She opened the book to the back and showed us where she'd glued a piece of notebook paper over the verb tables to make a kind of pocket.

"Yeah, but that don't explain-"

"Also, I put this inside." Clara reached into the pocket and pulled out a set of folded papers, which she handed to me.

When I opened them, I found a letter with an autopsy report attached. I began to read-Cla.s.sic pugilistic att.i.tude absent . . . lack of smoke stains around nostrils . . . questions about cause of death led to decision to perform autopsy . . . charring . . . made it difficult to extract femoral blood sample . . . anterior aspect of right wrist (which survived fire intact) shows a 1- -inch contusion.

I felt my blood congeal in my arms. Dynamite. Clara had been carrying dynamite to school with her every day as if it were her lunch.

"Did you read this?" I asked.

"I tried to," Clara whispered. "I . . . They're about Allie. How she died, I mean. The report came from some doctor in Iraq who saw her body after she died. That's why Nadia and my mother fought. I think Nadia knew what was in the letter."

"But-the journal was sent to Nadia as next of kin, and the doctor wrote to your mother?" I asked.

"Can't you see the girl is worn out?" Mr. Contreras interrupted. "She don't need you bullying her."

"He's right, you know," Lotty said.

"I'm worn out, too, but we have to do this." I pushed my fingers into my cheekbones as if to push back my own overwhelming fatigue. "If Clara, if her family, are going to be safe, I need to understand this tangled mess of doc.u.ments. Who hid what. Why they hid them."

"I think the Muslim lady sent the journal to Nadia because she was afraid if my mom knew about her and Allie she'd just burn everything. At least, Nadia said that was the reason." Clara was still whispering as if it could keep the reality of her family's torment at bay.

"Does your mother know you have these?" I asked.

Clara grimaced, bunching up her cheeks. "Maybe she guessed. See, Allie, Nadia, and me, we all shared a bedroom. After Allie died, Mama, she created this whole shrine by Allie's bed. In a way, it's freaky to sleep in there, but it's also comforting. I feel like Allie is there with me, you know.

"Anyway, after Nadia got killed, I came home one night, and my mom was praying in there. She ordered me out of the room, and I thought it was, well, you know, she wanted to be private while she prayed, maybe she wanted to ask Nadia to forgive her. But later, when I went to bed, I saw the Virgin wasn't sitting flat on the base. So I went to put her back. And Mama had taken the bottom off and put these papers inside, except a bit of the paper was sticking out."

"So you put them in your French book. Why?" I asked.

She hunched a shoulder. "I don't know. It was . . . Nadia was dead, and Mama had fought with her over Allie . . . I can't explain it . . . I thought maybe if, I don't know, if Mama had listened to her, Nadia would still be alive. And I kept trying to decide if I should show the papers to you, if they were the reason Nadia was killed, although everyone said that crazy soldier shot her."

"Victoria, that really is enough," Lotty said. "I will call her mother, so the poor woman isn't completely ravaged by grief, and then let's get Clara someplace safe to spend what's left of the night."

"She can stay with me," I said, "but only for tonight. I'm too visible a target for the people who came after her family and her."

"Mitch could protect her," Mr. Contreras huffed. He hates not being thought strong enough to protect a girl.

Lotty gave him what Max calls her "Princess of Austria" look: Do not argue with Royalty, back out of the room, keep subversive thoughts to yourself. Do not argue with Royalty, back out of the room, keep subversive thoughts to yourself. Mr. Contreras subsided into a grumble. Mr. Contreras subsided into a grumble.

"It's all well and good to freeze our blood, Lotty," I said, "but it doesn't solve the problem of where she can stay."

"We're all tired now," Lotty said. "Let's get some sleep and pray that inspiration comes in our dreams. Come! My surgery schedule starts in three hours."

I started to put the doc.u.ments into a large envelope but stopped and frowned over them. Kystarnik, or Rainier Cowles, or someone at Tintrey, wanted these so badly they'd gone down to the Guamans' hunting for them. I tried to imagine what I could do with them to keep them safe.

Lotty called the Guamans while I went to the clinic's business office to make copies. I could hear Lotty's voice, sharp, authoritative-I'm the doctor, I'm doing what's best for your child-without making out the words. I put one copy into an envelope addressed to my lawyer, which I stuck in the clinic's outbound mail basket. I mailed a second copy to myself. The others I tucked into an envelope underneath my sweater. I thought about sending a copy over to Murray at the Herald-Star Herald-Star but wasn't sure how much publicity I wanted for them right now. but wasn't sure how much publicity I wanted for them right now.

"Everything settled?" I asked when I got back to Lotty's office.

Lotty nodded. "I explained we were watching Clara overnight but that you'd be down with her in the morning to talk about how to look after her. They're not happy, how could they be? But they spoke to Clara, who made it clear that she wasn't coming home tonight."

"But what are you going to do?" Clara's amber eyes were dark with drugs and fear. "They said they would blow up the house. I shouldn't have run away, I should have just given the papers to them. Oh, why was I ever born? Why wasn't I the one to get killed instead of Allie and Nadia?"

I took her in my arms. "You did the right thing, baby," I said. "If you'd given them the autopsy report . . . They knew you and your mom had read it. It's your ticket to safety, giving me the report. I'll make sure they don't know where to look for it, and I'll keep you safe. I promise."

How, I didn't know, but it was the least I could do after exposing the fragile remnants of the family to tonight's a.s.sault.

"You come on home with us," Mr. Contreras said gruffly. "Vic and me, we'll get you settled for the night. And you listen to Vic. She knows what she's talking about."

A heroic admission. I grinned at him, and he turned red, covering his discomfiture by taking Clara from me and half carrying her out the clinic door.

As Lotty locked up and we bundled into our cars, I began to worry whether the thugs who had attacked the Guamans might have tailed Clara when she ran from home. As we followed Lotty onto Irving Park Road, I tried to look for anyone who might be trailing us. I couldn't really tell in the dark which set of headlights looked familiar. Just to be on the safe side, I trailed Lotty the two miles to her high-rise on Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive. We b.u.mped over the ice and potholes without incident, even when Lotty ran the red light at Ashland Avenue. Lotty is a terrible driver, the kind who insists that all her dings and near misses are due to the incompetence of every other car on the road.

Back at our own place, I circled the block, looking for anyone who might be staking out the building. All the cars on the street were quiet. Still, I sent Mr. Contreras in through the back with Clara while I parked on a side street some distance away.

Mr. Contreras and I decided to leave Mitch downstairs to sound the alarm if anyone tried breaking in. Clara and I took Peppy up to the third floor for comfort. By now, Clara was more asleep than awake, so I helped her undress, pulled a big sweatshirt over her head, and tucked her into my own bed.

Peppy jumped up and curled into a ball at her side. I remembered the grandmother saying Clara was allergic, but her fingers knotted themselves into Peppy's fur, clinging to the dog. She'd been walking on a path strewn with broken gla.s.s and boulders; a few sneezes were a small price to pay for the security of a warm puppy.

As I pulled the blanket up to her chin, Clara whispered, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. It's just until those men came tonight, I thought maybe if I didn't say anything it would all turn out okay somehow."

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and in an instant she was asleep. I double-checked the doors and windows. Everything was bolted shut. I made up the couch in the living room, put my gun on the floor by my head, and lay down with my copy of the doc.u.ment Clara had handed me.

47.

The Captain's Conscience.

Dear Mrs. Guaman.

I have thought for a long time about whether to mail this letter. It may cause you great pain, and it may destroy my own career, but, after much agonizing, I have decided it would be a breach of my oath-as a doctor, as a soldier-to withhold this information from you.

It was my sad duty to examine the remains of your daughter, Alexandra, whose body was found along the verge of the Main Supply Route that connects the Green Zone to the Baghdad airport. Medics from the 4th Brigade combat team found her and brought her to our hospital inside the Green Zone, hoping to make an identification.

Forgive me for writing to you in a blunt fashion. Your daughter was found naked, with burns across her face and torso, as if she had received phosphorus burns from an IED. However, it troubled me that I did not see signs typically found in people who die as a result of burns; nor would an IED have burned off her clothes. While my staff submitted her fingerprints and DNA for identification, I began her autopsy.

The next day, her ident.i.ty was determined, and we learned that she worked for the Tintrey Corporation. A representative from the company came to collect her body to prepare it for return to her family. I gave him a copy of my preliminary report. At that time, I was still waiting for results of various forensic tests, including a.n.a.lysis of s.e.m.e.n found in her v.a.g.i.n.a, and for her blood work.

The following morning, I had a call from Colonel Cleburne, my own commanding officer, ordering me to destroy my autopsy report. No reason was given other than that Tintrey was a civilian operation and that the Army budget was stretched too thin to take on civilian autopsies. The Colonel informed me that he had also ordered the laboratory to end its tests on the various fluids we had sent over.

I deleted the report from my computer, as commanded, but I did not destroy my printed copies. After long and anguished deliberation, I have decided to send you my preliminary findings.

I regret being the transmitter of such difficult news, but I believe no good is ever served by burying the truth.

Sincerely, Edwards Walker, MD, Captain, U.S. Army Attached to the letter was a photocopy of the report. I skipped to the end, to the summary, which explained that Alexandra was a "healthy white female in her twenties, with burn marks over 30 percent of her body, whose body had been found in the midst of metal fragments that might have been the remains of a bomb blast. Medics thought at first that she had been killed by a bomb, but, upon postmortem a.n.a.lysis, we discovered she had been bound and strangled before death."

I flipped through the detailed medical examiner's report.

DIAGNOSES: 1. Manual strangulation. A. Petechial hemorrhages, conjunctival surfaces of eyes. B. Hyoid bone fracture.

2. Postmortem full and partial thickness burns to 30 percent of the total body surface area.

EVIDENCE OF INJURY: Distal right portion of the hyoid bone palpably & visibly fractured with prominent a.s.sociated recent hemorrhage extending downward to the right thyroid cartilage.

CLINICOPATHOLOGIC CORRELATION: The lack of thermal injury to the larynx and bronchi indicates that the victim was not breathing at the time of exposure to the fire. Given the damage to the hyoid bone, and the petechiae found on the conjunctivas, the evidence is consistent with death by strangulation, with subsequent attempted disposal by burning.

On the posterior aspect of the right forearm is a linear 3- 1-inch contusion with a 1- -inch abrasion in its center. Wrists show evidence of binding ligature injuries.

The captain believed Alexandra had been s.e.xually a.s.saulted. He found s.e.m.e.n in her v.a.g.i.n.a and pubic hairs of a different color than her own. However, as he had written at the end of his letter to the Guamans, the lab had been ordered to end all a.n.a.lyses of blood and other fluids. As a result, there was no toxicology report and no rape kit.

I lay back in the sofa bed, staring at the ceiling. There were spider-webs in the corners and a trail of web hanging from the drapes. Cleanliness is next to impossible, one of my college friends used to say, and she was right.

I pictured Cristina Guaman and her husband reading Captain Walker's letter. Tintrey had sent Alexandra's body home to them, telling them their daughter had died of burns from an IED, burns so bad that they advised against viewing her body. With the horror of that news still fresh in their minds, they suddenly learned that Alexandra had been raped, murdered, and then set on fire and left in a public place so that everyone would a.s.sume she had been the victim of an Iraqi a.s.sault.

Who had left her there? Who had violated her, killed her, tried to cover the murder up? Her boss, Mossbach? The programmer, Jerry? Whoever it was, Tintrey knew. They had put pressure on Colonel Cleburne to end the forensic investigation and destroy the report.

When Cristina and Lazar Guaman got Captain Walker's letter, they must have tried to find out why his report was so different from what Tintrey had told them. Had they considered an exhumation so they could order their own autopsy by an impartial pathologist?

Maybe Cristina called Tintrey's office up in Deerfield. Or maybe it had been Ernest, Ernest, the good and loving brother before his injuries took his mind from him. I wondered again whether Ernest's accident had been arranged, if he'd been run down deliberately, targeted as the one person who might really push for an investigation into his sister's death. I'd never be able to prove it one way or the other, but it might be important to find out the timing of the accident-had he been injured before or after the Guamans received Walker's letter?

However it happened, as Cristina and Lazar were agonizing over how to handle the pathologist's report, Rainier Cowles suddenly arrived, waving a large check under their noses.

Take this. It will cover Ernest's medical care, with enough left over to send Clara to college as Alexandra wished. All you have to do in return is never discuss Alexandra's death with another living soul.

Nadia had been furious. Blood money, she'd called it. She and her mother fought so wildly over taking the money that Nadia felt she had to move out. Clara hadn't been privy to the details, either of Captain Walker's letter or Rainier Cowles's offer. She was told simply that she must never discuss Alexandra's death with anyone.

It had taken over a year for Nadia to feel strong enough to read Alexandra's journal. But when she did, the description of her sister's unhappiness, and Alexandra's ongoing torment over her s.e.xuality, drove Nadia to desperate action. She made a crucifix with a doll's head, her sister, superimposed on Christ's body.

She sought out the Body Artist, who left her feeling even more helpless. Nadia wanted someone who could talk to her about her adored sister, but the Artist was like a black hole: she drew emotions in, but reflected nothing out. Nadia's anger kept growing. She started coming to the club and painting on the Artist, painting the fire that had burned her sister, the fire that burned inside Nadia herself as rage. I could feel Nadia's helplessness and fury. I could imagine why she did what she did, but I couldn't imagine a way to prove it.

I went to my bedroom, where Clara was deeply asleep, fingers still clutching Peppy's fur. Peppy softly thumped her tail, but she seemed to realize she shouldn't leave the girl. Clara didn't stir as I tiptoed into my closet to put the autopsy report into the safe.

I went to the kitchen and surveyed the backyard, returned to the front room and looked up and down the street. No one seemed to be watching my building.

I climbed back into the sofa bed, checked that my gun was easy to reach, and switched off the lights. I was so tired that the bones in my skull felt as though they were separating, but I couldn't relax into sleep. I was trying to tie together the many threads I'd been unknotting for the last month. The threads became yarn behind my sand-filled eyelids. Olympia Koilada was scarlet, attached to the metallic pewter of Anton Kystarnik by her heavy debts so that Rodney Treffer-a nasty mustard color-had free run of the club and the Body Artist.

Everything came through the Body Artist. She was a blank canvas where people imagined whatever they wanted. Usually an erotic fantasy, but Kystarnik used her as a message board, Nadia used her to display her grief.

Chad Vishneski had gone to see the Artist for entertainment, for erotic relief from his war traumas. And then he saw the Achilles logo and thought Nadia and the Artist were taunting him. It was a typical reaction of someone in psychic distress: everything in the world around you is about you.

I sat up. Chad and Alexandra had never met. It was the luck of the draw that Chad came to Club Gouge the night Nadia began her drawings.

I imagined a scenario. When Chad was in Iraq, he had seen the Achilles logo every time he and his squad inserted the shields into their vests. Then he saw Nadia painting the same logo at Club Gouge.

He freaked out, got thrown out of the club, came home furious with the world and furious with the shield maker, and shot at the shield. He wasn't testing it, as I'd thought at first: he was taking out his rage on it. And then he saw that the bullets had gone right through the shield. And he realized his buddies had died because their protection was a sack of sand.

So he blogged about it. Someone at Tintrey, monitoring references to the company in the blogosphere, came on his postings. And then Gilbert Scalia and Jarvis MacLean actually felt afraid.

Alexandra's murder had been a minor problem. A lawsuit by the Guamans might have made for unpleasant publicity, but it wouldn't have threatened the future of the company. They'd dispatched their outside counsel, Cowles, to buy off the Guamans, and considered that problem solved. Indeed, other private contractors had been able to avoid both civil and criminal damages from claims of rape from their employees, which made Tintrey's payout to the Guamans almost an act of benevolence.

But Chad's outbursts threatened Tintrey's very future. They had grown to a multibillion-dollar empire through their Defense Department contracts. Jarvis MacLean and Gilbert Scalia could watch their stock fall through the floor if word spread that his company had sent our overstretched troops sand-filled body armor, no more protection against a sniper than a wet sock at the beach. Even if Tintrey had finally started delivering the fullerene nanoparticle-filled shields they advertised, a persnickety member of Congress might demand an inquiry, might see that they lost DOD support.

Scalia and MacLean summoned Prince Rainier to a council of war. Chad needs to be shut up, for keeps. Chad needs to be shut up, for keeps. No threats or blandishments, such as they offered the Guamans, would work here. No threats or blandishments, such as they offered the Guamans, would work here.

With Rainier's help, they thought it through and came up with a brilliant plan: dispose of two birds with one bullet. Shoot Nadia, frame Chad for her death, then make it look like he committed suicide by lacing his beer with roofies. Just another PTSD Iraqi vet who took the violent way out. The neighbor who thought there was too much of the MYOB said two men in overcoats came home with Chad. Scalia and MacLean? MacLean and Prince Rainier? Not Kystarnik's leather-clad thugs, at any rate.

And then they'd rummaged through his things and found the Achilles vest, which they dumped in the garbage. They just hadn't noticed the shot-up shield in the bottom of the bag. They left poor Chad full of beer and roofies, gave him six or seven hours to die, and called the cops.

Only Chad had survived. And John Vishneski had hired me.

It was seven in the morning. I could hear street noises as the neighborhood came to life. Jake would have landed in Amsterdam by now. I wished I was there, in the world of music, not here in the world of violence.

I turned off the phones and went to soak in the bath. With a hot washcloth over my eyes, I tried to imagine how I could get Rainier Cowles to tell all. Nothing came to me. I could imagine getting him to meet with me, I could imagine him ambushing and shooting me, but I couldn't think up a wedge that would induce him to talk. He was more likely to hire Rodney to kill me, Chad, and maybe even poor young Clara.

The Body Artist had her own story, her own loss, her own cons and frauds. She was the center of this particular web. Although I was pretty sure she was, well, not an innocent bystander but an unconnected bystander, I wanted to talk to her.

As I lay in the tub, I began to try out scenarios that would flush out the Artist, get her to appear for one last melodramatic performance. As the water grew cold, one idea occurred to me. I didn't like it; it made my flesh crawl even in my tub. But it might work.

I dried off and climbed back into the sofa bed, swaddled in a soft robe that had been Jake's Christmas present to me. This time, I fell instantly down a hole of dreamless sleep.

48.

Gimme Shelter.

If so many lives weren't at risk, I might have slept the clock round. But as soon as I'd slept enough to take the mind-numbing edge off my fatigue, Clara's future, Chad's safety, my cousin Petra-all started tumbling through my dreams. Lives lost, lives at stake, pushed me awake. I needed to be in motion.

It was noon when I woke. I had a three-thirty meeting with Darraugh Graham. Not missable, not with my bread-and-b.u.t.ter client. So time to be up and doing, with a heart for any fate.

I went to check on Clara, who was still asleep, but poor Peppy was pacing around restlessly, desperate to get outside. I opened the door in my nightshirt and bare feet to let her run down the stairs.

While the dog relieved herself, I roused Clara. She woke in considerable bewilderment as well as a fair amount of pain. Lotty had left some prescription-strength ibuprofen for her, but I didn't want to give it to her until she'd eaten something.

"I hurt too much to get up," she moaned.

"Hard to believe," I said, "but moving will make you feel better. And we need to get you someplace safer than my apartment. It's going to be near the top of Rainier Cowles's list of places to look if he finds out you're missing."