206 BONES Read Free Page A

all sat.
     
“Walczak says he won’t be long. He’s closeted with the Jurmain family lawyer. You’re gonna love him.”
     
“Oh?”
     
“Perry Schechter’s a Chicago legend. I once heard him interviewed. Explained his style as confrontational. Said being abrasive knocks people off their stride, causes them to reveal flaws.”
     
“Character flaws? Testimonial flaws?”
     
“Beats me. All I know is the guy’s a pit bull.”
     
I looked at Ryan. He shrugged. Whatever.
     
“Before they arrive,” I said. “Why are we here?”
     
Again, the mirthless smile. “Ever eat a Moo-Moo Bar or a Cluck-Cluck Pie?”
     
When Harry and I were kids, Mama had packed dozens of the little pastries into our lunches. Though uncertain of the relevance, I nodded recognition.
     
Ryan looked lost.
     
“Think Vachon,” I translated into Québécois. “Jos. Louis. May West. Doigts de Dame.”
     
“Snack cakes,” he said.
     
“Thirteen varieties,” Corcoran said. “Baked and sold by Smiling J Foods for two generations.”
     
“Are they still available?” I couldn’t remember seeing the little goodies in years.
     
Corcoran nodded. “Under new names.”
     
“Quite a slap in the face to our barnyard friends.”
     
Corcoran almost managed a genuine grin. “The J in Smiling J stood for Jurmain. The family sold out to a conglomerate in 1972. For twenty-one million dollars. Not that they needed the cash. They were bucks-up already.”
     
I began to get the picture.
     
So did Ryan.
     
“Family fortune spells political clout,” I said.
     
“Mucho.”
     
“Thus the kid gloves.”
     
“Thus.”
     
“I don’t get it. The case was closed over nine months ago. The Jurmain family got a full report but never responded. Though the coroner sent registered letters, until now no one has shown any interest in claiming the remains.”
     
“I’ll do my best to summarize a long but hardly original story.”
     
Corcoran looked to the ceiling, as though organizing his thoughts. Then he began.
     
“The Jurmain family is blue-blood Chicago. Not ancient, but old enough money. Home in East Winnetka. Indian Hills Country Club. First-name basis with the governor, senators, congressmen. North Shore Country Day, then Ivy League schools for the kids. Get the picture?”
     
Ryan and I indicated understanding.
     
“Rose’s father is the current patriarch, a sorry old bastard named Edward Allen. Not Ed. Not Al. Not E. A. Edward Allen. Rose was a black sheep, throughout her life refusing to follow any course Edward Allen deemed suitable. In 1968, instead of making her debut, she made the Tribune for assaulting a cop at the Democratic National Convention. Instead of enrolling at Smith or Vassar, she went off to Hollywood to become a star. Instead of marrying, she chose a lesbian lifestyle.
     
“When Rose turned thirty, Edward Allen pulled the plug. Deleted her from his will and forbade the family to have any contact.”
     
“Until she saw the light,” I guessed.
     
“Exactly. But that wasn’t Rose’s style. Thumbing her nose at Daddy, she chose to live on a small trust fund provided by Grandpa. Money Edward Allen was unable to touch.”
     
“A real free spirit,” I said.
     
“Yes. But things weren’t all sunshine and poppies. According to her partner, Janice Spitz, at the time of her disappearance, Rose was depressed and suffering from chronic insomnia. She was also drinking a lot.”
     
“That clicks with what we learned,” Ryan said.
     
“Did Spitz think she was suicidal?” I asked.
     
“If so, she never said.”
     
“So what gives?” I asked. “Why the sudden interest?”
     
“Two weeks ago, Edward Allen received an anonymous call at his home.”
     
Corcoran was always a blusher, did so often and deeply when embarrassed or anxious. He did so now.
     
“Concerning Rose’s death?” I asked.
     
Corcoran nodded, avoiding my eyes. I felt the first stirrings of uneasiness.
     
“What did this anonymous tipster say?”
     
“Walczak didn’t share that information with me. All I know