“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?”