Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (45 page)

“Just
as safe as federally insured funds,” I repeated aloud. “An unsecured bond that
isn’t paying jackshit and is trading at nineteen dollars on the hundred.”

The
bitterness in my voice startled Mrs. Tertz, who snatched the flyer from me. “If
you’re going to be angry about it I just can’t let you look at it; it wouldn’t
be fair to Chrissie.”

I
tried to smile, but I could feel my mouth twist sideways. “Chrissie may have
meant it for the best, but she wasn’t very fair to Mrs. Frizell. I do hope not
too many of you on the block here bought investments from her or Vinnie.
Otherwise the two of them are going to own most of the street before long.”

She
bit her lips uncomfortably, but told me she thought it was time for me to go.
As she shepherded me rapidly through the house to the front door, I could hear
her bemoaning the mistake she’d made under her breath. I think she was talking
more about letting me into the house than about buying junk bonds. At least I
hoped so.

The
heat had lifted somewhat by the time I got outside, but my blouse still grew
wet across the neck and armpits during the short walk to my own building. The
perfect appeal to a recluse with a chip on her shoulder—your banker is cheating
you just because you’re old. And your new investment is just as safe as
federally insured funds.

As I
passed Vinnie’s apartment door I wanted to kick it in, to violate his home as
he had decimated Mrs. Frizell’s. I’d been there several times last year; I knew
it was filled with high-priced modern art. Almost as good an investment as a
federally insured CD. Figure out how to replace that stuff, I thought, panting
as I pictured myself trashing it. I actually gave the door a savage kick that
left a scuff mark on the paneling. That alone would drive him into a frenzy: he
had personally sanded and painted it an eggshell white. The rest of us were
content with the dark varnish that came with the building.

Up in
my own place I undid the locks, forgetting my new electronic alarm until a
high-pitched whistle interrupted me as I gulped down a glass of water. I sprinted
down the hall to the front door and punched in the numbers to shut off the
system. I hoped I’d been fast enough to forestall a visit from the cops.

I
went back to the kitchen and filled another glass under the tap. I drank it
more slowly, carrying it with me as I walked to the living room to call Max. I
took off my shoes and socks and massaged my toes. The loafers didn’t give
enough support; my feet ached from walking around in them.

Curling
my legs under me, I leaned back in the armchair with my eyes shut. I needed to
relax before I talked to Max. Get the image of Mrs. Frizell restlessly moving
in her hospital bed out of my brain, let my anger with Vinnie and Chrissie work
its way out of my shoulders and fingertips. I’ve never been too good at that kind
of exercise; after a few fruitless minutes I sat up and dialed Max’s number.

He
had just emerged from one meeting and was on his way to a second, but he agreed
to talk to me for a few minutes. I exchanged greetings with him cautiously, in
case he was angry with me again on Lotty’s account.

“Lotty
still won’t talk to me. How is she?”

“She’s
getting better. The crack is starting to heal and you can’t see the bruises
now.” His tone was noncommittal.

“I
know she’s back at work—I keep just missing her when I call the clinic.”

“You
know Lotty. When she’s scared .she gets angry— with herself for being weak. And
when she’s angry she starts driving herself into a frenzy of action. It’s
always been her best protection.”

I
grimaced at the phone; that was my armor as well. “I hear she’s hired a new
nurse. Maybe that will ease some of the tension for her.”

“She
stole away one of our best pediatric nurses,” Max retorted. “I ought to disown
her for that, but it seems to have cheered her up.”

Everyone
has problems when personal and professional lives cross, not just private eyes
and cops. The thought reassured me.

“I’ve
been thrashing around in my own frenzy, trying to figure out what anyone cared
so much about that they had to beat up Lotty over it. And it seems as though
all I’m doing is pawing the earth, kicking up dirt, and not getting anywhere.”

“I’m
sorry, Victoria. I wish I could help, but you’re out of my areas of expertise.”

“Your
lucky day, Max. I called specifically because of your expertise. Do you know
anything about Hector Beauregard at Chicago Settlement?”

“Noo.”
Max drew out the word slowly. “My wife was really the one who worked with the
group. Since her death I’ve continued to support them financially, but I
haven’t played an active role. Hector’s the executive director—that’s all I
know about him. We both belong to a group of directors of nonprofit
organizations, and I see him there occasionally. He seems to have expanded
Chicago Settlement’s finances greatly, bringing in important corporate
donors—I’ve been a little jealous of his fund-raising prowess, to tell you the
truth.”

“Have
you ever thought he might have done something, well, unethical, to raise
money?” I rubbed my toes again as I spoke, as if to squeeze the answer I wanted
from them.

“Do
you have some evidence he’s done so?” Max’s voice was suddenly sharp.

“No.
I told you I’m just pawing the earth. His name is the only unusual thing I’ve
turned up.” Besides the spools of copper from Paragon Steel, but how could
those be connected to the head of a big charity? Maybe that was how he got big
companies to contribute? Sell each other goods they didn’t need, then load them
on trucks in the middle of the night and sell them on the sly and collect the
proceeds? Too farfetched.

“Could
a not-for-profit collect money illegally?” I asked.

“Anyone
running an institution as strapped for cash as mine has fantasies,” Max said.
“But whether you could really execute them without the IRS catching on? I
suppose you could do something with stock—get it donated at a high price so
your donor could claim it on his income tax, then sell it at a low price so you
could claim a loss, but still collect the income. But wouldn’t the IRS find
that out?”

I
felt a little catch of excitement in my diaphragm, the lurch that a hot idea can
give. “Can you find out something for me? Who’s on Chicago Settlement’s board?”

“Not
if it means one of them is going to get beaten up for being involved in your
shenanigans, Victoria.” Max’s voice wasn’t altogether jocular.

“I
don’t think even you will be beaten up. And I hope I won’t either. I want to
know if—let’s see—Richard Yar-borough, Jason or Peter Felitti, or Ben Loring
sit on their board.”

Max
repeated the names to me, getting the spelling right. I realized I didn’t have
the CEO of Paragon Steel— he would be more likely than his controller to sit on
an important board. My Who’s Who in Chicago Commerce and Industry was down in
my office, but my old Wall Street Journals were in front of me on the coffee
table. While Max made impatient noises about needing to get to his next meeting
I thumbed through the back issues until I found the story on Paragon Steel.

“Theodore
Bancroft. Any of those five. Can I call you at home tonight?”

“You’re
ready to jump into action, so everyone else has to too?” Max grumbled. “I’m on
my way to another meeting and when I get out of that I’m going home to unwind.
I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

When
Max hung up I continued rubbing my toes absent-mindedly. Stock parking. Why not
bond parking? What if Diamond Head was getting Chicago Settlement to take its
junk at face value, then letting them sell it—at a steep loss, but still,
they’d have money they didn’t have before?

It
was a nice, neat idea. But how had Mitch Kruger stumbled onto it? It was way
too sophisticated for him. But maybe not for Eddie Mohr, the old president of
the local. Time to go see him and ask.

I sat
up and pulled my socks back on, thin pink anklets with roses up the side,
pretty to look at but not providing much padding for the feet. I slipped my loafers
on and went to my bedroom to collect the Smith & Wesson. Going down the
hall, I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My silk shirt looked as
though I’d slept in it. I pulled it off and sponged myself under the bathroom
tap.

I
hadn’t done any laundry for two weeks. It was hard to find a clean shirt that
looked respectable enough to go interrogating in. I finally had to pull a
dressy black top from a dry-cleaning bag. I could only hope the shoulder
holster wouldn’t tear into the delicate fabric—I wasn’t going out of the neighborhood
without my gun. A black houndstooth jacket sort of made the top into an outfit,
and sort of covered the gun. It was cut a little snugly for total concealment.

Mr.
Contreras had been so subdued behind his door that I phoned downstairs before
leaving to make sure he was really there. He answered on the sixth ring,
sounding Hke a man on his way to face a firing squad, but determined to
accompany me. When I got downstairs he spent several minutes fondling Peppy and
her nurslings, as if this were their last good-bye.

“I’ve
got to get going,” I said gently. “You really don’t have to come.”

“No,
no. I said I would and I will.” He finally tore himself from the dogs and
followed me into the hall. “You don’t mind my saying so, doll, it’s kind of
obvious that you’re carrying a gun. I hope you’re not planning on shooting
Eddie.”

“Only
if he shoots at me first.” I unlocked the Impala and held the passenger door
for him.

“If
he sees you’re carrying a gun, and only an idiot could ignore it, he ain’t
going to feel too much like talking. Not that he’s likely to say much, anyway.”

“Oh?”
I steered the Impala onto Belmont, toward the Kennedy. “What makes you think
that?”

He
didn’t say anything. When I glanced at him he turned a dull red under his
leathery tan and turned to look out the passenger window.

“Why
does it bother you so much, my going to see him?”

He
didn’t answer, just continued staring out the window. We’d been on the Kennedy
for twenty minutes, inching our way past the Loop exits, when he suddenly burst
out, “It just doesn’t seem right. First Mitch goes and gets himself killed, and
now you want to pin it on the president of my local. I feel like I’m betraying
the local, and that’s a fact.”

“I
see.” I let a semi move in front of me before starting my crawl across lanes to
the Stevenson exit. “I don’t want to pin anything on Eddie Mohr. But I can’t
get your old management to talk to me. If I don’t speak to somebody connected
with Diamond Head pretty soon, I’m going to have to stop my investigation. I
just can’t get a lever anywhere.”

“I
know, doll, I know,” he muttered miserably. “I understand all that. I still
don’t like it.”

Neither
of us spoke again until we left the Stevenson at Kedzie. We were in an area
where warehouses and factories jostled residential streets. Kedzie was badly
pitted here from the semis that roared along it. We bounced south between two
fast-moving sixty-tonners. I kept the Impala close to fifty, gritting my teeth
against the jolts and hoping no one had to stop fast.

Mr.
Contreras roused himself from his worries to direct me to Eddie Mohr’s house on
Albany near Fortieth Street. I managed to exit without being run over. We
suddenly found ourselves in an oasis of bungalows with well-tended yards, one
of those pockets of tidiness that make the city look like a small, friendly
town.

In
neighborhoods like these the garages are approached from the alleys that run
behind the houses. I pulled up in front, wondering if the Oldsmobile that had
been used in the attack on Lotty was out back. I’d like to sneak a look at it
before we left. A spotless Riviera sat in front of the house—presumably that
was Mrs. Mohr’s car. I moved the Impala up behind it.

Mr.
Contreras took his time getting out of the car. I watched his unhappy
maneuvering for a minute, then turned and marched briskly up the walk to the
front door. I rang the doorbell without waiting for him to catch up with me—I
didn’t want to turn this into an all-night vigil while he decided whether or
not he was scabbing by bringing me down to meet the guy.

The
house itself was blanketed with thick curtains. It felt like a place empty of
inhabitants. After a long few minutes, in which I debated going around to the
back or just sitting in the Impala until someone showed up, I caught a movement
in the thick shroud next to the door. Someone was inspecting me. I tried to
look earnest and sincere and hoped that Mr. Contreras, now standing behind me,
didn’t look too woebegone for conversation.

A
woman of about fifty opened the door. Her faded blond hair was matted in uneven
clumps, as though glued to her head by an inexpert wigmaker. She stared at us
through protuberant, lackluster eyes.

“We’ve
come to see Eddie Mohr,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Mohr?”

“I’m
his daughter, Mrs. Johnson. He won’t be ready for viewing until next week, but
you can talk to Mother if you’re old friends of his.”