It didn’t take me long to scan the five files, all uninformative. Before returning them to Monique I wandered on through the back of the salon. In the rear a small staircase led to an upper story. At the top was another narrow hall lined with small offices and storerooms. A large mirrored room at the back filled with hanging plants and bright lights housed Signor Giuseppe. A dark-haired man with a pointed beard and a bright smile, he was ministering gaily to a thin, middle-aged woman, talking and laughing while he deftly teased her hair into loose curls.

He looked at me in the mirror when I entered. “You are here for the hair, Signora? You have the appointment?”

“No, Signor Giuseppe. Sono qui perchè la sua fama se è sparsa ai fronte a lei. Milano è una bella città, non è vero?”

He stopped his work for a moment and held up a deprecating hand. “Signora, it is my policy to speak only English in my adopted country.”

“Una vera stupida e ignorante usanza io direi.” I beamed sympathetically and sat down on a high stool next to an empty customer chair. There were seats for two clients. Since Signor Giuseppe reigned alone, I pictured him spinning at high speed between customers, snipping here, pinning there.

“Signora, if you do not have the appointment, will you please leave? Signora Dotson here, she does not prefer the audience.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Dotson,” I said to the lady’s chin. “I’m a detective. I need to talk to Signor Giuseppe, but I’ll wait.”

I strolled back down the hall and entertained myself by going into one of the storerooms and opening little pots of La Cygnette creams and rubbing them into my skin. I looked in a mirror and could already see an improvement. If I got Evangeline sprung maybe she’d treat me to a facial.

Signor Giuseppe appeared with a plastically groomed Mrs. Dotson. He had shed his barber’s costume and was dressed for the street. I followed them down the stairs. When we got to the bottom I said, “In case you’re thinking of going back to Milan -or even to Kansas -I have a few questions.”

Mrs. Dotson clung to the hairdresser, ready to protect him.

“I need to speak to him alone, Mrs. Dotson. I have to talk to him about bamboo.”

“I’ll get Miss Carlson, Signor Giuseppe,” his guardian offered.

“No, no, Signora. I will deal with this crazed woman myself. A million thanks. Grazie, grazie.”

“Remember, no Italian in your adopted America,” I reminded him nastily.

Mrs. Dotson looked at us uncertainly.

“I think you should get Ms. Carlson,” I said. “Also a police escort. Fast.”

She made up her mind to do something, whether to get help or flee I wasn’t sure, but she scurried down the corridor. As soon as she had disappeared, he took me by the arm and led me into one of the consulting rooms.

“Now, who are you and what is this?” His accent had improved substantially.

“I’m V. I. Warshawski. Roland Darnell told me you were quite an expert on fitting drugs into bamboo furniture.”

I wasn’t quite prepared for the speed of his attack. His hands were around my throat. He was squeezing and spots began dancing in front of me. I didn’t try to fight his arms, just kicked sharply at his shin, following with my knee to his stomach. The pressure at my neck eased. I turned in a half circle and jammed my left elbow into his rib cage. He let go.

I backed to the door, keeping my arms up in front of my face and backed into Angela Carlson.

“What on earth are you doing with Signor Giuseppe?” she asked.

“Talking to him about furniture.” I was out of breath. “Get the police and don’t let him leave the salon.”

A small crowd of white-coated cosmeticians had come to the door of the tiny treatment room. I said to them, “This isn’t Giuseppe Fruttero. It’s John Crenshaw. If you don’t believe me, try speaking Italian to him-he doesn’t understand it. He’s probably never been to Milan. But he’s certainly been to Thailand, and he knows an awful lot about heroin.”

IV

Sal handed me the bottle of Black Label. “It’s yours, Vic. Kill it tonight or save it for some other time. How did you know he was Roland Darnell’s ex-partner?”

“I didn’t. At least not when I went to La Cygnette. I just knew it had to be someone in the salon who killed him, and it was most likely someone who knew him in Kansas. And that meant either Darnell’s ex-wife or his partner. And Giuseppe was the only man on the professional staff. And then I saw he didn’t know Italian-after praising Milan and telling him he was stupid in the same tone of voice and getting no response it made me wonder.”

“We owe you a lot, Vic. The police would never have dug down to find that. You gotta thank the lady, Mama.”

Mrs. Barthele grudgingly gave me her thin hand. “But how come those police said Evangeline knew that Darnell man? My baby wouldn’t know some convict, some drug smuggler.”

“He wasn’t a drug smuggler, Mama. It was his partner. The police have proved all that now. Roland Darnell never did anything wrong.” Evangeline, chic in red with long earrings that bounced as she spoke, made the point hotly.

Sal gave her sister a measuring look. “All I can say, Evangeline, is it’s a good thing you never had to put your hand on a Bible in court about Mr. Darnell.”

I hastily poured a drink and changed the subject.

THREE- DOT PO

CINDA GOODRICH AND I were jogging acquaintances. A professional photographer, she kept the same erratic hours as a private investigator; we often met along Belmont Harbor in the late mornings. By then we had the lakefront to ourselves; the hip young professionals run early so they can make their important eight o’clock meetings.

Cinda occasionally ran with her boyfriend, Jonathan Michaels, and always with her golden retriever, Three-Dot Po, or Po. The dog’s name meant something private to her and Jonathan; they only laughed and shook their heads when I asked about it.

Jonathan played the piano, often at late-night private parties. He was seldom up before noon and usually left exercise to Cinda and Po. Cinda was a diligent runner, even on the hottest days of summer and the coldest of winter. I do twenty-five miles a week in a grudging fight against age and calories, but Cinda made a ten-mile circuit every morning with religious enthusiasm.

One December I didn’t see her out for a week and wondered vaguely if she might be sick. The following Saturday, however, we met on the small promontory abutting Belmont Harbor -she returning from her jaunt three miles farther north, and I just getting ready to turn around for home. As we jogged together, she explained that Eli Burton, the fancy North Michigan Avenue department store, had hired her to photograph children talking to Santa. She made a face. “Not the way Eric Lieberman got his start, but it’ll finance January in the Bahamas for Jonathan and me.” She called to Po, who was inspecting a dead bird on the rocks by the water, and moved on ahead of me.

The week before Christmas the temperature dropped suddenly and left us with the bitterest December on record. My living room was so cold I couldn’t bear to use it; I handled all my business bundled in bed, even moving the television into the bedroom. I didn’t go out at all on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Day I was supposed to visit friends in one of the northern suburbs. I wrapped myself in a blanket and went to the living room to scrape a patch of ice on a window. I wanted to see how badly snowed over Halsted Street was, assuming my poor little Omega would even start.

I hadn’t run for five days, since the temperature first fell. I was feeling flabby, knew I should force myself outside, but felt too lazy to face the weather. I was about to go back to the bedroom and wrap some presents when I caught sight of a golden retriever moving smartly down the street. It was Po; behind her came Cinda, warm in an orange down vest, face covered with a ski mask.