"She read me all kinds of stuff about the bone man. He lives in a big palace in the city. He has green thumbs and flowers grow out of them. She's going to visit him."
Pettibone, Eve thought. First hit. "Who else is she going to visit?"
"Oh, the sheep man and the cowboy and the Dallas dude. She has people to see, places to go."
"When she read you about the bone man, where were you?"
"It's a secret," she whispered.
"You can tell me. Julianna would want you to so I can find her and tell her about the letters."
"And the funk," Loopy said in a whisper. "She's gonna get me the funk."
"I'll tell her, but you have to tell me first."
"Okay. She had the little computer in her cage. The one that fits in your hand. She could do her work on it. She always had lots of work to do."
"I bet she did."
"Did she send you to see me? Did she send you with funk? She always got me the funk, but I'm almost out."
"I'll see what I can do for you."
Eve looked at her—the spastic muscle jerks, the ghostly skin. Rehabilitation, she thought. Mother of God.
* * *
By the time she met up with Feeney again, Eve was steaming. Every interview had added to the picture of Julianna Dunne, multiple murderer, waltzing her way through the system, stacking up privileges and favors, and conning, bribing, sweet-talking guards, staff, and other prisoners into doing whatever she needed or wanted to be done.
"Like they were goddamn servants," Eve exploded. "And this was her goddamn castle. She couldn't leave it, but she made certain what she wanted got in to her. A fucking PPC, Feeney. Christ knows what she sent or received on it."
"Had the office drone who worked over her buffaloed," he added. "I can guarantee she did plenty of authorized transmissions from the units in that complex. Free fricking rein."
"We get an impound warrant, can you track?"
"I already put in for one. Might be spitting in the wind, but we'll go through every one of them, see if she left a mark. Talked to her shrink—'scuze me—her emotional well-being counselor." His lips pursed on the term as if he were sucking a lemon ball. "Got an earful of early childhood trauma, acting out—nice pretty term for murder—flash points, ebbing, contrition, and Christ knows. All adds up to the head broad being convinced Dunne was successfully rehabilitated and ready to take her place as a productive member of society."
"Odds are we'll get the same song from her PO. We'll swing by and see him, check in with the locals, and get the hell out of Chicago." She blew out a breath. "Is something wrong with me, Feeney, that I look at this place and see a huge pile of bullshit being dumped on the taxpayers?"
"Must be the same thing that's wrong with me."
"But people can change, they can turn themselves around. Or be turned around. Prisons aren't just warehouses. Shouldn't be."
"They shouldn't be frigging resort hotels either. Let's get the hell out of here. Place gives me the creeps."
* * *
Parole Officer Otto Shultz was overweight, bucktoothed, and solved his male pattern baldness with a combover that started with a part at the tip of his left ear.
Eve imagined his civil servant salary was far from stellar, but wondered why he didn't earmark a portion of it for basic body maintenance.
He wasn't happy to see them, claimed to be very busy, murderously overworked, and tried to brush them off with promises of copies of all reports and evaluations on Julianna Dunne.
Eve would've been fine with that, if it hadn't been for the nerves she could all but smell pumping out of his pores.
"You helped pass her back out of the system, and the first thing she does is kill. I guess that's got you somewhat jittery, Otto."
"Look." He pulled out a handkerchief, mopped his pudgy face. "I followed the book. She passed all evals, followed the rules. I'm a PO, not a fortune-teller."