The excited cries echoed up the street as I drove away.

KEEP ON TRUCKIN’

I drove over to Buffalo Avenue and stared broodingly at the Guzzo house. Some kids, those bored, undermotivated boys with no future, were eyeing me, perhaps trying to decide if a strange white woman in an old Mustang was an undercover cop, or a worthwhile target. I grinned at them ferociously: undercover cop, they seemed to agree, and moved several doors away, swaggering, so I’d know I hadn’t frightened them.

My rage from two nights ago started to rise in me again, but if I forced my way into Stella’s house, all I’d get out of it would be jail time. And maybe the loss of my detective license.

I took those deep breaths they’re always recommending as protection against stress. There’s almost always a second way if you calm down and think. I was about to put the car into gear when Frank phoned me. Sometimes the second way comes to you.

“What the hell are you up to, Warshawski?”

“Frank, just the man I was hoping to talk to. I stopped to watch your son: he looks impressive.”

“Don’t try smearing butter on me. Betty told me you want to jinx Frankie’s shot at baseball camp.”

“Why is everyone in your family always on the brink of hysteria?” I demanded. “I think it’s fantastic that Frankie has a chance at a first-class camp where college scouts can see him.”

“Crap. Betty says you threatened to start a smear campaign against Rory Scanlon just to screw us.”

The blinds twitched in Stella’s front window. She was watching the street, I guess, but she must have recognized my car because she pushed two slats apart and stared for twenty or thirty seconds. I drove a few doors away, outside the fifty yard perimeter of the restraining order.

“No, Frank. I asked if Betty and you were sure that Scanlon wasn’t another Jerry Sandusky.”

“Based on what, Warshawski? What makes you think a good, decent guy like Scanlon—”

“Nothing,” I said. “But nobody thought a committed priest like Father Gielczowski—”

“Who told you about him?” Frank said fiercely.

“You did. You let it slip last week. It’s made me think, that’s all. But if I’m letting my imagination run away with me—if he doesn’t have boys sleep over at his house, or take them on those special one-on-one camping trips—”

I let my voice trail off.

Frank breathed heavily into the phone. “He only does things with the boys to help them use sports to stay out of gangs. Sometimes if a kid is troubled, he takes him off on his own. Is that a crime?”

“Depends on what he’s doing on those solo trips. Sexual abuse is a high price to pay for a shot at a sports career.”

“Damn you, Warshawski, get your mind out of the gutter. Why is it always about sex with you?”

“With me?” I sputtered. “Your mother and your wife both are obsessed with Annie’s sex life. Betty seemed to think that murdering Annie was the right way to handle her being sexually active.”

“That’s not true, that’s not what Betty said.”

“Betty said your mother took the moral high ground by beating Annie for using the Pill. She also said that you and she felt honor-bound to tell your mother that Annie was sleeping with Boom-Boom, for which you had zero evidence. Or did Boom-Boom sidle up to you at Rafters and confide all over a boilermaker?”

Frank didn’t speak for a beat, trying to collect his thoughts. “It wasn’t like that. We just thought—it was how Annie said it—but anyway, it turned out we were right. Annie wrote it in her diary that she was afraid of Boom-Boom.”

“Ah, yes, that diary. One of those wonderful mythical books one is always hearing about but never seeing.”

“My mother found Annie’s diary. She did not make that up.”

The kids who’d moved up the street were drifting back toward me. “Frank, from the day you showed up at my office I’ve been trying to figure out what you really wanted from me. Your story about needing me to help your mother with her exoneration claim was so bogus I’m embarrassed I responded to you. But now, I’m thinking you used me as a smokescreen to protect your wife.”

“From what?”

“From the secrets that will spill out if a group like the Innocence Project takes on Stella’s exoneration. If there’s something there to show that Betty played a role in Annie’s death—”

Frank swore at me and cut the connection.

I stared blankly at the street. Until Betty blurted out that Annie got what was coming to her, I’d never doubted for one second that Stella was her killer, but what if Betty had played a role, too? Stella had admitted that she beat her daughter the night Annie died, but maybe she sincerely believed she hadn’t killed her. Maybe she really did believe someone had come to the house and finished Annie off while she was playing bingo.

If Stella had thought Boom-Boom was involved in Annie’s death twenty-five years ago, she would have trumpeted the claim at the top of her lungs back then. And I doubted she would have protected her daughter-in-law. The milk of motherly love didn’t exactly course through Stella Guzzo’s veins, but maybe she would have taken the full rap if she thought it would help Frank.

More likely, Stella was guilty as charged but had thought she’d weasel out of the worst consequence of her acts. Betty said Stella had been promised a shorter sentence. Had someone offered to dig up evidence of another assailant, and dropped the ball? Or had the obligingly helpful Rory Scanlon paid a bribe for Stella that hadn’t worked, or she’d pissed off Scanlon and he hadn’t paid the bribe?

If Rory Scanlon had been involved in paying for Stella’s defense, or trying to get her sentence reduced, what would induce him to talk to me? Nothing I could think of off the top of my head. I couldn’t get access to the mythical diary. But if money had changed hands . . .

I took out my tablet to see whether the trial judge had been pulled into the FBI’s old undercover operation in Chicago and Cook County’s courts, famous forever to us locals as Operation Greylord. However, showing the iPad was like waving a raw T-bone at a Rottweiler—the drifting kids swarmed around the car. I flashed my smile of death and gunned the car into reverse. The kids jumped out of the way. I made a U and roared up Buffalo. In my rearview mirror I saw one of them pull out a gun, but mercifully, he didn’t fire it—gangbangers are notoriously lousy shots. I didn’t want a crossfire victim on my conscience.

I’d gone a couple of blocks when I realized there was one person I still hadn’t spoken to down here and that was the current owner of Bagby Haulage. What had Frank called him? Vince. I pulled over and took out my iPad again. Bagby & Family Haulage had their headquarters on 103rd Street, in the bleak landscape around the old CID landfill. I followed one of Bagby’s panel trucks down a deeply rutted track to the yard, where a dozen or so trucks were parked. Bagby headquarters consisted of a large hangar for mechanical work and a permanent trailer that housed the offices.

I parked as close to the office entrance as possible, but still had to cross several mud wallows. At least I’d worn sensible shoes to my meeting at Wrigley Field this morning.

The trailer door opened onto a single room. It was utilitarian space: a wall of filing cabinets, four metal desks, a barred area with a safe and a desk inside—presumably for payday. Two men about my own age were lounging over one of the desks, chatting in a desultory way. A young woman with a cascade of Botticelli curls hastily switched screens on her computer when I came in and busied herself with a stack of papers. She relaxed when she saw it was me—not whatever authority figure she’d been fearing.

“You lost?” one of the men asked.

“Not if this is Bagby Haulage. I had a question for Vince Bagby.”