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napkins and stuffed it in her bag. When we stepped outside, I reiterated my promise not to bother her again and told her I was parked in the opposite direction. She gave me half of a goodbye wave, and we both turned to leave. A few steps down the sidewalk, she called my name. I turned and she said, “I wanted a different kind of life, too.”

8
    Outside my apartment, the Crown Vic was still a scofflaw. I stood in front of the car waving my arms at the tinted windshield. This action elicited no response so I moved to the driver’s side window and tapped on the blackened glass. When that didn’t work, I climbed onto the hood and lay across the windshield while pounding my fists on the roof.
    This time the door opened and a short bald guy stepped out. “Get off, you stupid fuck!”
    I jumped down and yelled back, “Did you know you’re parked illegally? Did you know that windshield tint is only allowed on the top six inches? Did you know tint on the driver’s side window is illegal?”
    His looked like his head would explode. “You skinny shit, I could tear you in half!”
    “You want me to call the cops and report a rent-a-Guido harassment in progress?”
    He took a step toward me and then retreated. “Why don’t you call the cops and see what happens, dumb ass?” he said and got back into the car. As I suspected, a Kalijero stooge.
    I walked up the stairs to my apartment unconcerned with Guido but satisfied I had found a potential lead, and perhaps a connection with a beautiful woman. I expressed my gratitude by offering up a fresh kidney to the domestic short-haired goddess who shook the organ violently before swallowing it.
    Once again the light was blinking on my answering machine. Once again Kalijero’s voice spoke. “… I’m not the bad guy, Jules. There’s no reason we can’t work together …” Two messages in three hours. I might have to get a restraining order.
* * *
    I called Linda Conway and told her I was investigating the murder of Charles Snook, and I hoped she wouldn’t mind if I asked her a few questions regarding the last time she saw him.
    “Yes, of course,” Conway said and then asked, “Are you a professional private investigator?”
    “I’m not a cop and, yes, I get paid to investigate.”
    “I’ll be in my office for another two hours, you’re welcome to stop by.”
    I drove south toward the university feeling cockier than ever. As I approached the huge concrete slabs that made up the university’s original buildings, I wondered how many people recognized the irony of an architectural style called Brutalism in a neighborhood where Snooky’s body was found on a debris pile of what used to be cheap apartments for poor Maxwell Street peddlers. The area surrounding the campus was a frenzied construction zone. Let’s hide the crime as quickly as possible.
    Linda Conway’s office was in the Jordan wing of the graduate business school next to the finance library. When I arrived, the door was open and she was working at her desk. I knocked lightly and introduced myself. She hurried over to shake my hand before inviting me to sit on one of the two chairs in front of her desk.
    Curious as to what she would reveal of her connection to the university, I asked for an overview of her job, and she said she counseled impoverished graduate studentsnot to give up on achieving financial independence. “You can start with saving a dollar a week,” she said. “If you believe you’re worthy of wealth, you will achieve it.” Tall and attractive, she spoke with the kind of confident saleswoman’s optimism I imagined made it difficult for people to leave without writing a check. Her walls were covered with eight by ten photographs of her posing alongside well-known Christian conservatives, several of whom had made fortunes with their television and radio shows.
    “I see you have celebrity clients.”
    Conway smiled. “Those are teachers, not clients.”
    “Not exactly the role models one