Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (10 page)

“In a
few years you can leave to go to college. I know at your age eighteen must seem
a long way off, but it’s something you can hang on to, look forward to.” It was
such a feeble thing to say I didn’t blame her for not leaping up in ecstasy.

“Your
parents are very disturbed people,” I added. “In fact they seem nuts to me. Do
you think you could remember that, when the going gets too rugged—that they’re
two people with a huge problem, but you are not the problem?”

“How
can you possibly know that?” she said angrily into the bedspread. “You never
laid eyes on me before.”

“Yeah,
but I’ve known your folks going on twenty years. Look, Emily, I spent the
evening watching you—watching the three of you. You were the only person trying
to take adult responsibility for the scene around you, but you’re just a kid.
Perhaps this seems normal to you, because it’s the only life you know, but
believe me, it’s not the way most people do act or should act. Okay?”

She didn’t
say anything, but her sobs trailed off. I fished in my purse and pulled out a
business card. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I could make out the shapes
of furniture. I stretched out my right hand to something that was either a desk
or a low-lying dresser.

“I’m
going to leave my name and phone number here by your bed. If you need a
friendly ear to talk to, give me a call. Or if you think you can’t take life
here anymore, maybe I can help you figure out some other choices. I don’t know
what they might be, but we could explore that together.”

She
turned over onto her side so that she could speak directly to me. “I can’t. I
can’t abandon the boys. They need me.”

“You
have a right to a life, too, Emily, only nobody here is going to help you get
one. Think about it. ... You want me to bring you a glass of water before I
go?”

“I’m
okay,” she muttered.

I
shut the door softly, trying to get it to catch without rousing her parents. At
the far end of the hall Deirdre and Fabian were still raging. Even at this
distance, with their door closed, I could make out her screams and his furies.
Downstairs the staff had finished cleaning up and had turned out the lights. I
undid the dead bolt in the massive front door and let myself out.

I
looked at the house from the curb. The master bedroom overlooked the street.
The light seeping around the curtains abruptly disappeared. After a few seconds
a glow appeared from a room on the south side. Emily’s room. She’d gotten up,
or one of her parents had joined her. My stomach churning from my own
impotence, I fled into the night.

It
was one when I finally got back to my own home. As I hung up my party clothes I
saw the salmon stain still disfiguring the front of my white silk shirt.

A
Frightened Mole

In my
sleep I heard Emily sobbing. I followed the sound down an ornate staircase. At
first, elaborate wall sconces made it easy to see my descent. My left hand
traced raised flowers in the red wallpaper and my feet sank in plush.

At a
bend in the stairwell the light suddenly vanished and I had to grope my way in
the dark. The velvet changed to stone under my hand; the stairs narrowed and
the carpeting disappeared. Emily’s cries kept summoning me but I couldn’t reach
the bottom. As I stumbled dizzyingly downward the stairs collapsed. I fell,
seemingly for hours, until I landed in a heap outside the room where the girl
was weeping. I pulled myself to my feet and pushed open the door.

Lotty
Herschel stood in front of me. “Don’t try to touch her,” she said. “You will
only hurt her.”

Her
angry words jerked me awake. I lay still a long time, watching the gray light
make ghostly waves on the ceiling. A spider had died in one of the corners. It
hung on a wisp of web that swayed in the drafts rising from my badly sealed
windows.

In
four months I would be forty. The dreams I’d had at twenty—the twin yearnings
for glory and altruism—seemed as ghostly and futile as the bit of dirty silk
the spider had released in her death spasm.

What
was I doing trying to patch the hulk of the Pulteney together when it would
only fall down around me in a few weeks? It typified my whole approach to life:
enormous energy sunk into mending lives or causes that could never be made
whole. Behind every patch great leaks sprang anyway.

Even
the bureau in front of me, bought at a flea market with the sincere intention
of stripping and refinishing it—there’s solid walnut under there, the friend
who’d gone with me, an expert in these matters, said. Five years later the
chipped brown paint had become part of the customary backdrop of my life.

I
pulled the sheet over my head, blocking out the spider and the bureau. When the
phone rang I let it drag out, hoping the caller would go away. Finally, my eyes
hot with grit, I stuck my arm outside the sheet and picked up the receiver.

“Morning,
beautiful. How were the rich and famous?”

It
was Conrad Rawlings, who’d been working the owl shift lately. I sat up, feeling
more lively. “They wore me out. I haven’t gotten up yet. What was your haul
last night?”

“Six
gunshots, one fatal, a stabbing, a hit-and-run where the guy dragged the body
halfway down Western Avenue before it came loose, and a baby in a garbage can.
I got the hit-and-run and one of the gunshots. And you say you’re worn out.

Tell
me the high-end lawyers carry on like that.”

“Nah.
Just guys roughing up the wife and kids, the women drunk and disorderly. The
easy stuff.” I spoke gruffly to cover the crack in my voice.

“Hey,
Ms. W. Don’t take it to heart. Want me to come over?”

I was
tempted, but it was past ten. My first meeting was set for eleven. I was sick
of pushing myself, but the old blue-collar work ethic wouldn’t leave me alone.
Or maybe it was just my dead mother’s voice. Once when I was eight and had been
in trouble at school I couldn’t face going back the next day. In tears I
pleaded a stomachache. My tender-hearted father wanted to tuck me in bed with a
book and my teddy bear, but Gabriella dressed me by force. Speaking in her
heavily accented English, rather than Italian—to make sure I knew it was
important—she told me only cowards ran from their problems, especially ones
they’d created themselves. At the end of the day, though, she’d been waiting
for me in the school yard, with a bag of meringues—so I would know that bravery
was rewarded.

I
swung leaden legs over the side of the bed. “Oh, how I wish. When do you go
back on a human schedule? Next week?”

“Tuesday.
Hold that beautiful thought right where it is and don’t let any of those
fast-talking bankers or lawyers tempt you. I’d hate to have to spend my life in
Joliet on account of you—my mama would never forgive me.”

“If
you got into trouble on my account I wouldn’t be alive to worry about it,” I
said drily. Give her her due, Conrad’s mother would probably hate any woman he
went with, but my being white didn’t help our relationship.

He
laughed softly. “Speaking of which, you remember Sunday is Camilla’s birthday?
Think you can handle it?”

“You’re
talking to Wonder Woman. I wouldn’t miss it. Matter of fact, I’m working on a
project for her—trying to figure out why Alderman Lenarski canceled Lamia’s
zoning permit.”

“You
got time for that nonsense, Ms. W.? You’re not taking it on because of me, are
you—because if so, I’ll be on the phone to Zu-Zu and tell her to lay off.”

Zu-Zu
was Camilla’s pet name in the family. “No. Just my conscience, digging its
teeth into my neck.”

“Don’t
sound so dismal, babe. If the work’s that bad it’s time you took some time off.
Can’t you go away for a few days?”

“I’ve
dug myself into too deep a financial hole. Of course, I could sell the Trans Am
and drive something cheaper. That would save me five hundred a month.

Or
sell everything and go travel in Tuscany for a few months. I have some friends
who did that—just toured Italy and France until their money ran out, and then
came back to Chicago to find work.”

“Damn!”
Conrad said in admiration. “How do people get the guts to do that?

Maybe
when you’ve been raised like me, earning money for the family since you were
hatched, you can never live like the lilies of the field.”

“Maybe
so,” I agreed. “I’d better go see a man about a dog.”

“I’m
going to call you tonight, girl. Make sure you get through the day in one
piece. You hear?”

We
hung up on that note. The conversation didn’t exactly refresh me, but it gave
me enough to go on with the day—the usual round of client meetings, research at
the County Building, visits to Chicago Title, checking in with a pal at Motor
Vehicles. The same stuff I do every day, like a gerbil on an everlasting
treadmill.

At
three I returned to the Pulteney to make phone calls and put my day’s findings
into the computer. Before going up to the fourth floor I checked the basement.
There was no sign of Tamar Hawkings or her children, but when I got to my
office and called my answering service I had a surprise. Kevin Whiting had
called. I reached him at his desk just before he left for the day.

One
of the Loop patrol officers had spotted a family that matched my description
cadging money in front of the coffee shop at the corner. When he went over to
talk to them they scuttled into the Pulteney. He’d followed them in but they’d
disappeared—he’d assumed up the stairs. He’d gone up to the second floor before
deciding he couldn’t search the place on his own.

“You
let us know if you spot them, okay, Vic? We can’t let a family wander around a
condemned building.”

“Right,
Kevin. Thanks.” As long as he didn’t have to come over and hunt them himself he
was ready to play the concerned, efficient cop by phone.

I
wondered about undertaking my own detailed hunt through the building.

Frankly,
my enthusiasm for a floor-by-floor search wasn’t any greater than Kevin’s. I
left a message for Lotty, telling her the family had resurfaced, and switched
on my computer to stare at the log of my outstanding case files. I had a nice
little custom data base that showed investigations by stage, with the last and
most welcome labeled FINAL CHECK CLEARED and the date. Not enough of those
lines had been filled in lately.

I
opened the file for Lamia, Camilla’s tradeswomen’s group. The number of tasks
completed was small: I’d dialed up Lexis for the Century Bank’s board of
directors, and I’d talked to Cyrus Lavalle at City Hall. I called Cyrus’s
office. When he answered the phone I spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“Found
anything on the Lamia project?”

“Who
is this?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“I
can’t tell you my name over the phone. You’d get in trouble. Your bosses might
find out you were collecting pictures of your favorite presidents without
sharing, and you know they take a dim view of that.”

“You’d
better tell me your name or I’m going to call security.”

“And
tell them what?” I said in my natural voice. “That I’ve been augmenting your
paycheck?”

“Oh,
it’s you, Warshawski. You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Then
I guess I’d better not give up detection for theLetterman show. Have you heard
anything about Lamia?”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I
looked at the backs of the pigeons huddled on my windowsill. One was checking
himself for lice. The others were shrunk in the misery that shrouds cold birds.
Cyrus must be afraid of being overheard.

“When
will you be alone? I’ll call you back.”

“I
won’t be here.”

“Cyrus,
what’s the problem?”

“The
problem,” he hissed very fast, “is that you’re asking about something people
don’t want to talk about.”

I
could see him huddled over the receiver like the pigeons, as if he could become
inaudible as well as invisible to his companions. “So you took my money
yesterday under false pretenses. Someone offered you more not to talk to me.
I’m not in a bidding war for your ideas, Cyrus.”

“I’ll
give you your money back. I don’t need it that bad.” He hung up before I could
say anything else.

Great.
Something about the Lamia project was too hot to touch. I knew the whole
investigation was trouble the minute Phoebe broached it Tuesday. I punched her
number so forcefully, my index finger throbbed.

When
her secretary answered with the bright news that Phoebe was in a meeting, I
insisted she be interrupted. Yes, it was an emergency. I spelled my last name,
just as I did every time I spoke to Gemma.

Phoebe
came to the phone in some annoyance. “What is it, Vic? You took me away from
something really important.”

“I
thought the work you wanted me to do for Camilla and the tradeswomen was really
important,” I said reproachfully.

Phoebe
was quiet for a long second. “Oh. That.” Her casualness sounded contrived. “I
should have called you. We resolved matters with Century.”