Thinnes flipped to the back of the book and pointed to another number, in the W section, without a name attached. "This one, too."

The phone rang. Once. Swann called out, "For you Thinnes."

Thinnes picked up the nearest phone and hit the lighted b.u.t.ton on the console. "Thinnes."

"Thinnes," a familiar voice said. "Got a match for you on the prints on that liquor-store receipt. One Elvis Hale. An individual well known to the police."

"Thanks, Mabley." Thinnes hung up the phone and turned to Oster. "It looks like it was Elvis who bought West his last drink."

There were four other Violent Crimes detectives in the room, a few minutes later, when Rossi stopped in front of Thinnes on his way to the coffeemaker.

"Have you had that Indian's wife in here for questioning yet?" Rossi demanded. He obviously meant Lauren Bisti. Redbird hadn't had a wife.

"No," Thinnes said.

"Why the h.e.l.l not? Any rookie knows-"

"According to two different shrinks, she's suffering from trauma-induced amnesia," Thinnes said. "She doesn't remember a thing about it, and any further upset could make her break down completely."

"That's bulls.h.i.t! She's got the money to buy a hundred doctors."

"One of the shrinks is our own department consultant."

"You get her in here. That's an order!"

A wave of anger surged through Thinnes, making him feel almost light-headed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he was a rookie, that sort of officious stupidity would have sent him through the roof. Now he tried hard to not sweat it, not to let Rossi see his rage. "No," he said. "You want her pushed over the edge, you do it. And you can explain it to the bra.s.s when Royko or Bob Greene gets hold of the story." Thinnes shook his head. "I've done all the usual things and followed up on all the leads. And I'm watching the mouse holes to see what ventures out. I can wait-there's no statute of limitations on murder."

"Yeah, well, there's a statute of limitations on my patience and you just exceeded it."

"Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it, banish me to working days?"

"You could get time off for insubordination."

"Oh, Christ! Please no! Not that!"

Rossi pointed to the door of the squad room. "Get out! Right now, get out!"

Thinnes had pushed enough suspects to the point where Rossi was to know that the man was very near his breaking point. He didn't like Rossi, even a little, but he didn't want to be the one who pushed him over. He got up and walked out. He was barely through the doorway when he heard Rossi demand, "Where the h.e.l.l are you going?"

Swann's m.u.f.fled voice replied, "Goin' out for some air."

Fifteen seconds later, Oster walked out of the room, followed by Swann, Ryan, and Viernes-all the Violent Crimes detectives who'd been in the squad room. Oster stopped as he came even with Thinnes, the others nodded or shrugged but kept moving, heading for the locker room or the stairs.

Oster said, "Effing desk jockey!"

"Peter Principle," Thinnes said. "Don't give him another thought."

"How'm I s'posed to do that?"

"If he yells at you for anything, just tell him it was my idea."

Fifty-Five.

The unidentified phone number in the H section of Thomas Redbird's phone book turned out to be that of a Teresa Moreno, address on Western. Ms. Moreno didn't answer her phone and didn't have an answering machine. a.s.sured of anonymity, and under the vague threat of being hauled down to Western and Belmont for questioning, several of her neighbors confided that she'd gone to stay with unidentified relatives-maybe in Pilsen, maybe Mexico-until her abusive boyfriend forgot about her. The boyfriend's name? Elvis.

Thinnes left his card with a request for Ms. Moreno to get in touch. "Maybe we can help her with her problem."

The second odd number in Redbird's book was issued to Blank Storage on the near North Side. Located in a changing area, it was an old factory built when everything in the city was made of brick. It had been divided into a dozen small, self-contained warehouses, each with its own loading dock. The windows were protected by decades of grime and by chain-link grilles. The whole building and its parking lot were surrounded by a healthy chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A small sign near the gate stated: BLANK STORAGE MF 85, S 812, CLOSED SUN.

The owner-manager was Blank. Male Cauc, two-hundred-plus pounds, brown eyes, thinning brown hair, missing right index finger. He recognized Thomas Redbird's picture immediately and also IDed Oster's Polaroid of the truck.

"Who does he work for?" Oster asked.

"No one. He's independent."

"Who does he deliver to?"

"No one. He's got a key."

"I meant, what company?"

"Mount Taylor Distributors."

"Where have we heard that name recently?" Thinnes asked Oster.

"Somebody we interviewed in the Bisti case. I can't remember who, but I can sure look it up when we get back." Thinnes nodded. "What does he deliver?" Oster asked Blank.

"d.a.m.ned if I know." They waited to see if he'd elaborate. "Contract says they can't store any flammables, incendiaries, or explosives, or caustics, acids, radioactives, or controlled substances. Also stolen property or foodstuff unless it's in ratproof containers. That pretty much eliminates foodstuff."

"That's pretty comprehensive," Oster said. "What's it leave?"

"Search me. But I haven't had a vacancy in years."

"You ever do any inspections?"

"Nah. Unless I notice something suspicious-like a funny smell."

"I notice you got hours posted. What happens if someone's got a delivery after hours?"

Blank shrugged. "They can make arrangements with me ahead of time, or I got a security company that has the key. They'll open up, hang around, and close up for fifty bucks an hour. Most of the tenants just keep business hours."

"When was the last time you saw Redbird?" Thinnes asked.

Blank thought about it. "Day before Thanksgiving. He dropped off a load."

"Where's the office of this Mount Taylor outfit?" Oster asked.

Blank shrugged again. "Some P.O. box. I got it in the office along with the lease."

"Mind if we see?"

Blank hesitated.

"We can do this two ways," Thinnes told him. "You can help us out here-save everyone a ha.s.sle. Or we can get a subpoena."

"If we have to do that," Oster said, "you're gonna have fun trying to convince us you're not part if it."

"What did Redbird do?"

"Got himself killed."

"Oh, s.h.i.t! C'mon. Let me show you what I got."

Back at Area Three, it took Oster all afternoon on the phone to track down Mount Taylor Distributors. When he finally put the receiver down, he turned to Thinnes. "Bingo!" Ferris and Viernes, who were sitting nearby, looked interested.

"Bisti was one of the owners," Thinnes said.

"Bisti was the owner."

"Okay. Who do we talk to about getting permission for a look-see?"

"Kent's the executor."

"Well, then. Let's call his bluff on his 'anything I can do to help' offer." He picked up the phone and dialed the lawyer's number.

When he finally got past Kent's secretary, Kent didn't sound convincing. "What warehouse?"

Thinnes wished he could see Kent's face as he gave him a carefully edited version of the Redbird case and its apparent connection to Bisti's death. "Bisti's name is on the lease, and the warehouse manager said his lawyer handled the paperwork."

"That must have been before my time."

"We'd like your permission to go in and look around."

"Certainly-anything that will help you catch David's killer. Obviously, I can't give you a key."

"We'll get a locksmith."

"Let me know what you find?"

"Sure thing." Thinnes hung up.

Oster said, "Let's get something to eat before we do anything else. I'm so hungry, I could eat escargot."

Ferris said, "What's a escargot?"

"That's a big, expensive name for snails, Ferris," Oster said.

"Snails! Christ!"

Viernes grinned. "What do they taste like?"

"Who the h.e.l.l would eat one?" Ferris said. "I'd rather eat roadkill."

"What does roadkill taste like, Ferris?" Oster didn't keep the dislike out of his voice.

Thinnes answered for him. "Chrome."

The warehouse turned out to be empty. There wasn't even a cardboard box or a gum wrapper. "Think it'd be worth having Forensics go over it for prints?" Oster asked.

Thinnes shrugged. "They didn't leave anything else."

His pager went off before Evidence got there, and he answered it from Blank's office. Viernes.

"Woman named Moreno wants you to call her, Thinnes. She wouldn't leave a message."

Teresa Moreno was five three and maybe weighed a hundred pounds. When Thinnes interviewed her in her aunt's living room, she sat on the couch, beneath a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe, with her feet tucked up underneath her. She was very young and very pretty, in a revealing blouse and tight Levi's. The yellowing bruise on her left cheek corroborated her claim that she'd been beaten.

As she recited the details of her sordid relationship with Hale, Thinnes listened for something he hadn't heard before. Hale had been charming and attentive at first. And he really did look like Elvis. When he got out of jail and needed a place to stay, he'd talked her into putting him up. When he first moved in, he looked for a job-or pretended to. But pretty soon he was spending his days sitting around, watching TV and drinking. He'd first slapped her when she asked how his job hunt was going. He'd begun to suspect her of seeing other men. Finally, he'd asked for money and beat her when she told him to get a job and earn his own. That had been the end. He might have killed her if the neighbors hadn't pounded on the door in response to her screams. That was novel-someone getting involved. Moreno had taken advantage of the interruption to climb out a window and take off down the fire escape. She hadn't gone back. Not only did Hale outweigh her by seventy or eighty pounds, he also had a gun.

"What kind of gun?"

"A little gun." Teresa Moreno wasn't fooled by the size. It was just such a little gun that killed her primo, Emiliano.

Thinnes made her wait in the hall while he pulled his gun and checked to be sure the one-bedroom apartment was empty. It had been searched-thoroughly but not maliciously. Nothing was cut open or dumped out. He guessed Hale had been looking for Moreno's valuables.

Beyond the evidence of the search, the place had the look of a bachelor pad-sink, sideboard, and table piled high with dirty dishes, garbage overflowing, c.o.c.kroaches. There was a box of .22 sh.e.l.ls on the table.

When he gave her the all clear, Moreno stopped just inside the front door. "Dios mio!" She crossed herself then stood swearing softly in Spanish and quietly crying.

Thinnes pulled on gloves and held up the box of sh.e.l.ls. "These yours?"

"No!"

He picked up the phone. "I'm going to get us some help. We'll need to know if anything's missing. And I'll give you a ride back to your aunt's. Best you stay with her till we get this guy."

She nodded and pointed to a large open carton on the coffee table. "Esa no es ma. Er...That's not mine."

The carton contained half a dozen ceramic bowls, seemingly identical to the Anasazi artifact in the evidence lockup.