Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (11 page)

“Huh,
doll? Oh, you’re thinking about when we was kids. No, no. My folks lived on
Twenty-fourth, off Oakley. Part of Little Tuscany. Mitch lived closer to
California. We was always on his case about how he was gonna end up at the
county jail. It’s right there, you know.”

“I
know.” A lot of my life had been spent at Twenty-sixth and California in my days
with the homicide task force.

“You
gonna go down to his old place tomorrow?” Mr. Contreras asked as I headed up
the stairs.

I
turned to look at him and bit off a variety of short answers; the concern in
his soft brown eyes was too immediate. “Probably. Anyway, I’ll do my best.”

In my
own place I resisted the longing for a bath and a double whisky. I stayed just
long enough to dump my handbag and check my messages. Daraugh Graham wanted my
report. Lotty hadn’t tried to call—maybe we were still pissed off with each
other. I didn’t have the energy to sort that out tonight.

When
I got to Mrs. Frizell’s, the house was quiet. The dogs weren’t there. I stood
in the hallway, foolishly calling to them even though I could tell the house
was empty, then made an even more foolish search of the premises. Someone had
been through the place, cleaning it—all the bedding was washed and neatly
stacked on a freshly polished bureau in the bedroom; the stairs and floors had
been vacuumed and the bathroom scrubbed down. Only the living room was still a
wreck, with papers strewn all over it. Presumably Mrs. Hellstrom had been
continuing her job of good neighbor. She probably had the dogs too.

Relieved,
I headed back to my own home. Now I could take a bath and watch the Cubs-Astros
game in peace. I was at my front stoop when Mrs. Hellstrom caught up with me.
Her round, fair face was flushed and she was out of breath from chasing me down
the street.

“Oh,
young lady! I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name, but I was watching for you—only,
the phone rang, so I missed you coming up the block. I’m glad I saw you
leaving.”

I
mustered an interested expression.

“It’s
the dogs, Hattie Frizell’s dogs. They’ve disappeared.”

“Into
thin air?”

She
spread helpless hands. “I’m sure I locked them in the house this morning. I
mean, I can’t leave them in the yard—that big black dog is always all over the
neighborhood, and I don’t like it myself. She can’t admit they ever do anything
wrong, but he dug up all my irises last fall and ate the bulbs. Then when I
went to talk to her about it… well, anyway, I just meant I locked them in the
house even if it does seem a little cruel. And I’m sure I did. I don’t think I
would have been careless and left the door open. But when I came back from the
store and went over to let them out they were gone.”

I
rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Was the door open when you went
over?”

“It
was shut but it wasn’t locked, that’s what worries me. What do you think could
have happened to them?”

“I
don’t think even Bruce could open the door with his jaws. Have you talked to
anyone else on the street? Maybe someone broke in and let the dogs out.”

Burglars,
like Santa Claus, know when we’ve been sleeping, or away from our houses. And
the living room did look as though someone might have ransacked it. On the
surface Mrs. Frizell seemed an unlikely candidate for valuables, but she
wouldn’t be the first person to live in squalor while sitting on a stack of
bearer bonds.

“Burglars?”
Mrs. Hellstrom’s pale-blue eyes widened in fear. “Oh, dear, I hope not. This
block has always been such a nice place to live, even if we’re not as fancy as
that young lawyer across the street or some of the other new people who’ve
moved in. I did ask Maud Rezzori—she lives on the other side, you know—but she
was out at the same time I was. I’m going to have to go tell Mr. Hell-strom.
He’s been annoyed with me, taking on those dogs, but if we have burglars…”

She
sounded like a housewife distressed over a plague of mice. Despite my fatigue I
couldn’t help laughing.

“It’s
not funny, young lady. I mean, it may seem like a joke to you, but you live on
the third floor, and it isn’t—”

“I
don’t think burglars are a joke,” I cut her off hastily. “But we need to find
out if other neighbors saw someone going into Mrs. Frizell’s, place before we
get too hot about it. It’s possible you forgot to lock the door and the meter
reader came around. It could be anything. You’ve lived here a long time—you can
probably give me the names of the people on the block.”

All I
wanted was a bath and a drink and a Cubs victory, not a night of interrogation.
Why do you do this to yourself? a voice in my head demanded while Mrs.
Hell-strom detailed the Tertzes‘, the Olsens’, and the Singers’ biographies. I
certainly couldn’t blame Carol for staying home to look after Cousin Guillermo
if I was going to spend my life on the dogs of a disagreeable old woman who
didn’t have the faintest tie to me.

“Okay.
I’ll scout around and let you know if anyone can tell me anything.”

I
walked back up the street with her. Mrs. Hellstrom continued to be worried
about burglars, and what her daughters would say, and what Mr. Hellstrom
thought, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

I
tried the Olsens first since they lived directly behind Mrs. Frizell and might
have noticed someone going in her back door. Unfortunately they’d been watching
TV in their living room in the morning. I could see the disappointment in their
faces—they’d missed a ringside seat on a real drama, maybe burglars going after
a neighbor they didn’t much care for—but they couldn’t tell me anything.

I
went to the Tertzes next. Their frame house on the east side of Racine, facing
Mrs. Frizell, was sandwiched between the Picheas and another rehab job. The
carefully painted scrollwork on either side made the Tertz house look a trifle
shabby, but the lawn was carefully tended, with a few early roses in bud.

Mrs.
Tertz must have been about seventy. We carried on the conversation in a shout
through her locked front door until she was satisfied that I didn’t have
assault on my mind. “Oh, yes, I’ve seen you on the street. You have that big
red dog, don’t you? I just never saw you close up before, so I didn’t recognize
your face. You’ve been helping Marjorie look after Harriet Frizell’s dogs for
her, haven’t you?”

I
hadn’t heard Mrs. Hellstrom’s first name before. I boiled her ten-minute dither
down to a few sentences. “So I wondered if you saw anyone go into the house
while she was away.”

“Yes,
yes, I did, but they weren’t burglars. What does Marjorie take me for, that I’d
let someone break in, even on Hattie Frizell, without calling the police? No,
no, they were with the county—I saw it on the side of their van— Cook County
Animal Control. I was sure Marjorie knew all about it. They came around eleven
o’clock, and that girl next door”—she jerked her head in the direction of the
Picheas—“Chrissie,. her name is, Chrissie Pichea, was there to let them in.”

“Chrissie
Pichea?” I echoed stupidly.

“Why,
yes. She often comes around to visit.” Mrs. Tertz smiled a little. “I think
she’s doing good works for the elderly. But I don’t resent it—it’s kindly
meant, even if my husband and I are perfectly able to manage our own affairs.
It gets him angry, you see, the idea that just because the clock’s ticked a
little longer for us we’ve suddenly become incompetent in some people’s eyes.
So I usually don’t let him know if she’s stopped by. But I knew she wouldn’t
have gone into Hattie’s without the intention to help, so I just went back to
my own work.”

I
stared at her unseeingly, barely listening to her -monologue. Chrissie Pichea
let in the animal control unit? How had she gotten keys? That question was
immaterial at this point. She and Todd had simply outflanked me. They’d somehow
made sure I was away, then gotten the county to come for Mrs. Frizell’s dogs.

I
left Mrs. Tertz in mid-sentence and tramped down some zinnias as I sprinted
across the Picheas’ yard. My finger shook as I stabbed their polished brass
doorbell. Todd Pichea came to the door.

“Oh,
it’s you.” The trace of a smirk flickered across his mouth, but he looked a
little uneasy, his fists tightly bunched inside his linen slacks.

“Yes,
it’s me. Nine hours too late, but on the trail nonetheless. How did you and
your wife get a key to Mrs.

Frizell’s
front door? And who gave you the right to send the county to pick up her dogs?“

“What
business is it of yours?”

“You
made it my business when you came to my building the other night. How did you
get her key?”

“The
same way you did: I helped myself to one lying in the living room. And I have a
lot more right to what goes on in that house than you do. A lot more right.” He
swayed forward on the balls of his feet, trying to look intimidating.

I
moved forward, not back, and planted my nose about an inch from his. “You’ve
got no rights to anything, Pichea. I’m going to call the county and then I’m
going to call the cops. You may be a lawyer, but they’ll still be glad to
arrest you on a B&E.”

The
smirk became pronounced. “You do that, Warshaw-ski. Go home and do it, or
better still, come in here. I’d love to see you with egg all over that
self-righteous face of yours. I want to be in the front row watching you when
the cops show up.”

Chrissie
came up behind him, skin-tight jeans showing off her trim thighs. “What is it,
Todd? Oh, that busybody up the street. Did you tell her we got appointed
guardians?”

“Guardians.?”
My voice rose half an octave. “Who was deranged enough to appoint you Mrs.
Frizell’s guardian?”

“I
called the son Tuesday morning. He was glad to turn his mother over to a
competent lawyer. She isn’t capable of handling her own affairs, and we—”

“There’s
nothing wrong with her mind. Just because she chooses to live in a different
world than Yuppieville—”

He
cut me off in turn. “The court doesn’t agree. We had an emergency hearing
yesterday. And the city emergency services people agreed that those dogs
constituted a menace to Mrs. Frizell’s health. If she’s ever able to live at
home again.”

The
impulse to smash in his face was so strong that I just pulled my fist back
before it connected.

“Very
smart, Warshawski. I don’t know who your police contacts are; but I don’t think
they’d get you off an assault charge.” He was a little pale, breathing hard,
but in control.

I
turned without speaking. I felt beaten. I wasn’t going to add to it by spewing
out empty bravado.

“Have
a nice night, Warshawski.” Todd’s mocking voice followed me down the walk.

How
could he have done it? I had only the vaguest idea of how probate court and
guardianship worked in Cook County. All my legal experience had been on the
criminal, not the civil side, although some of my clients had children for whom
we’d had to arrange custody. Could you just go to the probate judge and get
care of someone else? Mrs. Frizell wasn’t deranged or senile, just unpleasant
and reclusive. Or maybe it was her son—in my anger I couldn’t think of his
name—maybe all he had to do was call up someone and turn the rights to his
mother over to them? That just couldn’t be.

My
neck muscles had turned so stiff from rage that when I got to my own front door
I was trembling violently. I poured myself a large whisky and started running a
bath. While Johnnie Walker worked his magic on my tense shoulders I called the
animal control office. The man on the other end was pleasant, even friendly,
but after leaving me on hold for ten minutes he told me apologetically that
Mrs. Frizell’s dogs had already been destroyed.

I
pictured Mrs. Frizell, her wispy gray hair scattered on a hospital pillow,
turning her face to the wall and dying when she learned her beloved dogs were
dead. I could hear that hoarse whisper of “Bruce,” and Mrs. Hellstrom’s promise
that she would look after the dogs. I hadn’t felt this helpless since the day
Tony told me Gabriella was going to die.

The
sound of water splashing on tile brought me back to life with a jolt. The bath
had overflowed while I sat in a stupor. I was tempted to let the water find its
own way out, especially since that would eventually be through Vinnie Buttone’s
ceiling, but I made myself fetch a mop and a bucket and clean it up. The bath
was tepid by then and the hot water tank empty. I gave a howl of frustration
and flung the whisky glass across the room.

“Very
smart, V.I.,” I said aloud as I knelt to pick up the pieces. “You’ve shown you
can destroy yourself if you get angry enough—now figure out what you can do to
Todd Pichea.”

When
I’d finished picking up glass shards and mopping whisky I turned on the light
in the living room and looked Todd Pichea up in the phone book. His home number
wasn’t given, but he did list his office, at an address on North La Salle that
I recognized.

I
hunted around the living room for my private address book, which was usually
interleaved in the papers on the coffee table. In my cleaning frenzy Tuesday
morning I had tidied things so violently that I couldn’t find it. After half an
hour of going through every drawer in the place I discovered the book inside
the piano bench. Really, it was a waste of time to clean.