“You chase them?” Assuevo demanded. “You hurt them in some way?”

“Forget it,” Bobby told him. “It didn’t happen. She doesn’t chase kids. She thinks she’s Paladin or the Lone Ranger. She’s stirred up something big enough to hire a professional torch, and now she’s going to be a heroine and not say anything about it.” He looked at me, his gray eyes serious, his mouth set in a tight line. “You know, Tony Warshawski was one of my best friends. Anything happens to you, his and Gabriella’s ghosts will haunt me the rest of my life. But no one can talk to you. Since Gabriella died, there isn’t a person on this planet can get you to do something you don’t want to do.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything I could say.

“C’mon, Dominic. Let’s go. I’m putting a tail on Joan of Arc here; that’s the best we can do right now.”

After he left, the exhaustion swept over me again. I felt that if I didn’t leave now I’d pass out in the chair. Still wrapped in the blanket, I forced myself to my feet, accepting Roger’s helping hand gratefully. In the hallway, Assuevo lingered a moment to talk to me. “Ms. Warshawski. If you know anything about this arson attempt, and do not tell us, you are liable for criminal prosecution.” He stabbed my chest with his finger as he talked. I was too tired even to become angry. I stood holding my glasses and watched him trot to catch up with Bobby.

Roger put an arm around me. “You’re all done in, old girl. Come back to the Hancock with me and take a hot bath.”

As we reached the outer door, he felt in his pockets. “I left my wallet on your dresser. No money for a cab. You have any?”

I shook my head. He ran across the parking lot to where Bobby and Assuevo were climbing into Bobby’s police car. I staggered drunkenly after him. Roger demanded a lift back to my apartment so he could try to rummage for some money. And possibly some clothes.

The ride back down Halsted was strained and quiet. When we got to the charred remains of my building, Assuevo said, “I just want you to be very clear that that building may not be safe. Any accidents, you’re on your own.”

“Thanks,” I said wearily. “You guys are a big help.”

Roger and I picked our way across ice mountains formed by the frozen jets of water from the fire trucks. It was like walking through a nightmare-everything was familiar, yet distorted. The front door, broken open by the firefighters, hung crazily on its hinges. The stairs were almost impassable, covered with ice and grime and bits of walls that had fallen in.

At the second-floor landing, we decided to separate. The stairs and floor might take the weight of one person, but not two. Locked in my stubborn desire to cling to my mother’s two surviving wineglasses, I allowed Roger to go ahead and stood holding them, shivering in my slippers, wrapped in the blanket.

He picked his way cautiously up to the third floor. I could hear him going into my apartment, heard the occasional thud of a brick or piece of wood falling, but no crashes or loud cries. After a few minutes he came back to the hallway. “I think you can come up, Vic.”

I clutched the wall with one hand and stepped around the ice. The last few stairs I had to do on hands and knees, moving the glasses up a step, then myself, and so to the landing.

The front of my apartment had essentially been destroyed. Standing in the hail, you could look directly into the living room through holes in the walls. The area around the front door had been incinerated, but by stepping through a hole in the living-room wall you could stand on supporting beams.

Such furniture as I owned was destroyed. Blackened by fire and soaked with water, it was irrecoverable. I tried picking out a note on the piano and got a deadened twang. I bit my lip and resolutely moved past it toward the bedroom. Because bedroom and dining room were on either side of the main hall and the main path of the fire, the damage there was less. I’d never sleep in that bed again, but it was possible, by sorting carefully, to find some wearable clothes. I pulled on a pair of boots, donned a smoke-filled sweater, and rummaged for an outfit that would carry me through the morning.

Roger helped me pack what seemed restorable into two suitcases, prying open their frozen locks.

“What we don’t take now I might as well kiss good-bye-the neighborhood will be poking through the remains before too long.”

I waited until we were ready to leave before looking in the cupboard at the back of my closet. I was too afraid of what I’d find. Fingers shaking, I pried the door off its sagging hinges. The glasses were wrapped carefully in pieces of old sheet. I unrolled these slowly. The first one I picked had a jagged piece broken from it. I bit my lower lip again to keep it in order and unwrapped the other four. They seemed to be all right. I held them up to the dim morning light and twirled them. No cracks or bubbles.

Roger had been standing silently. Now he picked his way across the debris. “All well?”

“One’s broken. Maybe someone could glue it, though-it’s just one big piece.” The only other valuables in the cupboard were Gabriella’s diamond drop earrings and a necklace. I put these in my pocket, rewrapped the glasses and placed them in one suitcase, and put on the shoulder holster with my Smith & Wesson in it. I couldn’t think of anything else I desperately needed to keep. Unlike Peter Wimsey, I collect no first editions. Such kitchen gadgets as I owned could be replaced without too much grief.

As I started lugging the suitcases to the hole in the living-room wall, the phone rang. Roger and I looked at each other, startled. It never occurred to us that Ma Bell could keep the wires humming after a fire. I managed to find the living-room extension buried under some plaster.

“Yes?”

“Miss Warshawski?” It was my smooth-voiced friend. “You were lucky, Miss Warshawski. But no one is lucky forever.”

XVII

WE DROVE DOWN to the Hancock in the Omega. I let Roger out with my baggage and went to find Street parking. By the time I staggered back to his apartment I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do anything until I got some sleep. Pasquale, Rosa, Albert, and Ajax whirled muzzily through my brain, but walking was so difficult that thinking was impossible.

Roger let me in and gave me a set of keys. He had showered. His face was gray with fatigue, but he didn’t think he could take the day off with so many rumors flying around about the takeover-management was meeting daily, mapping strategy.

He held me tightly for a few minutes. “I didn’t say much at the hospital because I was afraid I might ruin your story. But please, Vic, please don’t run off into anything stupid today. I like you better in one piece.”

I hugged him briefly. “All I care about right now is getting some sleep. Don’t worry about me, Roger. Thanks for the place to stay.”

I was too tired to bathe, too tired to undress. I just managed to pull my boots off before falling into bed.

It was past four when I woke again, stiff and foggy but ready to start moving again. I realized with distaste that I stank and my clothes stank, too. A small utility room next to the bathroom held a washing machine. I piled in jeans, underwear, and everything in the suitcases that didn’t require dry cleaning. A long soak in the bathtub and I felt somewhat more human.

As I waited for my jeans to dry I called my answering service. No message from Don Pasquale, but Phil Paciorek had phoned and left his on-call number, I tried it, but he apparently was handling some emergency surgery. I gave Ferrant’s number to the hospital and tried Torfino’s restaurant again. The same gritty voice I’d talked to the day before continued to disclaim all knowledge of Don Pasquale.