“I just took a brief glance through his files. One of his favorite meeting places is Torfino’s in Elmwood Park.”

I thanked her with as much heartiness as I could muster.

“Don’t,” she said soberly. “I don’t think I’m doing you any favor telling you this. All I’m doing is speeding you on your way. I know you’d find it out for yourself-one of your newspaper pals would be glad to send you to your funeral just to generate a snappy story.” She hesitated. “You were always a maverick when you were on the public defender’s roster-I hated appearing against you because I never knew what outrageous defense you might rig up. I know you’re a good investigator, and I know you have a lot of pride. If you’re onto something that leads to Pasquale, call the police, call the FBI. They’ve got the resources to handle the Mob, and even they’re fighting a losing battle.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” I said weakly. “I appreciate the advice. I really do. I’ll think about it.”

I got the number of Torfino’s restaurant. When I called and asked for Don Pasquale, the voice at the other end said brusquely he’d never heard of such a man and hung up.

I dialed again. When the same voice answered, I said, “Don’t hang up. If you should ever happen to meet Don Pasquale, I’d like to give him a message.”

“Yes?” Grudgingly.

“This is V. I. Warshawski. I’d like a chance to talk to him.” I spelled my last name slowly, giving him my phone number, and hung up.

By now my stomach was jumping in earnest. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle either Roger or dinner, let alone a combination of the two. To relax, I went into the living room and picked out scales on my mother’s old piano. Deep diaphragm breaths. Now, scales on a descending “Ah.” I worked vigorously for forty-five minutes, starting to feel some resonance in my head as I loosened up. I really should practice regularly. Along with the red glasses, my voice was my legacy from Gabriella.

I felt better. When Roger arrived at seven with a bottle of Taittinger’s and a bunch of white spider mums, I was able to greet him cheerfully and return his polite kiss. He followed me to the kitchen while I finished cooking. I wished now I hadn’t cleaned up this morning. The place was such a mess I’d have to wash up again tomorrow.

“I lost track of you at Agnes’s funeral,” I told him. “You missed a good old scene with some of her relatives.”

“Just as well. I’m not much of a scene person.”

I dressed a salad and handed it to him and pulled the roast from the oven. We went into the dining room. Roger uncorked the champagne while I dished out the dinner. We ate without talking for a while, Roger staring at his place. At last I said, “You said there was something you wanted to discuss-not anything very pleasant, I take it.”

He looked up at that. “I told you I’m not interested in scenes. And I’m afraid what I want to discuss has the makings of a row.”

I set down my wineglass. “I hope you’re not going to try to talk me into laying off my investigation. That would lead to a first-class fight.”

“No. I can’t say I’m crazy about it. It’s the way you do it, that’s all. You’ve closed me out of any discussion about that- or anything you’re doing. I know we haven’t spent that much time together so maybe I don’t have the right to have expectations about you, but you’ve been damned cold and unfriendly the last few days. Since Agnes was shot, in fact, you’ve been really bitchy.”

“I see… I seem to have stirred up some people who are a lot bigger than me. I’m afraid, and I don’t like that. I don’t know who I can trust, and that makes it hard to be open and friendly with people, even good friends.”

His face twitched angrily. “What the hell have I done to deserve that?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. But I don’t know you that well, Roger, and I don’t know who you talk to. Listen. I guess I am being bitchy-I don’t blame you for getting mad. I got involved in a problem that was puzzling but didn’t seem too dangerous- my aunt’s thing with the fake stock shares-and the next thing I knew someone tried pouring acid in my eyes.” He looked shocked. “Yes. Right on this very landing. Someone who wants me away from the priory.

“I don’t really think that’s you. But I don’t know where it’s coming from, and that makes me draw away from people. I know it’s bitchy, or I’m bitchy, but I can’t help it. And then Agnes’s being shot… I do feel kind of responsible, because she was working on your problem, and I sent you to her. Even if her being shot doesn’t have anything to do with Ajax, which maybe it doesn’t, I still feel responsible. She was working late, and probably meeting someone involved in the takeover. I know that’s not very clear, but do you understand?”

He rubbed a hand through his long forelock. “But, Vic, why couldn’t you say any of this to me? Why did you just draw back?”

“I don’t know. It’s how I operate. I can’t explain it. It’s why I’m a private eye, not a cop or a fed.”

“Well, could you at least tell me about the acid?”

“You were here the night I got the first threatening phone call. Well, they tried making good on it last week. I anticipated the attack and broke the guy’s jaw and took the acid on my neck instead of my face. Still, it was very-well, shocking. I thought I heard the man who made the phone call talking at Agnes’s funeral. But when I tried to find him, I couldn’t.” I described the voice and asked Roger if he remembered meeting anyone like that.

“His voice… it was like someone who didn’t grow up speaking English and is disguising an accent. Or someone whose natural accent would be a strong drawl or something regional that he’s trying to cover.”

Roger shook his head. “I can’t differentiate American accents too well, anyway… But, Vic, why couldn’t you tell me this? You didn’t really think I was responsible for it, did you?”

“No. Not really, of course. I just have to solve my own problems. I don’t plan to turn into a clinging female who runs to a man every time something doesn’t work out right.”

“Do you think you could find some middle way between those two extremes? Like maybe talking your problems over with someone and still solving them yourself?”

I grinned at him. “Nominating yourself, Roger?”

“It’s a possibility, yes.”

“I’ll think about it.” I drank some more champagne. He asked me what I was doing about Ajax. I didn’t think I should spread my midnight adventure at Tilford & Sutton too far-a story like that is very repeatable. So I just said I’d done a little digging. “I came across the name of a holding company, Wood-Sage. I don’t know that they’re involved in your problem, but the context was a bit unusual. Do you think you could talk to your specialist and see if he’s heard of them? Or to some of your corporate investment staff?”

Roger half bowed across the table. “Oh, wow! Legman for V. I. Warshawski. What’s the male equivalent of a gangster’s moll?”

I laughed. “I don’t know. I’ll get you fitted out with a machine gun so you can do it in the best Chicago style.”

Roger reached a long arm across the table and squeezed my free hand. “I’d like that. Something to tell them about in the box at Lloyd’s… Just don’t shut me out, V.1. Or at least tell me why you’re doing it. Otherwise I start imagining I’m being rejected and get complexes and other Freudian things.”

“Fair enough.” I disengaged my hand and moved around the table to his chair. I don’t blame men for loving long hair on women; there was something erotic and soothing about running my fingers through the long mop that kept falling into Ferrant’s eyes.

Over the years I’ve noticed that men hate secrets or ambiguities. Sometimes I even feel like pampering them about it. I kissed Roger and loosened his tie, and after a few minutes’ uncomfortable squirming on the chair, led him into the bedroom.

We spent several agreeable hours there and fell asleep around ten o’clock. If we hadn’t gone to bed so early, my deepest sleep wouldn’t have been over by three-thirty. I might have been sleeping too heavily for the smoke to wake me.