Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (21 page)

Crawford,
Mead was renting four floors of the building. I came at one point to a private
stairwell connecting the floors on the inside. Like the rest of the place it
was heavily coated in wood and plush. It seemed weird to me—you buy space in
the most modern of glass towers, and then cover it with wood and velvet to make
it seem like an ancient courthouse.

When
I got to the second floor I finally found an assistant somebody who could
direct me to Freeman’s office. The general interdict on giving information to
clients apparently had only been issued to the frontline troops. Freeman
was—had been—at the far end of the floor we were on. I followed the woman’s
directions with only a few missteps and finally found Catherine Gentry stuffing
files into packing boxes.

“Vic!”
She dropped what she was holding and wiped her hands on her jeans. I’d never
seen her out of the severely tailored clothes she thought necessary for her
job, or with her hair falling in wisps around her face. I wouldn’t have
recognized her on the street.

“Catherine!
What’s going on here? They act like Freeman ran off with the company pension
fund.”

“They’re
acting like the scumbags I always knew they were. I can’t tell you how happy I
am that we’re out of this cockroach pit. I don’t even mind having to do all
this packing on my own. Well, hardly mind, anyway. Were you on Freeman’s
calendar? I thought I caught everyone.” Catherine had grown up in Jackson,
Mississippi, and she’d never made any effort to accommodate her accent to the
Yankees around her.

“No.
I was trying to call this morning and couldn’t get through, so I came down in
person. You need some help?”

She
grinned. “I need it, honey, but these are all confidential files. I’ve got to
look after them myself. What can we do for you? Freeman’s spending the day at
home, but if you’ve been arrested or something he’ll be glad to leap into
action.”

“Nothing
that interesting. I just wanted to look something up on Lexus; it can wait
until you’re in your new quarters.” Or I could drive to Springfield and look up
the records manually. Not my favorite activity, but maybe better than sitting
on the problem another few weeks.

Catherine
grunted. “Why don’t you write down what you need for me? I’ve still got a
couple of friends in this rathole. If they’re not too jealous of me getting to
jump ship, one of ‘em might do the work for me.”

I
wrote down Diamond Head’s address and line of business. “I just want the owners
and the board of directors. I don’t need any financial reports, at least not
right now. Where will you be setting up shop?”

“Oh,
Freeman found us a sweet little place down on South Clark. Nine hundred square
feet. All we have to do is move in the desks and plug in the machines—not like
here, where they were painting and papering and God knows what under our feet
the first six months we were here. We’re taking a week off first, and I can’t
wait.”

“What’s
Leah Caudwell doing now?” I asked, handing her the piece of paper.

She
made an unhappy face. “About eighteen months, two years ago, we just started
handling so much business— I won’t say she couldn’t stay on top of it—but it wasn’t
like the old days, where she knew all the clients personally and they
remembered her at Christmas and stuff. Some of the new people coming through
here were just purely rude and she didn’t like the atmosphere. So when we
moved, they suggested that she not come along. I felt real sorry for her, but
what could I do?… You gotta excuse me, Vic— I’ve got movers coming in three
hours and I need to get all this stuff boxed up. Here’s our new address—you be
sure ‘n’ come see us.”

She
handed me a business card with Freeman’s name neatly embossed on it. He’d
waited to leave until his new quarters were ready—the card listed both a phone
and a fax. I was going to have to break down and get a fax myself—it was too
hard to do business, at least my kind of business, without one. Even my
favorite Loop deli wouldn’t accept phone orders for lunch anymore—you had to
fax ahead during the noon rush.

I was
so deep in contemplation of the gap between me and modern technology that I
didn’t notice the people around me until someone grabbed my arm.

“That’s
her!” a voice shrieked.

It
was the young receptionist. The person holding my arm was a member of the
building’s security force. When I tried to twist free his hold tightened.

“Sorry,
ma’am. They tell me you went busting into their offices without permission, and
they’ve asked me to see you off the premises.”

“I’m
a client,” I protested. “At least, I was until you grabbed my arm.”

We
were blocking the stairs. A crowd was gathering below us when a man behind me
demanded to know what the trouble was. I turned and smiled thankfully: it was
Leigh Wilton, one of the senior partners. While we’d never been friends, he
didn’t share the active disdain toward me of many of his peers.

“Leigh—it’s
me—Vic Warshawski. I went back to try to talk to Freeman—didn’t know you and he
had parted company—and your receptionist here thought I was a mugger.”

“Vic!
How are you? Looking great.” He patted the guard’s shoulder. “You can let her
go. And Cindy, check with me before you turn the dogs loose on our clients,
okay?”

The
receptionist flushed. “Mr. Pichea came through. When I explained it to him, he
called the guard. I just came along to identify her. I didn’t meanJ—”

“I
know you didn’t, honey. But Mr. Pichea doesn’t make the decisions around here.
So why don’t you go back to your desk. And you”—to the guard—“do you need me to
clear anything up with your superiors?”

The
guard shook his head and followed Cindy on a fast track to the door. Leigh
thought it was such a good joke, my almost being arrested, that he insisted I
come to his office for a cup of coffee. He called Pichea and made him join us.
My neighbor’s chagrin made up for a little of the humiliation I’d experienced
the last few days.

“I’m
going to have to put together a photo album of our clients so you young eager
beavers don’t send them all to jail,” Leigh added.

“Todd
and I know each other,” I said. “We met over dogs. Fact is, he’s got such an
active social conscience, he’s just about looking after our whole block right
now.”

Todd
flushed a dull mahogany. “Mr. Yarborough knows about it, sir. He can explain it
to you. If you’ll excuse me, I was with a client when you called.”

“Ah,
these young guys, just can’t take a joke. What’s this about dogs, Vic?”

I
gave him a short summary, in between a series of phone calls. His attention was
wandering long before I finished. “I’ll look into it for you, Vic, let you know
if I learn anything. Good to see you. Just give me advance notice the next time
you come, so I can have the cops ready.”

I
forced a smile and left for my own office. I spent the afternoon on odd
jobs—typing invoices, preparing a presentation for the Schaumburg company I’d
seen on Monday, catching up on correspondence.

By
the end of the day no word had come from Catherine on my Lexus search. I didn’t
have any way to get back in touch with her until she and Freeman started work
next week. I left a message on their new office’s answering machine just in
case, but it looked as though I would have to drive to Springfield tomorrow.

At
six I called Lotty to see if we could swap cars back tonight; with the Trans Am
I could probably make the round trip in under five hours. She agreed, but
without enthusiasm.

“What’s
wrong? You busy?”

She
laughed self-consciously. “No. Just feeling sorry for myself. Today was Carol’s
last day. I feel—personally bereft. And Max keeps trying to make me be
reasonable, which only makes me want to be as unreasonable as I possibly can.”

“Well,
I still love you, Lotty. Want me to take you out for dinner? You can scream and
shout to your heart’s content.”

At
that she gave a more natural laugh. “That’s what the doctor ordered. Yes. Great
idea. I’m running behind here. How about seven-thirty at I Popoli?”

I
agreed readily and started going through the motions of tidying my office for
the night. I was just heading out the door when the phone rang again. Thinking
it might be Freeman, I went back to my desk. A smooth-voiced woman asked if I
was indeed Ms. Warshawski, then commanded me to hold for Mr. Yarborough.

“Vic,
what in hell were you doing poking through our offices this morning?” he
demanded without preamble.

“Dick,
that question is just loaded with negative pregnants. How on earth do you
handle the affairs of your impressive clients when you express yourself so
loosely?” I picked up a pen and sketched a row of jagged teeth on an envelope
in front of me. Then I added a ball of fire erupting from them.

“You
can’t deny you were there. I heard about it from two people.”

“You
boys ever do any work in between bouts of gossip? I would like to remind you
that my lawyer was a member of your firm until Friday. And if, not knowing
either of his resignation or his dramatic expulsion from Paradise, one of his
clients happened onto the premises, a judge would probably consider that an
honest mistake. Especially since Leigh Wilton thought it was such a big joke.”

“But
if that judge learned you’d been told about it and then gone snooping through
our private premises against our express orders he might think it was something
else, even with Leigh on the stand for you.”

Dick’s
voice had tightened to a hiss. I added a snake to the other side of my sketch
and drew a couple of arms ending in boxing mitts. “What kind of creepy stuff
are you doing that you’re scared I’ll come across?”

“We
don’t have anything to hide.” Dick recovered his voice and reverted to
petulance. “But knowing that you’ve got a vendetta against one of our
associates, I would just as soon you didn’t have a chance to damage any of his
files.”

“I
know the boy’s scared I’ll break his kneecap, but his wife looks pretty fit and
she’s ten years younger than me— tell him I’d be afraid of the revenge she’d
take.”

“Vic,
I know you like to turn everything I say into a joke just to make me mad. And
it works. Every time, or damned near. But I’m calling to warn you to mind your
own business. Regard it as a favor, okay?”

I
stared at the phone in amazement. “Dick, what on earth are you talking about? I
wanted some help from Freeman. I’m entitled to get it without your permission.”

“Not
when he’s no longer a member of the firm, you’re not. We tracked you down,
unfortunately after you’d gone. Catherine Gentry was keeping her lip buttoned—I
won’t miss her smart mouth one minute—but the girl she gave your search request
to wasn’t afraid to do her duty.”

“Meaning
she was afraid of being fired. And unless you’re breaking the child labor laws
I expect it was a woman, not a girl.”

Dick
laughed tolerantly. “Woman, if it’ll make you feel better. Be that as it may,
you may not use Crawford, Mead’s resources. Period.”

“Aye,
aye, captain. Just out of curiosity, why did Freeman have to leave so
suddenly?”

“An
internal matter of the firm, Vic. None of your damned business. Just keep to
the affairs that are your concern. You do a good job with them. Why do you have
to mess with mine?”

“Oh,
you know those vows we swore—till death parted us—those old feelings die hard.”

“If
you’d cared about my affairs fourteen years ago, we’d still be married. Keep
that in mind while you’re scrambling for your rent.”

He
hung up without giving me a chance at the last word. So it still rankled, my
lack of doelike devotion. Old feelings do indeed die hard.

I got
to the restaurant ahead of Lotty. A light, bright seafood place on Lincoln, I
Popoli has a small garden where I like to sit in summer. During the afternoon,
though, heavy storm clouds had moved into the city. It looked as though the
unnaturally hot weather might be going to break. I took a table inside.

When
I’d waited half an hour I figured Lotty’d been held up by a late-breaking
emergency. I ordered a rum-and-tonic to tide me over and settled at the end of
the bar, next to the window, where I could watch the street. Rain had started
to fall, fat heavy drops that spattered on the pavement like broken eggs. By
the time I finished my rum, the drops had built to a heavy curtain of water.

I
started wondering if Lotty had crashed the Trans Am and was too chicken to tell
me about it. Of course, that wasn’t in Lotty’s character: she had‘ no fear of confrontation.
Besides, she saw herself as a constant victim of other reckless maniacs. When I
tried to ask her why my cars never suffered the damage hers did, she would
pierce me with a stare and change the subject.

I
went to the phone in the back of the restaurant to try calling her. I didn’t
get an answer, either at the clinic or her apartment, but when I left the booth
she was standing in the middle of the room, water dripping around her, looking
for me. It was only when I came up to her that I