Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (37 page)

I
chewed on a knuckle. It made as much sense as anything I’d thought of. “The
spools were all labeled ‘Paragon.’ Where would those have come from?”

“Paragon?”
His bushy gray brows shot up. “Paragon used to own Diamond Head. They bought it
just about the time I retired. Then they sold it a year or so ago to some guy.
I remember reading about it in the Sun-Times, but none of it means anything to
me anymore, so I didn’t keep track of the names.”

“Jason
Felitti,” I said mechanically, but my eyes were blazing with rage. They used to
own the damned company, but Ben Loring couldn’t tell me jackshit about
Paragon’s relations with Diamond Head? I pounded the chair arm in fury.

Mr.
Contreras eyed me with concern, so I explained my abortive conversation with
the steel company controller. “Do you know about any scams people at Diamond
Head would’ve taken part in? I’m sure guys talk on the floor— you might have
heard something.”

He
shook his head regretfully. “You know, doll, it’s been a while. And like I
said, Paragon came in when I was on my way out.”

We
both sat quietly for a few minutes. Peppy went back to her puppies. They were
exactly two weeks old now and starting to explore. She had to collect a couple
who’d strayed into the dining room, carrying them back to the nest in her soft,
strong jaws.

“Oh,
doll, I forgot to tell you. I did ask some of the ladies about Chrissie Pichea.
About whether she had a job, you know.”

I
pulled my mind away from Ben Loring’s iniquities and tried to think about Todd
and Chrissie Pichea. “And does she?”

“Not
as far as they knew. But Mrs. Tertz and Mrs. Olsen said she was supernice,
wanting to help them with their investments, so they wondered if she’d done
that kind of work before she got married.”

I
stared up at him. “Really! Help with their investments? I hope none of them
gave in to the impulse.”

He
shrugged. “As to that I couldn’t say. But what I did think was interesting was
who came around with her talking to them. Guess.”

I
shook my head. “From your tone of voice I know it wasn’t her husband, but—not the
first Mr. Warshawski, surely.”

“The
first? Oh, I get you, your ex, you mean. Nope. It was the kid lives across the
hall from me. Vinnie Buttone, who’s always giving you such a hard time.”

I sat
back on my heels. Vinnie the Banker. That’s how I always thought of him. I just
never bothered to wonder which bank. It had to be U.S. Metropolitan Bank and
Trust. I whistled through my teeth. Vinnie was tied to Todd and Chrissie. So
that connected them to the bank.

I’d
have to call to confirm it, of course. But say I was right—U.S. Met was
connected to Diamond Head, owned by Jason Felitti, who also sat on the Met
board. I could feel the two halves of my brain trying to come together, trying
to juggle Chrissie, Vinnie, and Mrs. Frizell with Diamond Head Motors. I couldn’t
do it.

I
pushed myself upright.

“Where’re
you off to, doll? Want to talk to Vinnie? You think maybe he’s a con artist
trying to steal their money?”

I
laughed. Vinnie was such an uptight, tight-assed little goober, it was hard to
see him as a criminal mastermind. Anyway, I wasn’t going to face him until I
had some unassailable facts to dangle in front of him. I was sick of getting
burned from charging in on people without the ammunition to make them talk.

I
explained this to Mr. Contreras. “I’m heading up to O’Hare. I’ve got to get out
of town.”

“Where’re
you going? Back to Pittsburgh?”

“I
don’t know. The Cubs are in Atlanta this weekend. Maybe I’ll just head south
and see if I can get a ticket.”

He
didn’t like it. He hated letting me out of his sight. But if I stayed in town
there’d be at least one more dead body on the police records and maybe more.

Fulton
County Stadium was a big place compared with Wrigley Field, and not nearly as
many fans came out to cheer on the Braves. I had no trouble getting a ticket on
Sunday. The Cubs won—in itself a miracle. The boys were having trouble figuring
out what game they were suiting up for this summer.

I
made a dutiful pilgrimage to Martin Luther King’s birthplace and drank a Ramos
gin fizz at Brennan’s. Just separating myself from Chicago for two nights was a
help, but I couldn’t get over the dull ache from Lotty’s misery: being
estranged from her is like missing a piece of my own body.

I
caught a noon flight back to Chicago on Monday. During the el ride back into
town I tried to marshal my thoughts back to the work that lay ahead.

I
knocked on Mr. Contreras’s door to let him know I was home, but he was out—with
his tomatoes, I saw from my kitchen window. I’d forgotten the emergency glazier,
but my generous neighbour had swallowed his hurt feelings and let the man in,
as a note taped to the new window informed me.

I
fiddled with a leftover piece of putty. The only way I know to keep depression
at bay is by working. I needed to visit the Bank of Lake View, to try to
discover why Mrs. Frizell had moved her account from them. I also wanted to put
a little pressure on Ben Loring at Paragon Steel. First, though, I tried the
alarm people. I got them just before they closed, but was able to schedule an
installation for the next morning.

It
was far too late now to go to the bank, but Ben Loring would doubtless still be
wrestling away with Paragon Steel’s controls in Lincolnwood. I dialed their
number and got put through to Sukey’s deep, sweet voice. I realized I hadn’t
learned her last name.

“This
is V.I. Warshawski. I was by Friday afternoon to talk to Ben Loring and his
pals.”

“Oh,
yes, Ms. Warshawski. I remember clearly.”

“I
had another question for him. Something I learned after I left.”

“I’m
sorry, but he specifically said he didn’t want to talk to you if you called.”
Her rich voice conveyed personal regret. Someone ought to be auditioning her
for the stage.

“Well,
I won’t try to muscle my way past you. But could you tell him I now know that
someone at Diamond Head is shipping out spools of Paragon copper wire in the
middle of the night? Ask him if he thinks that’s curious, or just a normal part
of their business.”

She
put me on hold. Five minutes later Ben Loring was rasping at me, demanding to
know what the fuck I was talking about, who was I working for, what the hell
did I want.

“To
share information with you. Are you surprised to hear it?”

He
brushed that aside. “How do you know? You got pictures? Proof of any kind?”

“I
saw them with my own eyes. I was clinging to one of your spools while it hung
from a gantry. In fact, it probably saved my life. So really, I’m calling out
of gratitude.”

“Don’t
play the cute fool with me, Warshawski—you don’t strike me as the type. Give me
some details. And tell me why you’re calling.”

I
gave him a succinct picture of what I’d seen. “I am getting so tired of being
jacked around by people connected to Diamond Head. If someone doesn’t start
talking to me soon, I’m going to be sharing my bits of information with the
feds. Maybe even the newspapers.”

I
heard him whisper “Oh, fuck” under his breath, but he didn’t say anything else.
“We need to talk, Warshawski. But I have to speak to my management group first.
When can you come back out here? Tomorrow morning?”

I
thought of the alarm installation. “I’m pretty busy. Unless you want to come
down here?”

“Just
can’t get away tomorrow morning. I’ll call you. But don’t go talking to anyone
until you hear from me.”

“Ah,
nuts, Loring. I’m not going to dangle on a spool for you forever.”

“I’m
not asking you to, Warshawski. Just a couple of days. I may even get back to
you tonight. Give me your number.”

“Aye,
aye, skipper.” I saluted the phone smartly as we hung up, but of course he
couldn’t see that.

So
now what? Was he involved and trying to gain a few hours either to frame a
cover-up or to blow my brains out? At least Rawlings’s squad car might make the
latter less likely.

I
didn’t have enough information to worry about it any more this afternoon. I
needed to retrieve the Impala, collect my belongings from Mrs. Polter before
she sold them for fire extinguishers, and return home.

On my
way out I knocked at Mr. Contreras’s door. He was inside again and much
relieved to see me. I let his waves of information about the glazier wash over
me, thanking him when there was a break in the surf, then explaining my going
back out. “I’m returning here. Probably by eight.”

“I
could make us dinner,” he offered tentatively.

I
hugged him briefly. “I’ve got some chicken upstairs that I ought to cook
tonight. Why don’t .you let me make you something for a change?”

He
walked me to the door. “Stay out of the San this time, doll. I know you drink a
lot of water, but that stuff ain’t good for you.”

Vinnie
was coming in as I left. Mr. Contreras and I both stared at him, trying to
picture him as a con artist. In his pale-gray summer suit and tightly knotted
tie he looked so stodgily corporate that I had to give it up.

“Evening,
Vinnie,” I said brightly. “Got any investment advice for us?”

He
looked at me stonily. “Sell your share in the co-op, Warshawski. Neighborhood’s
coming up and you won’t be able to afford your tax bill.”

I
laughed, but I could feel Mr. Contreras start to bristle. As I went out the
door I heard a diatribe that began with “young man” and might end anywhere.

I
walked over to Belmont and Halsted to catch the el. No one seemed to be
following me. My legs ached as I climbed the stairs to the platform. Mr.
Contreras was right: the day was coming when I wouldn’t be able to swing from
the chandeliers any longer—I could already feel its shadow in my muscles.

The
air-conditioning wasn’t working on the train I caught and its windows didn’t
open. The Sox were playing a night game at home. Happy fans in cutoffs had
joined the overflow of commuters to make the ride one of suffocating misery.

When
I got off at Thirty-first, I was so glad to be outside again I decided to walk
to the Impala. I sketched a wave to the Number 31 bus as it left the station,
relieved not to be one of the standing sardines packed on such a muggy night.

My
Nikes were at the bottom of the San. The loafers I’d put on didn’t offer much
support. My feet began to hurt about halfway to the car, but I plodded on past
bus stops. The evening sky was starting to thicken with rain clouds again. The
first drops began to fall as I got to Damen. I sprinted the half block to
Thirty-first Place, where I’d left the car. No one seemed to have vandalized
it. I’d been worrying about that on the ride south, wondering whether Luke
would even bother to fix the Trans Am if his own precious baby were damaged.

The
keys had been in my jeans pocket when I went into the drink. The ring looked
rusted out, but the ignition turned without faltering. I’d also salvaged Mrs.
Polter’s front-door key. The knot I’d tied through my belt loop had held
through my gyrations Friday night.

When
I got to her house on Archer, the rain was falling in a thick sheet. I ran
full-tilt up the rickety stairs, slipping on the worn wood in my loafers. I was
soaked before I got to the top. My fingers, thick with cold from my drenching,
fumbled with her front-door lock.

By
the time I got it open Mrs. Polter was waiting on the other side. The hall was
so dark it was hard to see, but the twilight behind me glinted from the fire
extinguisher she was pointing at me. I hunched my head down under my forearms
to protect my eyes, and lunged under her outstretched arms into her abdomen. It
was like butting my head into a mattress. We both grunted. I turned underneath
her armpits and wrestled the extinguisher from her grip.

“Mrs.
Polter,” I panted. “How kind of you to welcome me in person.”

“You’re
wet,” she announced. “You’re dripping all over the linoleum.”

“It’s
the canal. Your pals pushed me in, but I managed to climb out. Want to talk
about it?”

“You
got no call to break in here and attack me. I oughtta call the cops.”

“Do,
Mrs. Polter. Be my guest. There’s nothing I’d like better than for you and me
to talk to the cops. In fact, I’m kind of expecting one of them to call you.
You hear from a Detective Finchley over at Area One?”

“He
the nigger cop? Yeah, he was by. I got nothing to say to any of’em.”

“Niggers
or cops?” I tried to get the words out lightly, but a picture of Conrad
Rawlings’s copper torso against my own flashed through my head and made me
choke. I tried to push my anger back—she wouldn’t share information more
readily for a lecture on the evils of racism.

“Either
of ‘em. I told him he wants to talk to me he oughtta get himself a search
warrant. I know my rights, I says to him, and he can’t come pushing me around.”