Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (44 page)

“You
still there? Is this a new form of torture? You call up and then abandon the
phone while I sit shouting into it like a fool?”

I
washed down the sandwich with a mouthful of coffee. “I knew this wasn’t going
to be an easy conversation before I picked up the phone. But someone said
something so weird to me this morning that I thought we ought to try to
overcome our mutual repugnance and talk.”

“Weird,
huh? It wasn’t a personal comment, like on your disposition or something?”

I
grinned to myself suddenly as I remembered Conrad Rawlings’s remarks on my
orneriness. “Nah. Guys who aren’t strong enough to take me don’t worry me too much.
This little comment had to do with the freedom of the press.”

“We
all know the truth about that, Warshawski—that the press is free to anyone rich
enough to own one.”

“So
you don’t want to hear about it?”

“Did
I say that? I’m just warning you not to expect me to go off” on a crusade
because of something that’s bugging you.“

“This
is where I came in,” I complained. “You won’t listen to my stories, then you
get offended when I won’t tell them to you on command.”

“Okay,
okay,” he said hastily. “Tell me about the threat to my livelihood. If I listen
intently and make appropriately outraged remarks, will you tell me about going
into the San the other night?”

“It’s
all tied together in one neat little package, b.

gave
him a detailed account of my breakfast with Dick and Dick’s relief that Peter
Felitti had been able to keep my exploits at Diamond Head out of the paper.

“See?
You thought it was me not talking to you that kept you from getting the scoop.
Really, it was Felitti talking to your publisher,” I finished.

Murray
was quiet for a minute. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he finally said. “No, no,
I’m not doubting the conversation took place. I just question whether Felitti
is a heavy enough hitter to keep something out of the papers on request.”

“His
brother used to be a Du Page County commissioner and he’s still on the board of
U.S. Metropolitan. Lots of little political connections run through that bank.
Marshall Townley could well be approached that way.” Townley was the
Herald-Star’s publisher.

Murray
thought it over some more. “Maybe. Maybe. I’ll poke around a little. Why are
you telling me this now?”

“Because
too many people have been yanking me around the last two weeks. And when Dick
Yarborough let that remark fly this morning—that he could suppress any public
report about what I’m trying to find out—it made me, well, pretty peeved.”

“Pretty
peeved, huh? Is anything left of the guy?”

“He
still has one working testicle,” I said primly.

“You
left one? Boy, you must be getting soft, Warshaw-ski… I guess it’s time for me
to bite. What are you trying to find out?”

I
gave him a thumbnail sketch of my fruitless investigation into Mitch Kruger’s
death, including my meeting with Ben Loring at Paragon Steel. “I’ve got to
believe Mitch had nosed out something that was going on at Diamond Head. Maybe
the theft of the copper wire, depending on how important it was to them to keep
it quiet. It could have been something else, though. Interest in his meager
papers has been running high, but I finally got hold of them last night and
there’s nothing in them to show he knew about the theft. But there’s nothing in
them to show he knew about anything else either.”

Murray
tried wheedling a look at Mitch’s papers from me, but I was keeping Eddie Mohr
and the connection to Chicago Settlement to myself until after I’d talked to
Mohr this afternoon. Murray hadn’t been supportive enough lately to get a free
blue-plate special.

“Okay,
Warshawski,” he said at last. “Maybe there is a story in this. Although I can
see Finchley’s point, that maybe they just don’t like you snooping around down
at Diamond Head. I’ll talk to some people and get back to you.”

“Gosh,
Mr. Hecht, thanks. If it wasn’t for the hardworking, noble press, where would
us poor working stiffs be?”

“In
the San, where you belong. Catch you later, Warshawski.”

I
finished my sandwich before dialing Max’s number at the hospital. Mr.
Loewenthal was in a meeting; could his secretary take a message? I didn’t want
to leave my phone number and play tag with Max all afternoon. His secretary
finally allowed as how if I called back at four I could probably reach him.

Thoughts
of Max brought Lotty to the front of my mind from the back recesses where I’d
been keeping her. I called over to the clinic and spoke to Mrs. Coltrain. Lotty
was working with her new nurse in one of the examining rooms—not a good time to
interrupt. Mrs. Coltrain assured me she would let her know I’d called.

I
walked slowly back to my bedroom. The longer Lotty and I went without speaking,
the harder it was going to be to get back together.

I
changed the thin T-shirt I’d put on after my bath for a bra and a silk shirt in
a dusky rose. A bra is almost as bad as a shoulder holster on a muggy day, but
I didn’t want my elderly neighbors so startled that they wouldn’t talk to me. I
started to put on the holster, then realized that meant a jacket, which meant
I’d be a sodden wreck before I’d made it across the street. Surely I could walk
around my own neighborhood in broad daylight without a weapon. I left the gun
on the bed.

On my
way back out I started to knock on Mr. Contre-ras’s door, hesitated, then left
without trying to rouse him. Peppy had let out a sharp bark as I stood there:
if he wanted to see me he could open the door.

It
dawned on me that I hadn’t seen any Chicago cops patrolling my stretch of
Racine today. Maybe Conrad Rawlings was so annoyed by my comments last night
that he had withdrawn his protective arm. My pleasure at having my ability to
look after myself put to the test wasn’t as strong as it might have been. I
almost headed back up the stairs for my gun.

It
took Mrs. Tertz so long to answer the bell that I thought she might be out.
When she finally came to the door, her face flushed from the heat, she
apologized, but said she’d been on her back porch writing letters. “It faces
east, so by this time of day we get a bit of breeze back there. I practically
live out there in the summer. What can I do for you, dear?”

“I
wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Frizell’s situation. Do you have a minute?”

She
laughed softly. “I suppose. But if you think a wave of your hand will solve
Hattie Frizell’s problems, it only shows you have a lot of growing up to do.
Come on in, though.”

I
followed her along a minute, highly polished hall to the kitchen. The air in
the house, heavy with Pine Sol and furniture polish, thickened in the kitchen
to an unbreathable density. Little beads of sweat were staining the neck of my
blouse by the time Mrs. Tertz had the back door unlocked again. I followed her
thankfully onto the porch.

It
was a wide, pleasant space, with furniture covered in a chintz whose flowers
had faded from years of use. A rolling cart held a television, a hot plate, and
a toaster oven. When Mrs. Tertz saw me looking at them she shook her head regretfully
and explained that they had to be wheeled into the kitchen at night.

“It
used to be that Abe and I left them out here all summer long, but there are too
many break-ins these days. We can’t afford to put walls up to make the porch
secure, so we just do the best we can.”

“You
don’t keep a dog still? Mrs. Hellstrom told me you used to buy black Labs from
Mrs. Frizell.”

“Oh,
my. Yes. And my grandchildren are playing with dogs descended from some of
those Labs. But you know, it takes a lot of strength to walk a dog that
energetic. When our last old boy died five years ago, Abe and I decided we just
didn’t have the stamina for a new one. But we miss them. Sometimes I wish—but
Abe’s got arthritis, and my back’s not so good. We just couldn’t do it. How’s
Hattie doing? Marjorie told me you’d been by to see her.”

“Not
well. She’s restless, but not responsive. I don’t know what will happen to
her.” A few weeks in bed could be a death sentence for a woman her age, but
Mrs. Tertz didn’t need me to spell that out.

“One
of the worrying things is her finances. She’s going to need long-term care
if—when—she heals enough to leave Cook County. Chrissie and Todd want to
mortgage her house, but they don’t know where the title is.”

Mrs.
Tertz shook her head again, worried. “I hate to think of Hattie losing that
house on top of losing the dogs. I don’t think she’ll last too long if that
happens—if she knows about it, I mean. But I can’t help you with money for her,
dear, if that’s what you want: Abe and I just make ends meet every month on our
social security as it is. And now with property taxes going up…” She clipped
her lips together, too worried to talk about it.

I
reassured her hastily. “But the scary thing about her finances is how she has
her money invested. That’s really what I wanted to ask you about. She sold her
CDs at her old bank in February, took a loss, of course, because of the
penalties, and put the money into some bonds. Very high-yield—but not paying
anything these days. You wouldn’t know why she decided to do that, would you?”

Mrs.
Tertz shifted in her chair. “We never talked about money together, dear.”

I
eyed her steadily. “Chrissie Pichea and Vinnie Buttone have gone around the
neighborhood offering people financial advice. They may have persuaded her to
buy those bonds.”

“I’m
sure anything Chrissie did was with the best intentions. I know you two girls
haven’t seen eye-to-eye on Hattie’s dogs, but Chrissie’s a very good-hearted
neighbor. If she sees me struggling with my groceries she always races over to
help me get them into the house.”

I
smiled, trying to keep hostility out of my face as well as my voice. “She
probably thought she was doing Mrs. Frizell a good turn, getting her to trade
in her CDs for something that would pay much better. Has she ever offered you a
similar deal?”

Mrs.
Tertz was so loath to discuss the matter that I began to worry that she and her
husband had sunk their savings into Diamond Head junk as well. As we continued
to talk, though, it became clear that all she wanted to do was protect
Chrissie.

“I’m
sure Chrissie is a wonderful person,” I said earnestly. “But she may not be
very experienced with risky investments. I’ve been investigating financial
fraud for almost ten years now. Someone could have—have pulled the wool over
her eyes, so to speak—persuaded her they had a great product for old people.
And in her desire to kelp her neighbors she might not have had the experience
to see there was something wrong with the product.”

It
sounded too thick to me, but Mrs. Tertz was relieved to think that “you girls”
only wanted to help each other out. Telling me she’d just be a minute, she
disappeared back into the murky air of her house.

I
wandered to the porch door and looked out at the yard. Either she or her
husband shared the neighborhood mania for gardening: the tiny square of grass
was lined with weedless flower beds on one side and vegetables on the other. My
father had liked to garden, too, but I hadn’t inherited a longing to dig around
in the ground.

Mrs.
Tertz returned after about ten minutes, her face flushed and her gray curls
changed into tiny corkscrews by the humidity. She held out a flyer to me.

“I
tried to call Chrissie to make sure she wouldn’t mind me showing it to you, but
I couldn’t get hold of her. So I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

My
throat constricted with tension. That’s what I needed all right—for Chrissie to
pop in at this moment. Although I’d already tipped my hand to Vinnie Buttone.
What difference did it make if Mrs. Tertz called Chrissie?

I
took the brochure from Mrs. Tertz’s unwilling fingers and flipped through its
four sides. She wouldn’t let me borrow it, even for the afternoon, so I studied
it carefully while she breathed over my arm.

IS
YOUR MONEY DOING ENOUGH FOR YOU?

the
front cover asked in screaming type.

The
inside panel pointed out the woes of people living on fixed incomes.

Are
your savings in certificates of deposit? Maybe your banker or your broker told
you that was the best place for your money now that you’re past retirement age.
No risk, they probably told you. But no return, either. Your banker may think
because you’re past retirement you don’t deserve the same investments younger
folks get. But those CDs he sold you aren’t going to grow fast enough to cover
the cost of expensive nursing care if you need it. Or to take you on that dream
vacation if you want it. What you need is risk-free money that provides great
returns.

A
photo of an old woman in a derelict nursing home bed stared grimly from the
left panel, while an elderly couple with golf clubs gazed raptly at the ocean
on the right.

“Just
as safe as federally insured funds,” the copy trumpeted. “U.S. Metropolitan can
provide you with investments that pay up to 17 percent—and leave your worries
behind.”