Of course he would be going home with Lotty, I thought in irritation. “I’d better talk to him.”

Uncle Stefan was delighted to see me, delighted to be going home. “And why are you frowning, my little niece? Aren’t you pleased for me?”

“Oh, certainly. Yes, I’m very pleased. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Chipper. Yes, chipper.” He beamed proudly at producing this colloquial word. “Every day I go for physical therapy and every day I am stronger, walk farther. All I need now is chocolate.”

I grinned and sat on the bed. “I have a favor to ask of you. Please say no if you don’t want to do it, because there’s some danger involved. Not a lot, but some.”

He cocked a lively eye at me and demanded details. “Instead of going to Lotty’s, would you come home with me? I need you to pretend you’re dead for twenty-four hours, then arise from the grave with a flourish.”

“Lotty will be wutend.” He beamed.

“No doubt, if that means what I think it does. Console yourself with the thought that it’s me she wants to murder.”

He patted my hand comfortingly. “Lotty is a headstrong girl. Don’t worry about her.”

“You didn’t see a second man in your apartment the day you were stabbed, did you?”

He shook his head. “Just the-the thug.”

“Would you be willing to say that you saw him? He was there, you see. Just hovering outside until your thug had stabbed you.”

“If you say he was there, my dear niece, I believe you.”

XXV

MURRAY GRUDGINGLY AGREED to run the story. “I’ll have to tell Gil the whole tale,” he warned me. Gil was the front page editor.

I explained the entire situation to him-Ajax, the Banco Ambrosiano, Corpus Christi.

Murray finished his beer and signaled to the waitress for another. Sal was busy behind the bar with commuting drinkers. “You know, it’s probably O’Faolin who backed away the FBI from the case.”

I nodded. “That’s what I think. Between Mrs. Paciorek and him, there’s enough money and power to strangle a dozen investigations. I’d like to get Derek out to the priory with me tomorrow, but he doesn’t listen to me at the best of times. Neither does Bobby. And today wasn’t the best of times.”

I’d spent a frustrating afternoon on the phone. I’d had a long talk with Bobby, in which he read me the riot act for not fingering Novick earlier. He refused to listen to my story. Refused to send men out to the priory to question the archbishop or Pelly. And was aghast at the accusation against Mrs. Paciorek. Bobby was a salt-of-the-earth Catholic; he wasn’t taking on a prince of the Church. Nor yet a princess.

Derek Hatfield was even less cooperative. A suggestion that he at least block O’Faolin’s departure for forty-eight hours was met with frosty contempt. As so often happened in my encounters with Derek, I ended the discussion with a rude remark. That is, I made a rude remark and he hung up. Same thing, really.

A conversation with Freeman Carter, my lawyer, was more fruitful. He was just as skeptical as Bobby and Derek, but at least he worked for me and promised to get some names-in exchange for a hundred and a quarter an hour.

“I’ll be at the priory,” Murray promised.

“No disrespect, but I’d like a dozen men with guns.”

“Just remember, Miss Warshawski: The pen is mightier than the pencil,” Murray said portentously.

I laughed reluctantly.

“We’ll tape it,” Murray promised. “And I’ll have someone there with a camera.”

“It’ll have to do… And you’ll take Uncle Stefan home with you?”

Murray grimaced. “Only if you pay for the funeral when Lotty finds out what I’ve done.” He’d met Lotty enough times to know what her temper was like.

I looked at my watch and excused myself. It was close to six, the time I was to call back Freeman at his club before he left for a dinner meeting.

Sal let me use the phone in the cube she calls an office, a windowless room directly behind the bar with one-way glass overlooking the floor. Freeman was brisk, but brief. He gave me two names, Mrs. Paciorek’s attorney and her broker. And yes, the broker had handled a twelve-million-dollar transaction for Corpus Christi to buy Ajax shares.

I whistled to myself as Freeman hung up. Worth a hundred twenty-five dollars. I looked at my watch again. Time for one more call, this time to Ferrant, still at his Ajax office.

He sounded more tired than ever. “I talked to the board today and tried urging them to find my permanent replacement. They need someone managing the insurance operations, or those will go to hell and there won’t be anything left to take over. All my energy is going into meetings with legal eagles and financial wizards and I don’t have time to do the only thing I do well-broker insurance deals.”

“Roger, I think I may have a way out of the problem for you. I don’t want to tell you what it is, because you’d have to tell your partner and your board. It may not work, but if a lot of people know about it, it definitely won’t work.”

Roger turned this over. When he spoke again, his voice had more energy than I’d heard for some time. “Yes. You’re right. So I won’t press you… Could I see you tonight? Dinner maybe?”

“A very late dinner-say ten o’clock?”

That suited his schedule; he would be closeted with eagles and wizards for several hours yet. “Can I tell them we may have a break coming our way?”

“As long as you don’t tell them who you heard it from.”

When I got back to the table, Murray had left a brief note torn from his steno notebook informing me he was off to talk to Gil to try to make the last edition.

The one advantage the rented Toyota had over my little Omega was that its heater worked. January was sliding into February without any noticeable change in the weather. The thermometer had dropped below freezing New Year’s Eve and hadn’t climbed above it since. As I slid out of the underground garage and turned onto Lake Shore Drive, the car was already warm enough that I could take off my coat.

Exiting at Half Day Road, I wondered how safe it was to drive right up to the Pacioreks’ front door. What if Dr. Paciorek agreed with O’Faolin that I should be bumped off? It might save his wife’s reputation. What if O’Faolin knocked him out with a crucifix and shot me?

The doctor met me at the door, his face grave and pinched. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since I left him the night before. “Catherine and Xavier are in the family room. They don’t know you’re here-I didn’t think Xavier would stay if he knew you were coming.”

“Probably not.” I followed him down the familiar hallway into the familiar, hot living room.

Mrs. Paciorek sat, as usual, by the fire. O’Faolin had pulled a straight-backed chair up to the couch on which she sat. As Dr. Paciorek and I came in, they looked toward the door and let out simultaneous gasps.

O’Faolin was on his feet and coming toward the door. Paciorek put out an arm, strong through years of sawing people open, and propelled him back into the room.

“We need to talk.” His voice had recovered its firmness. “You and Catherine haven’t been saying anything to the point; I thought Victoria could help us out.”

O’Faolin gave me a look that made my stomach jump. Hatred and destruction. I tried to force down my own fury at the sight of him-the man who tried to get me blinded, who burned my apartment. Now was not the time to try to strangle him, but the urge was strong.

“Good evening, Archbishop. Good evening, Mrs. Paciorek.” I was pleased to hear my voice come out without a quaver. “Let’s talk about Ajax and Corpus Christi and Agnes.”

O’Faolin had himself back under control. “Topics about which I know very little, Miss Warshawski.”

The accentless voice was supercilious. “Xavier, I hope you have a confessor with a lot of pull.”