Hardball (21 page)

28

AND FIRE IN THE OLD HOMESTEAD

THE FLASHLIGHT CLATTERED TO THE FLOOR, AND MY cousin screamed. As I stooped to pick up the light, I thought I heard retreating footfalls. I pushed past Petra and looked down the hall but didn’t see anyone.

“Who was that?” I demanded.

“Vic . . . It’s you!” She was breathless and frightened. “I thought you were in the hospital.”

“I am. What are you doing here, and who came with you?”

“No one. I’m on my—”

“You’re not a very convincing liar, Petra. You don’t have the guts or experience to come into a burned-out building on your own. Who was with you?”

“One of the guys who works on the campaign with me,” she muttered. “He took off when I screamed, and I don’t want him to get in trouble, so don’t ask me his name, I won’t tell you. Anyway, you shouldn’t be yelling at me. I came here for you.”

“Did you, now?” I was so weak that I had to lean against the charred wall. “What noble deed were you doing on my behalf?”

“Uncle Sal told me you’d left your wallet and everything here. I thought I could find it. He said neighborhood punks would break in and help themselves to anything that wasn’t nailed down.”

“That has the ring of authenticity,” I said applaudingly. “I can believe Mr. Contreras would use exactly those words. You’re doing better.”

“Why do you have to act like a bully?” Petra demanded. “Why can’t you believe me?”

I retrieved her flashlight and swept its beam around the room. “I believe you. Go look for my handbag. I’m too exhausted to move, but I’ll hold the light for you.”

She glowered at me but moved gingerly into the room. She was wearing her high-heeled boots and wobbled on the uneven surface. I pointed the light toward the place where I thought I’d been sitting.

“If it’s here, that’s where it should be. Try each step before you put your full weight on your leg. You don’t want to go through a burned floorboard.”

She tiptoed over to the remains of the chair and knelt, as I had done, to feel around its sides. “This is gross. It’s, like, Dumpster diving.”

“What is going on in here?” A second flashlight suddenly brightened the room.

I was so tired, and so focused on Petra, I hadn’t heard the new-comer in the hall. My heart pounded. I could hear it in my ears like the ocean roaring. This was a recipe for early death, personal inattention on this scale.

“Who are you and why are you in this apartment? You can answer me quickly or talk to the police.”

“I’m V. I. Warshawski,” I said quietly. “I was here with Sister Frances when she was killed. And you are . . . ?”

“Sister Carolyn Zabinska.”

I had heard the name, but I was swaying badly and couldn’t make sense of anything. Murray had said . . . He’d said I was the real target. I blinked, trying to clear my head. I turned to look at Zabinska. Her flashlight blinded me. My knees buckled, and I was suddenly on the floor, Petra’s flashlight falling from my useless hands.

I never really lost consciousness, but I couldn’t summon the strength to speak. I heard the nun ask Petra who she was. I heard Petra say I was supposed to be in the hospital but had insisted on coming to the apartment. She didn’t know why but thought I was hoping my handbag would still be here.

I struggled to speak. I was baffled by my cousin’s lies. Was she instinctively trying to save her own skin? More footfalls sounded. “No police,” I finally gasped. But it wasn’t police, it was two more nuns. And, between them and my cousin, I was half carried, half dragged up the stairs to the fourth floor.

“We can’t use the elevator until the wiring has been completely tested,” one of the nuns apologized.

We went into a clean living room, a copy of Sister Frankie’s, with books and bright throws and a statue of the Virgin, and I was put in an armchair. Someone forced hot, sweet tea into me, and I thought maybe it really was Wednesday night again, that I was back at Sister Frankie’s, that the fire, my eyes, my hands, all that had been a nightmare, and now . . . I sat up . . . And now I would pull myself together and stop being a tragedy queen.

“I don’t have my bag,” I said.

“I picked up your bag after the fire.” That was Sister Carolyn’s voice. It was cold. I was a selfish bitch, worrying about my private possessions in the middle of a disaster.

“Not my handbag, my evidence bag.” I tried to stand, but the sisters kept me in the chair.

Sister Carolyn squatted so I could see her face. “Evidence?”

I drank down the rest of the tea. It made me feel marginally better, but it was still hard to be coherent. “Evidence about the fire. Hard to explain. Bottle fragments, the police should have taken them. Test . . . for assel . . . acc . . .” I was close to tears with frustration at not being able to speak, and I remembered Sister Claudia, her tears, her garbled English.

“What was in bottles?” I finally managed to say.

“What difference does it make? Frankie is dead whether it was gasoline or scotch!” one of the other nuns cried out.

“Matters. Matters. Ordinary fuel. Anyone, but I think pros.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Sister Carolyn said, “I know you’re exhausted, but I need you to explain what you’re saying. Are you saying this was the work of a professional arsonist?”

Another sister handed me a second cup of tea, laced this time with brandy. I choked as I swallowed the alcohol, but it did its job, giving me the fleeting illusion of clarity. “The accelerant. I think it was some kind of jet fuel, something that burned fast and very hot, or the books wouldn’t have gone so fast, and neither would—” I broke off. “Her head . . . I tried to catch her, to wrap her, but her head—”

Hands were all around me holding me, and, after another swallow, I managed to say, “I wanted to know two things. Did the police take the fragments in for analysis? I don’t think they did or I wouldn’t have found such big chunks of broken bottle. And, if not, I want a private lab I use to do an analysis, tell me what was used.”

Sister Carolyn Zabinska nodded in understanding, and added that she wanted to talk to me about the attack itself, she needed to know what happened. “I was planning on calling on you. As I said, I found your handbag. I tried to see you in the hospital, but they have a lockdown on your visitors, even nuns. But if you’ve been released—”

“She hasn’t been!” Petra said. “She broke out just to come here tonight.”

“That’s reassuring,” one of the other sisters said. “Not to be rude, but you look like death on a mop handle, and I thought this was another sign of our execrable health care system, that they’d released you before you were fit.”

“Yes, she needs to be back in bed,” Zabinska said. “I’ll collect your evidence bag from Frankie’s. If you tell me where to take it, I’ll make sure it gets to your forensics lab. But it’s time your niece—oh, cousin, is it?—drove you to the hospital.”

“Of course I will,” Petra said. “But how am I going to get her past the front desk into her bed?”

“Which hospital?” one of the sisters asked.

“Beth Israel,” I said.

“I have a pass,” the sister said. “I work there with the HIV/AIDS moms.”

She murmured something to the other two, who gave a ripple of laughter. I dozed and then came to with a start as I felt them fastening a scarf around my head.

“Okay, Sister V.I.,” Zabinska said. “On your feet. We’re going to bring a little succor to the ill and bed-ridden.”

The three nuns were laughing. They’d donned habits. I remembered Sister Frankie saying she wore hers whenever she had to go in front of a judge. The nuns helped me to my feet and showed me my face in the bathroom mirror. They’d pinned a veil around my face, hiding my chopped hair.

It was startling to see my eyes emerge from a nun’s face, as if the piece of cloth had changed who I was. Too wild-eyed and drawn to be Audrey Hepburn in
The Nun’s Story.
Maybe Kathleen Byron in
Black Narcissus.

Zabinska and the sister who worked with the HIV moms each took one of my arms and guided me out the door and down the stairs, with Petra and the third sister following. We were moving slowly because of me and had reached only the top of the third flight when we heard a crash from the floor below us.

Sister Carolyn dropped my arm. “That came from Frankie’s place.”

Feet pounded down the hall below us. Sister Carolyn ran down the stairs. The HIV sister stayed with me, but the other nun ran after Sister Carolyn and my cousin pelted after her. I wanted to lead the charge, but I had to grab the banister and move one slow step at a time.

We reached the turn in the landing in time to see a man running down the stairs, followed by the nuns and Petra. We heard Sister Carolyn demanding that the man stop, and then the front door opened, tires squealed. A moment later, Petra and the nuns reappeared.

“Someone went into the apartment and made off with your bag,” Zabinska announced. “How did they know to look for it?”

“Don’t know.” I shook my head wearily. It was hard for me to think. “Feds been watching building, you know that? Maybe them. Should’ve remembered. Maybe followed me from hospital . . . Thought I was clear, but not too clever right now.”

“The feds have been watching us?” the HIV nun echoed. “How do you know that?”

“In hospital . . . Told me . . .” I was starting to drift.

“We almost had him,” Sister Carolyn said. “He was wearing a stocking cap, and I grabbed it instead of his shoulder. Then he opened the door so hard he hit Mary Lou in the nose, and we got tangled up with each other. Now I’m really angry. If he was a federal agent, he’ll have some real explaining to do, beating up a nun in her own home.”

Mary Lou’s nose was bleeding. The HIV nun sat her on the stairs and tilted her head back, stanching the blood with her own veil. Other tenants came into the stairwell: more nuns, families with small children. The noise grew to a clamor that I couldn’t take in my current state. I collapsed on the stair next to Mary Lou with my plastic dark glasses back over my eyes.

“I need to lie down.” I was panting. “Sisters . . . Go to Sister Frankie’s . . . Look for bottle fragments . . . Bring flashlights . . . Bring camera, bring clean bag . . . Take pictures where you find . . . Pick up with glove . . . something clean . . . Put in bag . . . Seal . . . label . . . Now!”

Again the sisters murmured among themselves. The HIV nun, who had the hospital pass, would go with me to Beth Israel. Sister Carolyn and Sister Mary Lou would take care of hunting for more glass fragments.

Petra ran ahead to get her Pathfinder while the three nuns got me down the stairs. As they helped me into the backseat of the SUV, Sister Carolyn handed me my purse.

“You’re not what I was expecting when I looked in your billfold and saw that you were a detective.”

“That’s okay. You and your pals weren’t what I expected when I learned you were nuns.”

She smiled and cupped her hands on my forehead, a caress that was a blessing. “We’ll pray for your speedy recovery.”

When the resident made rounds the next morning, he was dismayed to see that I’d had a setback. He ordered me to stay in the hospital an extra day. Lotty saw that I had fresher bruises on my arms and legs than could have come from the fire, but she didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.

I walked up and down the hall a dozen times, trying to build my stamina, but I had to go back to bed afterward, which was infuriating. That was basically how I spent the day, walking and sleeping, Mid-afternoon, I went downstairs for another espresso.

When I returned to my room, I found Conrad Rawlings in the visitor’s chair. Conrad is a cop. We’ve been friends, enemies, lovers, collaborators, off and on for over a decade.

I was happier to see him than I would have thought possible a few days earlier. “Have you been transferred up here?”

“Nope. Still down in your old ’hood. You and fire: you can’t leave it alone, can you?” The words were harsh, but his tone was sympathetic enough to take the sting out of them. “Your eyes going to be okay?”

“They tell me,” I said gruffly.

“I read the report. Nasty fire, that, killing a nun and all.”

“Was there any word about the accelerant?” I demanded. “It looked like it had to be rocket or jet fuel, it burned so fiercely and so fast.”

He shook his head. “Early days for forensic results. But fires are tricky. Gasoline could get the job done if the perp was lucky, you know that. So don’t go starting a conspiracy theory, trying to put cops or the FBI in your sights just because some woman from OEM rubbed you the wrong way.”

“Is that why you came up here?” I demanded. “To tell me to pull back from holding the feds accountable? Damn it, Conrad, they’ve been watching the Freedom Center. They could have done something besides watching it all unfold for them on their—”

“Whoa, there, Ms. W.! I’m not here on anybody’s business but my own.”

I looked at him, puzzled. Nothing I’d been working on lately involved South Chicago, but I waited for him to speak. Make the interrogation come to you, don’t race out to meet it. That was advice I’d always given my clients in my public defender days, and it’s the hardest advice to follow.

“You and fire, Ms. W.,” he repeated. “I don’t know if it follows you around or you bring it with you.”

He waited for a while. But when I still didn’t respond, he said, “You were in South Chicago last Saturday.”

In the trauma and drama of the last few days, I’d forgotten taking my cousin around the South Side. “How nice of you to come all the way up here to tell me.”

He smiled briefly, not warmly. “You stopped at a house on Ninety-second and Houston. You wanted to get inside.”

I watched him through my dark glasses.

“Any particular reason?” Conrad asked.

“I am
damned
tired of cops and feds asking me to justify every step I take. Is this Iran or America? Or isn’t there any difference anymore?”

“They had a fire Sunday night. When we got there, the lady, a Señora Andarra, told us two women had been there, and they said they had grown up in the house and wanted to look around. She was afraid they were from a rival gang to her grandson’s. She was afraid they set the fire to punish her for not letting them into the house.”