Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (33 page)

My
knees and arms were getting wet from the muddy grass. I looked around at the
canal—I didn’t want someone startling me into falling over the side. The
concrete lining the canal would make it hard to climb out. Crouching low, I
moved from the clump of grass to the back of Diamond Head. No one shot at me or
even called out.

The
rear doors, which slid open to allow access to barge traffic, were bolted shut
with some fairly sophisticated locks. I didn’t want to spend the time it would
take to undo them: it was a pretty exposed place to stand for an hour or more.
And the expressway wasn’t loud enough to mask the sounds of burglary from
anyone waiting on the inside.

I
padded quickly along the walkway to the side of the building and peered around
the edge. The windows of the assembly room still stood open, their panes
gleaming black in the dark. The bottom sills stood about five feet above my
head.

Using
my pencil flash, I checked out the terrain underneath. This side of the factory
faced west, away from the canal, where the sun could bake the ground to a
firmer clay. The tall grasses that covered the area were thinner and browner
here. I carefully culled a lane about a yard wide below the nearest window,
pulling away empty cans and bottles and stowing them around the corner of the
building.

When
I thought I had an obstacle-free zone, I rehooked my flashlight to my belt. I
studied the window, trying to make my leg muscles absorb the height I’d have to
jump. It was about the distance of a lay-up, and I’d proved only last week I
could still play basketball.

My
fingers were tingling and my palms damp. I wiped them on the sides of my jeans.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “This is your lane, Vic. On ‘three.’”

I
counted to three under my breath and charged up the path I’d cleared to the
window. About four feet shy of it I started my jump, arms extended, pulling
myself through the air. My fingers caught on the bottom of the sill. Sharp
metal ledges cut my palms. I grunted in pain, scrabbled for a handhold, and
hoisted myself up. Move over, Michael Jordan. This here is Air Warshawski.

Perching
on the metal runners lining the window, I used the flash briefly to make sure I
wasn’t going to fall onto a spindle or some other death-dealing machine. Except
for the radiators lining the walls, the floor beneath was clear. I turned,
grabbed the sill as comfortably as I could, lowered my legs into the room, and
let go.

I
landed with a soft thud that jolted my knees. Rubbing my sore palms, I crouched
behind one of the high work tables, waiting until I was sure the noise of my
arrival hadn’t roused anyone.

The
assembly room door had a simple latch lock, open on the inside. I pushed back
the catch on my way out: if I needed a quick escape route I didn’t want to have
to pick even a simple lock. No one was in the hall. I stood by the door for a
long moment, straining to pick up breathing or some restless twitch on the
cement floor. The width of the factory lay between me and the trucks. In the
stillness of the building I could hear their engines faintly vibrating. Other
than that all was calm.

Fire
lights placed at wide intervals gave the place a faint green glow, as though it
were underwater. The murkiness upset my sense of place; I couldn’t remember how
the assembly room connected to the plant manager’s office. I took a wrong turn
down a connecting hall. Suddenly the diesels sounded very loud: I was coming to
the corridor that led to the loading bay.

, I
pulled up abruptly and tiptoed to the corner. I was looking at the cement
cavern that opened directly onto the bays. Again the only light came from two
green fire blocks. I couldn’t see clearly, but I didn’t think anyone was there.

Although
the corrugated doors still covered the bays, diesel fumes were seeping around
them. My nose wrinkled as I tried to fight back a sneeze. It came out as a
muffled explosion.

Just
at that moment another explosion sounded above my head. My heart hammered
against my ribs and my calves felt wobbly. I forced myself to stand still, not
to give away my presence by jumping or fleeing back up the hall. And in another
second I felt like a fool: the motor operating a huge gantry had sprung to
life, its gears clanging like a foundry under full steam.

The
gantry’s tracks crisscrossed the room’s high ceiling. They ran parallel between
a wide concrete shelf built about two-thirds of the way up the wall and the
doors to the bays. Two perpendicular tracks, each with a gigantic crane hanging
from it, connected the two. Presumably the concrete shelf led to a storage
area.

When
I’d been here before I’d noticed iron stairs at the main entrance leading to a
second story, probably the same area fed by the gantry. It didn’t seem very
efficient to me, keeping heavy materiel on the second floor when your work was
all down below. Still, that might be the best they could do with the
constraints on their space; the construction around the canal was so tightly
packed that they couldn’t expand sideways.

As I
squinted in the dim light to follow the crane’s route I noticed movement above
me. Someone had emerged from the gloom of the upper deck and was climbing down
a steel ladder built into the wall. He didn’t look around but headed straight
for the bays and began unlocking the doors.

I began
to feel uncomfortably exposed and started a backward retreat up the hall. Just
as I moved from the doorway the loading cavern was flooded with light.

I
looked nervously over my shoulder. No one was behind me. I turned and sprinted
up the corridor, hugging the south wall to stay as far from the sightlines in
there as possible.

When
I got back to the main hall I stopped to catch my breath and reorient myself. A
right turn would lead me to a T crossing; a couple of turns there and I’d find
myself back in the administrative offices. Or I could go left, which would
bring me to the front entrance with the iron stairs leading upward.

The
trouble was that I wanted to see both places. People loading trucks in the
middle of the night at what appeared to be a deserted factory deserved a closer
scrutiny. If I chose the office first they might finish whatever they were
doing with the trucks before I got back to them. On the other hand, if someone
saw me watching the trucks I’d have to flee without seeing Chamfers’s files.
Choices, choices. I turned left.

The
floors were so thick that not much noise came through them. I couldn’t hear
voices above me, but every few minutes there’d be a dull thud as someone
dropped a heavy object. I moved quickly, not worrying that anyone above me
would notice my sounds. I even sneezed again without trying to choke it back.

I
grew cautious at the door separating me from the main entrance. Solid metal,
fitting flush to the floor, it didn’t even have a keyhole I could peer through.
Its dead bolt locked from the outside but could be pushed back by hand on my
side. Moving with infinite care, I slid the bolt open… waited a count often. No
one hollered or came charging at me.

I
pulled slowly on the heavy metal handle, opening the door by a crack just wide
enough to see around. It was constructed awkwardly for sneaking, since the
handle was at chest height and obstructed the view. I looked around it as best
I could. The coast seemed clear. Such noises as I heard seemed to be coming
only from the floor above.

I
pulled the door open wider and slipped through it, putting my hand on it to
slide it gently shut. The lock clicked in with a faint snap. I froze. I thought
I’d slid the bolt free, but apparently it sprang back as soon as I removed my
thumb. Now I was locked on the far side with whoever was waiting above me.
Since this exposed entrance was a terrible place to work on a complex lock, I’d
have to make the best of it. The worst thing to do at times like these is
upbraid yourself. You make a mistake, you should tie a knot and go on, not
fuddle your wits with recriminations.

Since
the door opened behind the staircase, I couldn’t tell if anyone was on the
stairs or not. I could hear voices now, just grunts and faint cries of “Hold
it!” or “Shit!” followed by a loud thump.

I
crept out from my sanctuary. The front door stood ajar. Through it I could make
out two or three cars, but the angle was too poor and the light too dim to tell
whether I’d seen any of them before.

The
door at the top of the stairs, which had been shut on my previous visit, stood
open wide. From the bottom I could just make out the first yard or so beyond
it. No one seemed to be in the immediate entrance. Hugging the side of the
stairs, I went up as quietly as I could.

I
climbed the last few steps on my hands and knees and lay flat at the top to
peer ahead. An unlit walkway led from the door to a brightly lit, open area
beyond. The grunts and thumps were coming from there. I could also hear the
cranes clanking away. A handful of men were slowly moving past the entrance,
maneuvering a giant hoop.

The
walkway itself was dug from a small storage area. On either side of me loomed
giant shapes about the size of cows. They were probably old machines, but the
light from the room beyond cast ungainly shadows behind them; not of cows, but
of monsters from the primordial swamp that spawned Chicago. The fancy made me
shiver.

I
waited for the four pairs of legs in front of me to finish moving their hoop,
then hoisted myself upright and skittered for a nearby shadow. The bulk in
front of me was definitely metal, not flesh, and had a thick coating of dust on
it. I held my nose firmly to pinch back another sneeze.

My
eyes were accustomed enough to the dim that I could make out the major shapes,
but not the small bits of debris that cluttered the floor. The area seemed to
have been Diamond Head’s dumping ground for years. As I moved cautiously across
the floor I kept running into pipes and bits of wire and other things I could
only guess at. I finally got myself into a position where I could see a good
chunk of the lighted area.

I was
looking at the big shelf built above the loading dock. This led to a major
storage area, which was out of my sightline. There seemed to be four men using
hand-operated lifts to move giant spools over to the edge. That, too, was out
of my range, but I presumed the gantry was taking them to the dock below, where
they could be loaded onto the trucks.

From
the size of the one spool they shoved past while I was watching, I couldn’t
believe they could put more than one on a truck. In fact, it was the kind of
load usually moved on a flatbed. I didn’t know how they proposed getting them
into the trailers, nor yet how to strap them down. I also didn’t know what was
on them. What was packed that way? Some kind of coiled metal.

I
craned my neck, trying to see if anything was written on the side. “Paragon”
was stamped in such large letters that I didn’t notice them at first. Paragon.
The steel company whose controller didn’t want to discuss Diamond Head. Maybe
because he knew the motor company was taking Paragon products and selling them
on the black market?

Without
warning, the sneeze I’d been suppressing came bursting forth with the intensity
of a machine gun blast. I hoped the noise of the belt would drown me, but two
of the men were apparently just on the other side of the entrance. They called
to the others, their voices all too audible. A brief argument: had they heard
something or were they just imagining it?

I
crouched low behind a giant metal plane. The ostrich approach. If I couldn’t
see them, they wouldn’t notice me.

“Oh,
for Chrissake, Gleason. Who’s gonna be here?”

“I
told you the boss called, warned me that there’s been a detective snooping
around. And he got wind she’s in the neighborhood tonight.”

The
first speaker gave a crack of laughter. “A girl detective. I don’t know who’s a
bigger fool—you or Chamfers. If it’ll make you happy we can take a look
around—want to hold on to my hand?” The last words came out in an ugly jeer.

“I
don’t give a fuck. You call the boss and tell him you were too chicken to look
for snoopers.”

I
slid my hand inside my jacket for the Smith & Wesson. A flashlight beam,
industrial strength, pierced the gloom of the storage room. Footsteps
approached, retreated, stirring the dust, making my nose tingle unbearably. I
held my breath, my eyes tearing. I kept back the sneeze, but the movement
rocked me back on my heels; my hand with the gun grazed the side of the metal
plane.

The
flashlight beam poked a long finger at me. The skin on my cheeks tingled and
the hair stood on my arms. I watched the floor, waiting for the feet to declare
the line of attack. They came from the left. I darted out to the right, into
the loading area.

I was
blinded at first by the brightness of the light and couldn’t make out anything.
The sound was loud enough out here to drown the shouts of the men behind me. I
skidded around the Paragon spool and almost bumped into two more men. They were
steadying a second reel at the edge of the platform and didn’t look up, intent
on fitting a sling around it. As I danced about the deck, figuring the layout,
I noticed the label on the reel: copper wire.