Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (30 page)

Naperville,
about thirty miles west of the Loop, is one of Chicago’s fastest-growing
suburbs. It’s ringed by genteel tract houses on sizable lots—home to the middle
managers of Chicago, and to a depressing amount of concrete. Mighty tollways
crisscross the southwest suburbs, eating up farmland and leaving steep, jagged
cols in their wake.

Inside
the concrete stilts and the endless succession of malls, fast-food places, and
car dealers sit the remains of the town. A hundred years ago it was a quiet
farm community, without much connection to Chicago, beyond a river that carried
freight between the city and the Mississippi. A number of people, rich either
from the land or the water, built themselves solid Victorian homes there. One
of those had belonged to Tiepolo Felitti.

I
found the house on Madison Street easily enough, by stopping at the library and
asking. Tiepolo was one of Naperville’s illustrious fathers; his home was a
local landmark. It was a pale dove-blue, with a small plaque in front
explaining its historical interest. Other than that it had no remarkable
features. The small front porch held a bench swing, but the house lacked the
leaded windows or stained glass that make some Victorian homes interesting. The
front door itself was a slab of unadorned wood, painted white to match the rest
of the trim.

The
house stood on a minute lot typical of the inner town. I could see why Peter
had moved to Oak Brook: it gave far more scope for opulence. Would Dick ever
have fallen in love with Teri if her father had stayed in this unpretentious
place?

“But
if it hadn’t been Teri there would have been someone much like her,” I muttered
aloud, moving to the doorbell.

“Did
you say something?”

I
jumped slightly at the voice. I hadn’t heard the man come up the walk behind
me. His well-fed, close-shaved face seemed the embodiment of the Chicago
politician. I’d somehow always thought of it as a Democratic look, but realized
that was because I lacked suburban experience.

“Mr.
Felitti?” I smiled in what I hoped was a pleasant way.

“In
the flesh. And you’re a welcome surprise to find on my doorstep after a long,
hard day.” He looked at his watch. “Been waiting long?”

“Nope.
I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Well,
come in, come in and tell me what you’re drinking. I’ll fix you up while I
check on Mother.”

I
hadn’t expected such exuberance. It made my job both harder and easier.

He
held the door for me. Naperville apparently hadn’t yet grown to the point that
he had to lock it. I felt a twinge of envy, mixed with anger that someone could
live the happy, blissful life of not needing two or three dead bolts between
himself and the rest of the world.

Jason
led me down a long, unfurnished hall. The walls were papered in a faded gold
print, apparently unchanged since the house was built. The room he brought me
to showed the first signs of the family’s money. It was a study overlooking the
small back garden, with a Persian rug in bold reds on the polished wood floor,
another in pale-gold silk hanging on the wall, and what looked like a museum
trove of small statues strewn among the books.

“Now,
you’re not one of those modern girls who only drinks white wine, are you?”

My
smile became a little fixed. “No. I’m a modern woman, and I drink neat whisky.
Black Label, if you have it.”

He
laughed as though I’d said something really delightful and pulled a bottle from
a cabinet underneath the silk hanging. “Black Label it is. Now, you fix
yourself what you’d like and I’ll go check on Mother.”

“Is
she ill, Mr. Felitti?”

“Oh,
she had a stroke a few years ago and can’t walk anymore. But her mind is still
working, oh yes, still sharp as a tack. Still can tell Peter and me a thing or
two, yes indeed. And the ladies from the church are good about coming by, so
don’t imagine she’s lonely.”

He
laughed again and went back down the hall. I amused myself by idly inspecting
the statuary. Some of the pieces, miniature bronzes with perfectly sculpted
muscles, looked as though they might date to the Renaissance. Others were
contemporary, but very fine modern work. I wondered what I would invest in if I
had millions of dollars to strew around.

After
Jason had been gone five minutes it dawned on me that I might find Chamfers’s
home number in the room. A large leather desk had a tempting array of drawers.
I was just opening the middle one when Jason returned. I pretended to be
studying a miniature globe, an intricate model with the stars carved out above
and fanciful sea-monsters peeping from the oceans.

“Pietro
D’Alessandro,” Jason said cheerfully, going to the bar. “The old man was mad
for anything from the Italian Renaissance—proved he’d made it in the New World
and was a worthy successor to the old. I think that sounds nice, don’t you?”

1 nodded
dumbly.

“Then
why not write it down?” He poured himself a martini, drank it rather fast, and
poured a second.

“It’s
a catchy line—I think I’ve memorized it.” I wondered if his exuberant good
cheer to strangers was a sign of mental illness or alcoholism.

“I
bet a good memory comes in real handy in your line of work. If I don’t write
everything down in triplicate I forget it five minutes later. Now, take a pew
and tell me what you want to know.”

Bemused,
I sat in the green leather armchair he gestured to. “It’s about Diamond Head
Motors, Mr. Felitti. Or specifically, Milton Chamfers. I’ve been trying to see
him for two weeks and he won’t talk to me.”

“Chamfers?”
His pale-blue eyes seemed to pop slightly. “You want to talk about Chamfers? I
thought the story was supposed to focus on me. Or did you want me to talk about
the acquisition of the company? Can’t really do that, because it’s family, and
we don’t discuss our business with the public. Of course, we had a public bond
issue, but you’d have to talk to the bankers about that. Not that I want to
disappoint a pretty girl like yourself.”

So he
wasn’t crazy—he was expecting a reporter. I was about to disabuse him when the
last sentence came out. I’m as vain as the next person, but I prefer
compliments on my appearance in the right context, and more aptly phrased.

“I
like to get as many sides to a story as I can,” I murmured. “And Diamond Head
is your first personal business venture, isn’t it? You can tell me that, can’t
you, without violating the family omerta?”

He
laughed again, a loud, merry peal. I was beginning to see why no one had ever
married him.

“Good
girl! Do you speak Italian, or did you dig that up for the occasion?”

“My
mother was Italian; I’m reasonably fluent, at least through an adolescent vocabulary.”

“I
never learned. My grandmother spoke Italian to us when we were kiddies, but
after she passed on we lost it. Of course, Dad didn’t marry an Italian—Granny
Felitti was beside herself, you know how people were in those days—but the long
and the short of it was that Mother refused to learn the language. Did it to
spite the old lady.”

He
laughed again and I winced involuntarily.

“What
made you want to buy Diamond Head, Mr. Felitti?”

“Oh,
you know how these things go,” he said vaguely, looking into his glass. “I
wanted to own my own business—do my own thing, your generation would say.”

I
braced myself for the merry peal, but he held back this time. I didn’t really
care why he’d bought the company; I was fishing around for ways to get to
Chamfers and not having many ideas for bait.

“You
were lucky to get Paragon Steel interested in your company,” I finally offered.

He
studied my face over the brim of his glass. “Paragon Steel? I guess they’re one
of our accounts. Not too many people know about them, though. You must have
been doing your homework, young lady.”

I
flashed a big grin. “I like to have enough background to make things
interesting when I finally talk to a… uh… subject.”

His
laugh came again, but this time it seemed a little forced. “I admire thoroughness.
The old man was forever telling me I didn’t have it, though. So I have to
confess that I leave the thorough details about the business to other people.”

“Does
that mean you won’t talk about Paragon?” I kept the grin plastered to my face.

‘“Fraid
so. I expected this interview to be about personal matters and I’m all set to
talk about those.” He made an ostentatious business of looking at his watch.

“Okay.
If we have to talk about people and not about money, how about the guy who got
killed down by Diamond Head last week? Can’t get much more personal than death,
can you?”

“What?”
He’d been tilting his head back to drain the last few drops from the glass. His
hand shook and the gin splashed his shirt front. “Nobody told me anyone died
down there. What are you talking about?”

“Mitch
Kruger, Mr. Felitti. Name ring a bell?”

He
stared at me aggressively. “Should it?”

“I
don’t know. You keep telling me you don’t take much part in the business side
down there. But what about the personal, since that’s your forte? Do you direct
them to hire investigators? Beat up doctors? Dump old men into the San?” I
guess I was too tired for finesse.

“Who
are you, anyway?” he demanded. “You’re not with Chicago Life, that’s for damn
sure.”

“What
about the attack on Dr. Herschel? Did Chamfers organize that? Did you know
about it in advance?”

“I
never heard of Dr. whoever, and I’m getting damned sure I never heard of you.
What’s your name?”

“V.
I. Warshawski. Does that ring any bells?”

His
face reddened. “I thought you were the girl from the magazine, Maggie. She was
coming out this afternoon. I’d sure as hell never let you in my house if I’d
known who you were.”

“It’s
a help, Mr. Felitti, that you know who I am. Because that means that Chamfers
has discussed me with you. And that means you are just a bit involved with what
your company does. All I want is to talk to Chamfers— about Mitch Kruger. Since
you’re a director, you could make it so easy for me.”

“But
I don’t want to make it easy for you. Get the hell out of my house—before I
call the cops and make you leave.”

At
least he had stopped laughing, an enormous relief. I finished the whisky.

“I’m
going,” I said, getting up. “Oh, there was one last question. About U.S. Met.
What did you have to offer an old lady that would make her close her account in
her neighborhood bank and move it to Met? You guys are notorious for not paying
interest on your accounts, but you must have told her something.”

“You’re
off your rocker. I’m not going to call the cops—I’m going to get the boys from
Elgin to come with a straitjacket. I don’t know anything about U.S. Met and I
don’t know why you come busting into my house asking about it.”

“You’re
a director, Mr. Felitti,” I said reproachfully. “I’m sure their insurance
company would like to think you knew what the bank was up to. You know, for
directors’ and officers’ liability claims.”

The
red in his face had subsided. “You’re talking to the wrong person. I’m not
clever enough to think of bank marketing plans. Ask anyone. But not on my
premises.”

I didn’t
think I was going to make any progress by staying. I put my empty glass on the
desk.

“But
you know who I am,” I repeated. “And that means that Chamfers was concerned
enough to call you. And that means my suspicions that Mitch Kruger knew
something about Diamond Head are correct. At least I know now where to focus my
energies. Thanks for the whisky, Mr. Felitti.”

“I
don’t know who you are; I never heard your name before,” he made a last-ditch
attempt at bluster. “I just know it was supposed to be a girl named Maggie
here, and your name isn’t Maggie.”

“Nice
try, Mr. Felitti. But you and I both know you’re lying.”

As I
sashayed down the hall in front of him the doorbell rang. A petite young woman
with a mound of frizzy black hair was standing on the step.

“Maggie
from Chicago Life?” I asked.

“Yeah.”
She grinned. “Mr. Felitti here? I think he’s expecting me.”

“Right
behind me.” I fished a card from the side of my handbag and handed it to her.
“I’m a private investigator. If he says something interesting about Diamond
Head, give me a call. And watch out for his laugh—it’s a killer.”

Getting
the last word brings a certain emotional satisfaction, but it doesn’t help an
investigation. I drove aimlessly around Naperville, looking for a place to have
a soft drink before going back to Chicago. I didn’t see anything that looked
like a coffee shop. At last I pulled off at the park that borders the river. I
walked past parties of women with small children, necking teenagers, and the
assorted homeward-bound commuter until I found an empty rustic bridge.

Peering
over the wood railing at the Du Page River, I tried to interpret Felitti’s and
my conversation without too many shades of wishful thinking. I believed what
I’d said to him at the end: he did know who I was. Chamfers had been in touch.
That meant I really had to focus on Diamond Head.