Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (23 page)

“Anyone
can report their car stolen,” I said.

Before
Rawlings could answer, Max asked how.

I
shrugged. “You just call up and say it was stolen. It could be anywhere—at the
bottom of a gravel pit where you pushed it, or being used by your pals—even by
yourself—to attack people.”

Max
smiled sadly, depressed by this view of human nature, and slipped away to take
a look at Lotty.

“Give
me a break, Ms. W.,” Rawlings protested. “First thought on my mind. But the guy
is seventy-two, retired, looking after his begonias or whatever they do down
there, and the car had definitely been hot-wired. No, they must have realized
you were wise to the tail. They wanted a car you couldn’t ID when they managed
to pick you up again. But they didn’t know you personally. So that lets out
this Bruno you talked about.”

I
hunched a shoulder impatiently. “He doesn’t know me—I was just another dumb
broad to him. And it’s true I’m eight inches taller than Lotty, but compared to
him we both look like shrimp. I wouldn’t discount him.”

Audrey
gave a sharp nod of agreement; Officer Galway, who’d been mute through the
interchange, suppressed a smile and made a note. All women have known guys who
treat us like so many interchangeable parts.

“Anyone
else on your case these days?” Rawlings asked.

I
gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, my ex. He’s peeved at me, but then that’s a
chronic state with him.”

After
all, Dick had been laying down the law with an iron fist this afternoon. He’d
even told me to mind my own business, the same words the thugs used to Lotty.
For an evil minute I was tempted to present a damning case against him to
Rawlings, just for the inconvenience of having the cops rooting around his life
for a few days. But really, I didn’t hate him—it wasn’t worth the energy to be
so spiteful.

“You
know what they teach us at the academy, Ms. W—stay out of domestic quarrels
unless you absolutely can’t avoid ‘em. You never told me what you were doing to
get this Chamfers so agitated.”

“Oh—that
was Mr. Contreras.” I explained about him and Mitch. “Terry Finchley’s handling
the case for Area One. I haven’t talked to him for a few days. Maybe he’s found
someone who saw Mitch go into the canal.”

“If
the Finch is on it, don’t you think you could leave it in his hands?” Rawlings
asked dryly. “He’s quite capable, you know.”

Finchley
and Rawlings were active together in an African-American police fraternity.
Each took a D’Artagnan-Athos view of slights toward the other.

“Your
turn to give me a break, Sergeant. I know Finchley’s a good detective, but I do
wonder how much time he has to investigate a drunk rolling. And that seems to
be how the department has tabbed it.”

“And
you don’t?” Rawlings asked sharply.

“I
don’t have any evidence, Sergeant, of any kind, about anything.”

But I
had a lot of nagging questions, with the attack on Lotty heading the list. I
was desperate to find some lever for prying Chamfers’s mouth open. Someone down
there had seen Mitch, someone knew what he was mumbling on about. Something
they didn’t want me to find out bad enough that they’d hire thugs to beat me
up? Something so potent they knocked Mitch on the head and rolled him into the
canal?

I
looked up to see Rawlings staring at me narrowly. “You’d better not be
concealing something I want to know.”

“I
know you well enough to like you, Sergeant, but not nearly well enough to
figure out what kinds of things you want to know.”

“Yeah,
bat your baby blues at me. I think I’ll just check in with the Finch, see what
he’s dug up on Kruger.”

He
busied himself with his lapel mike; a couple of minutes later Lotty’s phone
rang. Max, on his way back from the bedroom, reached to answer it. His face
registered annoyance when Rawlings snatched the receiver from him, but he moved
over to Audrey without saying anything.

Max
and Audrey kept up a low-pitched conversation while Rawlings told Finchley
about the attack on Lotty. Officer Galway got up to look at Lotty’s books. With
Rawlings’s attention on his phone conversation much of her stiffness left her;
she seemed young and rather frail for the weight of her equipment belt.

I
moved restlessly to the bedroom to look at Lotty myself. She was breathing
evenly, if deeply; her skin felt a little hot to my touch. When I came back to
the living room Rawlings was still on the phone.

“So
you want to check on this guy, this Simon, whose last name Warshawski doesn’t
know? What’ve you dug up down there?”

The
next few minutes were a series of grunts. Before he hung up I tapped him on the
arm.

“Mind
if I ask a question, Rawlings?”

He
covered the receiver with one large palm. “I’ll be glad to pass it along, Ms.
W.”

Even
good cops like to play power games. I curled my nose and turned away. “It’ll
keep until morning. Tell him I said hi.”

Rawlings
tapped my arm. “Don’t get on your high horse, Ms. W. Enough bad will around
here tonight already… Terry? Vic Warshawski wants a word with you.”

“Hi,
Terry. How’s it going? Did you locate Mitch Kruger’s son?”

“You
feeling good tonight, Vic? I did ask—beg—you to leave the investigation to me.
Now that Dr. Herschel’s been hurt, can’t you understand why?”

I
stiffened, but kept the anger out of my voice. “I didn’t authorize the attack
on her, Terry. You change your mind about Mitch? He didn’t fall drunk into the canal
after all?”

“I
told Rawlings what progress we’d made on our investigation. If he wants to pass
it along to you that’s his decision.”

“A
citizen gets attacked and you guys turn ugly on me. I guess there’s a
connection, but it’s not especially attractive. Before you hang up all hot and
bothered, did you ever locate Kruger’s son?”

Finchley
breathed heavily. “He’s been gone thiry-five years. I didn’t think we needed to
invest resources into tracking him down. Are you working on a theory that he
came back to Chicago and killed his old man in a fit of rage over some hurt
that happened all those years ago?”

I
couldn’t help laughing a little at the idea. “Gosh, I don’t know. It’s neat—I
like it. If it was Ross Macdonald I’d even believe it. Just wondering. You want
to talk to your buddy again before I hang up?”

Rawlings
snatched the phone back from me. After a few more grunts he finished with,
“You’re the boss, Finch,” and hung up.

“So
what have the police found out about Mitch Kruger?” I asked.

“They’re
following some leads, Ms. W. Give them time.”

“Oh,
for God’s sake, Rawlings. I’m not the local news. They haven’t done anything,
for the simple reason that his death doesn’t seem important. Why can’t you spit
it out for a change? Have they even canvassed the neighborhood?”

His
brown eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

I
smiled. “A week of my pay against a week of yours that they haven’t talked to
the neighbors.”

His
face loosened into a reluctant smile. “Don’t tempt me. Terry talked to your boy
Chamfers. Chamfers acknowledges that Mitch had been around trying to cadge some
odd jobs, but said he’d never seen him himself—just heard from the foreman.
Even if they were hiring, he says he wouldn’t take on a guy as old as Kruger
and a drunk in the bargain. The Finch is going to follow up on this dockhand
who got so pissed at you, but he doesn’t see a tie-in between the attack on the
doc here and the plant.”

“So
why did he chew me out over it?” I demanded.

“Maybe
he doesn’t like you riding his tail. None of us enjoys it too much.”

“Well,
there’s just one of me and ten thousand of you, so I think you guys can hold
your own.”

A
quiet snort behind us from Officer Galway made Rawlings turn around. “You want
something, Officer?”

She
shook her head, her small oval face so devoid of expression that I thought I’d
imagined the snicker.

Audrey
patted Max’s hand and came over to me. “And I think all of you can look after
yourselves too. Vic, will you bring Lotty over to Beth Israel in the morning
for X rays and stuff?”

“She
okay? She felt feverish to me.”

“She
probably is a little. If she seems to get really hot or terribly restless in
the night, give me a call. Otherwise I’ll see you in the morning. Say around
ten?”

I
agreed and saw her to the door. Max decided to escort her to her car—Lotty’s
street isn’t the most savory place to be alone in the dark.

I
watched from the window with unseeing eyes, wondering who had gone to Mrs.
Poker’s posing as Mitch Kruger’s son. Even if Finchley hadn’t tried locating
him the son might still have heard about Mitch’s death some other way. Maybe
through Jake Sokolowski. Since Jake and Mitch had lived together recently, Jake
might have known how to get in touch with Mitch’s old family. Even so, the son
would have had to work some travel miracles to get to Mrs. Polter’s so fast.

“What’s
on your mind, Ms. W.?” Rawlings said sharply.

I
shook my head. “Not much. I’d like to get some sleep tell you the truth.”

He
snorted. “Tell it for a change. I’ve been around you long enough to tell when
you’ve suddenly felt a rabbit wriggling around in your hat. You can’t wait to
be by yourself so’s you can pull it out and take a look at it. If you decide to
share your little magic trick, call me in the morning. Galway—let’s pack it
in.”

After
he and the officer left I felt suddenly exhausted. Max helped me drag the
mattress from the daybed into Lotty’s room.

“You’ll
wake me if something goes wrong?” he demanded.

“Of
course, Max,” I said gently. It was only worry driving him, after all.

He
smoothed her forehead with one square hand and went to the spare room.

Lotty
made it safely through the night. She woke up around eight in a lot of pain,
prepared to be grumpy. I moved the mattress back to the living room and helped
her get dressed. Max brought her coffee and toast. She rejected the first for
being too weak and the latter as too black.

Max
kissed her on the side of the neck. “I didn’t sleep last night, Lottchen, too
worried about you. But if you’re this rude I know you must be all right.”

She
gave a twisted smile and put out a hand. I didn’t think I was necessary, either
for the rest of that scene or for transporting Lotty to the hospital—that was
clearly a duty Max was longing to take over. Telling Lotty I’d check in with
her later I retrieved my car keys from her handbag and left.

I
didn’t have the patience today to save money by riding the CTA—I flagged a cab
on Irving Park and headed for home. I hadn’t had much sleep—every hour or two
I’d imagine that Lotty had cried out and would sit up on my mattress, wide
awake. After brushing my teeth and showering I was tempted to climb into my own
bed for a real nap, but there was just too much to do.

I
called Luke Edwards, who looks after my car for me. He’s a terrific mechanic
who has the outlook of a mortician. I cut off his gloomy prognostication on my
Trans Am before he could turn it into a funeral oration and told him I’d have
the car over in an hour. “I’ll need a loaner. Can you give me one?”

“I
don’t know. Not if you drove the Trans Am into a tree, I can’t.”

“Yeah,
well, someone else was driving and the person who smashed into it did it on
purpose. Do you have something I can borrow?”

“I
suppose. Got an old Impala. It’ll seem like a boat to you after driving that
little Pontiac, but I’ll bet you anything the engine runs better.”

“I’m
sure it will,” I agreed hastily. “See you in an hour.”

Next
I explained my tale of woe to my insurance agent. She told me that before they
could authorize any repairs their own inspector would have to look at the car.
Not wanting to waste time arguing the point I gave her Luke’s address and hung
up.

Lack
of sleep and the number of things I needed to do were making me frenzied. I
kept buzzing from task to task, starting things that I couldn’t finish. I
looked up Eddie Mohr, the guy whose stolen car had rammed the Trans Am. Before
calling him I remembered I wanted to get in touch with Freeman, and dropped the
city directory to hunt for my address book. In the midst of my search I
wondered if I should go see Mr. Contreras, get him to check on whether Jake
Sokolowski had rousted out Mitch Kruger’s son in Arizona.

And
what about my gun? If someone was peeved enough with me to go ramming my car
and assaulting the driver, I ought not go out unarmed. I went to the safe I’d
built into my bedroom closet and took out the Smith & Wesson. It’s the one
thing in the house I always keep clean: an automatic that jams causes a lot
more grief to the shooter than the shootee. Just to be sure I took it apart and
started working a rag through the barrel. The methodical work helped steady my
frenzied brain.