Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (28 page)

“There
is one other thing,” I said quickly before he could hang up. “I really need
someone who will get the plant manager at Diamond Head to talk to me. He’s been
stonewalling me for two weeks. That’s why I wanted the names of the directors—I
thought I might know one of them.”

“You
do, Vic. You know Richard Yarborough. I keep telling you that you misjudge
Dick. He might respond to you if you could bring yourself to ask him in a nice
way.” The phone clicked in my ear.

It
had been an outside chance that Freeman would feel dismayed enough at
misjudging me to help me see Chamfers. It would have required his pretending he
was still with Crawford, Mead, and he was too scrupulous for that kind of
shenanigan.

“Besides,
hard work builds character,” I said out loud.

Before
leaving for the day I called Lotty. She was still at Max’s but thought she
would be well enough to go to the clinic for half a day in the morning. I asked
her if she’d talked to the police.

“Yes.
Sergeant Rawlings drove out here yesterday afternoon. They don’t know anything,
but he seemed to think you were obstructing their investigation—I think that
was his phrase. Vic…” She paused and fished for words. “If there’s something
you’re keeping from the police, tell them, please. I’m not going to be able to
drive without looking over my shoulder every five seconds until the men who
beat me up are caught.”

My
shoulders slumped. “I told the police about the guy who threatened to put a
tail on me, but they think he’s clean. I don’t know what else I can do, except
try to conduct my own investigation.”

“There’s
telling and telling. I’ve watched you operate for years and I know you often
hold back the—the key emphasis, maybe, or some little thing that will make them
able to make the same connections you do.”

Her
voice, which lacked its usual crisp vitality, was more depressing than her
words. I tried to remember my conversations with Conrad Rawlings and Terry
Finchley. I hadn’t told them about the person masquerading as Mitch Kruger’s
son who’d lifted his papers from Mrs. Poker’s. Maybe I should do that. I
couldn’t bear the thought of Lotty suddenly aging out of fear, especially a
fear I’d helped foster.

I was
silent so long she said sharply, “There is something, isn’t there?”

“I
don’t know if there is or not. It didn’t seem relevant to me, but I’ll call
Detective Finchley and tell him before I leave.”

“Do
that, Vic,” she said, her voice cracking. “Pretend I matter, that I’m not just
a little piece of your game plan that didn’t work the way you hoped.”

“Lotty!
That’s not fair—” I began, but she hung up before I could hear her crying.

Was I
really that lacking in feeling? I loved Lotty. More than any living person I
could think of. Was I treating her like a pawn? I didn’t have a game plan; that
was half my trouble. I was floundering from action to action, not knowing in
what direction I was going. Nonetheless, the distaste I’d felt for myself after
breaking into Carver’s office last night came back to me. A knot of
self-disgust twisted my stomach.

I
suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to go back to bed. My lids were so leaden I
could scarcely open my eyes. I leaned back in the couch and let the wave of depression
wash over me. After a time, not feeling better but knowing I had to get moving,
I called over to Area One to talk to Finchley. He wasn’t in; I left my name and
number and asked him to phone me this evening. At least no one hung up on me
mid-sentence. That was a distinct improvement over my first two calls.

I
moved drearily down the stairs. Before heading for the street I knocked on Mr.
Contreras’s door. It was a sign of my desperate state that I even accepted a
cup of his overboiled coffee before setting out. This afternoon the old man had
enough zip for two, maybe even four. He’d spent the morning drafting our ad and
calling around Arizona to get the names and rates of their biggest dailies; he
was eager to show me his handiwork. I tried to drum up an appropriate level of
enthusiasm, but he suddenly noticed my spirits didn’t match his.

“What’s
eating you, doll? Rough night?”

I
gave a self-conscious laugh. “Oh, I just feel like I let Lotty in for a bad
time and haven’t done anything to help her.”

Mr.
Contreras patted my knee with one horny palm. “Your way of helping people ain’t
the same as most people’s, Vic. Just because you’re not rushing around with
flowers and a tub of soup don’t mean you’re not helping her.”

“Yeah,
but she feels I should cooperate more with the police, and she’s right,” I
muttered.

“Yeah,
cooperate with them,” the old man jeered. “Ninety percent of the time they
don’t listen to you. I was there when you talked to that black detective,
what’s his name, Finchley, and I saw how he listened to you. Far as the cops
are concerned, Mitch hit his head and fell in the canal. Mitch, who knew every
inch of that waterfront! They sure don’t care that you was tailed for a week
before those goons attacked your car and beat up the doc. I don’t see you’ve
got any cause to go around blaming yourself, not for one minute, doll. You just
pull yourself together and go do the work God made you fit for.”

He
slapped my knee again for emphasis. I patted his hand and thanked him for the
pep talk. The odd thing was, I really did feel better. I scribbled a few
changes onto the ad copy, but left the gist of the message unchanged. I agreed
with my neighbor that we would ask young Mitch to contact him, not me, in case
he was involved in his father’s death—if he was, he might have heard my name
from someone at Diamond Head.

“You
want to do something else?” I asked, getting up to go. “Talk to some of the
people on the block—Mrs. Hellstrom or Mrs. Tertz, maybe. See if you can find
out whether Chrissie Pichea works for a living.”

Mr.
Contreras assented eagerly, thrilled that I was finally considering him a
full-fledged partner. He saw me to the door, talking enthusiastically until I
was out of earshot.

My
conversation with Lotty had made me uneasy about who might be dogging my steps.
Or her steps. I wondered if we were all barking up the wrong tree—maybe she’d
been attacked by relatives of a patient whom they thought she’d mistreated. I’d
have to talk to Rawlings, see if he was pursuing that possibility. I certainly
couldn’t mention it to Lotty, not unless I wanted the other side of the Trans
Am stove in.

By
the time I got to the end of the block I changed my mind. A couple of guys had
been sitting in a late-model Subaru across from my building when I left. One of
them climbed out of the car and started trailing me up the street. I looked
around. The Subaru pulled away from the curb and dawdled behind us. I continued
up Racine to Belmont; my friend stayed with me. The Subaru tagged along about
half a block back. I considered taking a bus over to the el and doubling back
again through the Loop, but that seemed unnecessarily time-consuming. I walked
into the Belmont Diner.

It
was well past the lunch hour. The place was nearly empty. The waitresses, who
were relaxing with cigarettes and newspapers, greeted me with the easy
camaraderie they gave their regulars. “BLT with fries, Vic? Tammy just pulled a
hot batch from the grease.” That was Barbara, who usually waited on me and knew
my weaknesses.

“I’ll
have to take a pass today. I got a couple of guys a little too interested in
me. Can I leave through your back entrance?” I looked around and saw my trailer
opening the door. “In fact, here comes one of them now.”

“No
problem, Vic.”

Barbara
bustled me toward the back. My pal started to follow when Helen dropped a
pitcher of iced tea right in front of him. I just heard her say, “Oh, honey,
I’m so sorry… No, don’t move, I’ll clean that right off those nice trousers of
yours…” before Barbara opened the back door and pushed me into the alley.

“Thanks
a bunch,” I said gratefully. “I’ll remember you guys in my will.”

“Get
a move on, Warshawski,” Barbara said, pushing me smartly between the shoulder
blades. “And save the soap: we all know you’ve got nothing to leave.”

Paragon
of Virtue?

I ran
flat out through the alley to Seminary, then made a mile-long loop around
Racine so that I came to the Impala from the west. By the time I flopped into
the driver’s seat I was gasping for air and had a painful stitch under my right
ribs. My legs wobbling slightly on the pedals, I drove west along Barry until
the street dead-ended at the river. After that I meandered around the side
streets toward the Kennedy.

Barbara
and her friends had clearly derailed my attackers. I was dawdling just to catch
my breath while I figured out my next steps. I needed to do a library search on
Jason Felitti, whose name had popped up as the owner of Diamond Head in my
late-night research. I also wanted to visit the people flowing cash to Diamond
Head—Paragon Steel. I flipped a mental coin: I could always use the library on
Saturday. I turned north onto the expressway.

Paragon
used to have their own skyscraper downtown, but they’d sold it during their
cost-cutting days fifteen years ago. Their headquarters now occupied five floors
of one of a nest of modest towers in Lincolnwood. The outdoor lot at the
complex was packed so densely that I had to park over a block from the entrance
to the first building.

From
my space at the edge of the lot I could see the purple Hyatt where Alan Dorfman
had breathed his last.

As I
locked the Impala’s door the thought of the gunmen who’d blasted the
gangster—on a nod from his driver— reminded me of my own frailty. I patted my
own gun for reassurance and strolled into the lobby.

No
guards or receptionists waited to direct the ignorant. I wandered around,
looking for a signboard. Apparently I’d come in a back way—I had to go through
a couple of corridors before I found a directory. It pointed me to the building
next in line, where Paragon held floors four through eight.

The
whole complex seemed oddly empty, as though all those cars in the lot had
decanted their owners into outer space. No one passed me in the halls and I
waited alone beside the elevators. When I got to the fourth floor I faced a
bare aqua wall with a minute sign directing me to reception. Presumably in
Paragon’s days of penury they’d decided not to waste money on big letters.

The
place was so empty I was beginning to wonder if a blinking computer screen
would greet me at the reception area. I was relieved to see an actual person, a
woman about my own age with shoulder-length curls and a brownish jacket dress
that was limp and faded from years of wear. I began to feel more confident
about my blue jeans.

I
gave a smile intended to convey both empathy and self-assurance and asked for
the controller. She obligingly dialed a number, then put her palm over the
mouthpiece.

“Who
can I say is calling?”

“My
name’s V. I. Warshawski.” I handed her a card. “I’m a financial investigator.”

She
transmitted the information, stumbling a little over my name, as receptionists
so often do, then turned back to me. “They’re not hiring anyone.”

“And
I’m not looking for work. This will be so much easier to explain directly to
the controller, instead of through you to her secretary.”

“It’s
a him. Mr. Loring. What do you have to say to him?”

I
counted on my fingers. “Six words. Diamond Head Motors and debt financing.”

She
repeated my words dubiously. When I nodded she said them again into the phone.
This time she seemed to be on hold. She answered incoming calls and routed them
through, checked back with her own blinking light and waited again. About five
minutes later she told me I could have a seat: Sukey would be down for me.

The
wait stretched to twenty minutes before Sukey showed up. She was a tall, thin
woman whose skin-tight skirt emphasized the painful boniness of her pelvis and
hips. Her pale face was pitted with acne scars, but her voice, when she asked
me to follow her, was deep and sweet.

“What
did you say your name was?” she asked as we got on the elevator. “Charlene
wasn’t very clear over the phone.”

“Warshawski,”
I repeated, handing her a card.

She
studied the little rectangle gravely, until the doors opened for the eighth
floor. As soon as we stepped off the elevators I realized I’d found the secret
cache of Paragon employees. The place was a maze of cubicles, each holding two
or three computer stations and the people to staff them. As we moved toward the
end of the floor the cubes gave way to offices, still filled with computers and
their minders.

We
finally reached a small open area. Sukey’s desk stood outside an open corner
office. It was labeled as Ben Loring’s lair, but he wasn’t home. Sukey directed
me to one of the foam-core seats and knocked on a nearby door. I couldn’t hear
what she said when she stuck her head around the jamb. She disappeared briefly,
then came back to escort me in.

The
conference room was filled with men, mostly in shirt sleeves and all of them
looking at me with a mix of suspicion and contempt. No one spoke, but two or
three of them were darting glances at the second guy from my left, a burly
fiftyish man with a thick bush of gray hair.