Weir clipped the phone to the dashboard, then snapped off the tape deck. He reversed directions, and began to cruise back to the center of the city. He would have liked to attempt to reach Doobie Gordon again, but he had already tried four different bowling alleys and decided it would be better to leave this line open.
In her bedroom, Bonnie Caidin pulled on a green jumpsuit over a black jersey body stocking and twisted a green scarf around her hair. Then she slipped her feet into the fleece-lined slippers.
She plumped up cushions in the living room and squared off a pile of magazines on the coffee table. The apartment, three rooms overlooking Lake Michigan, was large and sparsely furnished, low couches, lamps of chrome and parchment, bright paintings on the walls and a scattering of sheepskin rugs. The air was chill with winds from the lake. Periodic gusts forced the cold in around the edges of the glass windows, even through the concrete and reinforced steel walls themselves.
Bonnie looked out at the stormy lake, the black horizon edging somewhere into a black sky, the lights of the city just touching the eerie white water that crested on the swells. She lit a half dozen candles on tables and bookshelves, letting the tiny bright stars of fire add a spurious warmth to the room.
In the kitchen she made fresh coffee and removed a rock-hard package of lasagna from the freezer. From a basket on the window sill she took six oranges and squeezed the juice into a tall crystal glass, placing it on the top shelf of the refrigerator.
Bonnie went into the bathroom then, polished steam off the mirrors and shower door, refolded the towels. She plumped up the pillows on her bed and straightened out the quilted coverlet, twisted and rumpled as if two people had been lying on it. How odd, she thought, after all these years she still cared desperately, perhaps childishly, what Mark Weir thought of her.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and brought it to a couch near a big window so she could look out over the lake and down at the bright, pinpoint crawl of traffic on the avenue.
She was aware she had busied herself partly to keep from worrying. Mark was late, she knew that without checking the clock, and her thoughts were touched with a wisp of anxiety. The apartment was so silent, her own breathing so light and shallow that she could hear the sound of traffic rising in a hum from the street ten stories below.
At five minutes to nine Bonnie moved to stand by the phone and picked up the receiver on the first ring. “Give me twenty minutes more, Lasari,” she said. “I contacted my friend, he said he’d help. I expect him any minute.”
“This isn’t working, Caidin,” Lasari said, “even though I’m trying to trust you. I’m a clay pigeon, hanging around this phone. Who is this dude we’re waiting for?”
Caidin hesitated, then said, “He’s an old friend, almost family. It’s Lieutenant Mark Weir of the Chicago police...”
At that moment the buzz of her doorbell cut through the conversation. “He’s here, Durham, the doorbell just rang. Stay there and give me just a little more time.”
“Twenty minutes more, lady. That’s how long I’ll stay put.”
Mark Weir’s presence seemed to fill the room with a rush of energy, of vitality. His cheeks were reddened from the night wind and his dark eyes unnaturally bright. He pulled off his raincoat and shook off the droplets with a force that guttered the candles and threw shadows on the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, Bonnie, the call I was waiting for came later than I thought it would.”
She raised her hand. “I stalled, I bought us another twenty minutes, Mark. And I took out some lasagna. Let me put it in the oven if you’ve got time.”
“Not tonight, Bonnie, but I’ll take that fresh coffee I smell.”
She hurried to the kitchen and brought a mug of coffee to Weir, who stood at the window looking out at the night. He held the mug in both hands for a moment, turning it round and round, savoring the warmth on his lingers.
“I’ve seen a nighttime view like this a thousand times and I think I’m lucky every time.” He smiled at her. “I don’t mind being a little crazy, Bonnie, but I just love this city.” His tone changed suddenly. “I’m on kind of an adrenaline high right now. I may be onto something tonight. But you wanted to talk. What do you want to tell me?”
“I’ve got to make it fast, Mark. This person who’s in trouble is waiting in Calumet City at a pay phone.”
Weir sipped his coffee as Bonnie sketched out everything she knew of George Jackson from last evening and everything of Durham Lasari from this evening.
When she finished, Weir was thoughtful for a moment. “I can make that call to Motors for you, Bonnie,” he said, “but I feel the results will probably be negative. I think you’re dealing with a typical sad sack case. You wrote those features on delayed stress syndrome, post-’Nam shock, you’ve met enough of them at the Vets’ Bureau. Why is this Jackson-Lasari character any different? He sounds to me like a hard-nosed loner, more than a little paranoid, maybe even psychotic.”