Free The Widow's Mate by Ralph McInerny

thought of that. He had a good head for cement but not much else. Unless he was thinking of returning to the Looney family’s old habits. The fact that gambling was now legal and the Pianones had a lock on the local casinos made them seem legitimate. Luke drove immediately downtown and chewed out Robertson, the police chief.
    When Luke mentioned the Pianones, Robertson grabbed his arm and pulled him into an inner office, shutting the door. “For God’s sake, Luke, pipe down.”
    â€œIf they try to muscle into my business, I’m holding you responsible.”
    Robertson went pale. Of course, he was chief of police only because the Pianones had put him there. The mayor was another Pianone puppet. Ye gods, what a town.
    Luke went down a floor and talked with Cy Horvath, who listened to him with an unchanged expression. If you could choose sons, he would have picked Cy. Why the hell hadn’t Wally been influenced by Cyril Horvath rather than Greg Packer?
    Cy said, “If they’re serious, they’ll apply pressure.”
    â€œWhat kind of pressure?”
    â€œYou got any weak spots?”
    After he said it, Cy fell silent. They were both thinking of Wally. Was that the meaning of the discovery of his body in a Flanagan cement mixer? The way Wally had died, along with the Pianone interest in Flanagan Concrete, suggested dark possibilities. Cy Horvath seemed to be having the same thoughts.
    The real mystery was where the hell Wally had been during the years between his disappearance and the finding of his body. Luke had put Amos onto that.

13
    Most of those staying at the Whitehall were out-of-towners, tourists intent on exploring the Magnificent Mile or Navy Pier, taking guided cruises on the Chicago River, and patronizing the city’s restaurants and theaters. Not a few managed to get baseball tickets when either of the two Chicago teams was in town. The dress code in the Whitehall dining room was, given all this, informal, and Tuttle in his wrinkled seersucker suit stood out. The little lawyer had been tardy in his arrival, mumbling something about the interurban train he had ridden from Fox River. Now they were ensconced at a corner table, Tuttle on the banquette. Behind it was a huge mirror, but no multiplication of the man could have instilled the confidence Sandra Bochenski longed to feel in him. She reminded herself that this was the lawyer Melissa Flanagan had relied on to conduct a search for her husband.
    â€œThe trail has grown cold after all these years,” Tuttle said when she asked if he had begun his investigation.
    â€œHe had to be somewhere!”
    â€œVery likely far from here. Given all the publicity, anyone who recognized him would have informed the police.”
    Sandra thought of Ferret, the manager of the building in which she had lived before leaving for California. Surely Ferret would have recognized the man who was such a frequent visitor at her apartment if he had come upon a photograph in the newspaper.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about what you told me. About the plan the two of you had to begin life anew in California.”
    â€œHe never showed up.”
    Tuttle moved the bottle of beer he had ordered when the waiter took their order for drinks. “Let me tell you what the police would probably think.”
    â€œHave you told them?”
    Tuttle shook his head. “You sure they don’t already know about you and Flanagan?”
    â€œHow could they?”
    â€œOne of Flanagan’s classmates is a police detective. Cy Horvath.”
    Just like that the memory came. She had met Wally in their favorite Loop bar, and there was a man with him, a man he later told her a bit about. He was a detective with the Fox River police. That had been months before she and Wally had decided to go off together, but she had sensed the disapproval in that hulking figure. The name could have been Horvath. Sandy was suddenly sure that was his name. Wally