Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (16 page)

I
rubbed my forehead but didn’t speak until Conrad’s cough in my ear made me
realize he thought I was fuming in my armchair. “I’m not raving, Conrad. Just
staggered. Why would a U.S. senator ... oh, I suppose because Fabian was
angling for a federal judgeship. But I will swear to you, on my honor, I don’t
know where Tamar Hawkings is.”

“I
wish I could see you in person,” he grumbled. “You know a dozen ways to slice
the truth, but when I look at your face I can tell what you’re doing to it.”

That
made me laugh, a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible thirty minutes earlier.
“This is the whole truth and nothing but—not that I don’t know where she is at
this precise moment, but I haven’t a clue whether she’s in the Loop or Uptown,
or even back on the Southwest Side. ... Oh, yes—I guess you guys don’t
know—tell Finchley her old man filed a missing persons on her some months ago.

She
says he was starting to molest the oldest kid.”

And
then Terry would have a fit, thinking I’d held out on him on purpose. The cops
never believe you may genuinely not remember something they think is vital.

When
Conrad and I hung up, more or less in tune, I scrambled into my jeans and a
knit cotton shirt. Alec Gantner might be able to force the city to tiptoe
around Fabian Messenger, but he didn’t have any clout to hit me with. I wasn’t
angling for a federal appointment.

A
Doting Father

Fabian
opened the door to the mansion himself. “Oh, it’s you, Warshawski. If you’ve come
to see Deirdre, she’s dead.”

His
greeting jolted me. “I know. I found her body when I went to my office this
morning. It was quite horrible; I’m sure you must be shocked as well.”

“If
you knew she was dead, why did you come down here?” he demanded.

“To see
you, Fabian. Shall we go inside?”

I’d
been betting he’d slam the door on me. To my surprise he backed into the
hallway, allowing me to follow him. Once inside he looked around uncertainly,
as though the house were strange to him. I began to think his off-balance
remarks might token genuine shock at Deirdre’s death.

“Where
are the children?” I asked.

“The
children? Oh. They’re upstairs with Emily. Did you want to see them?”

“Not
especially. Although maybe I should talk to Emily. Her mother’s death must be
hitting her pretty hard.”

“Do
you think so?” Fabian looked at me in surprise. “She and Deirdre didn’t seem to
get on very well.”

My
own mother’s death, when I was a year older than Emily, had been the
cataclysmic event of my life. In some ways I don’t think I’ve ever recovered
from it. But what if Gabriella had been like Deirdre—drunk, angry with the
world, hostile to me personally? I tried to picture it. Death wouldn’t have
released me from her fury. On the contrary—it would have made the cataclysm more
violent. My own wishes to be rid of her would torment me beyond the fact of her
death itself.

“Doesn’t
she have a grandmother or an aunt she could stay with?” I asked Fabian. “This
is no time for her to be alone here looking after your sons.”

“Emily
is good in a crisis. I won’t have Deirdre’s mother hovering uselessly around
the place, and my own mother died years ago. I can’t afford to do without Emily
right now. Maybe after the funeral we can see.”

I
blinked a few times, hoping to keep reality in focus. “Bring in a nanny to look
after the kids and give your daughter a break.”

“Is
that why you came down here? To lecture me on parenting? Of course, you don’t
have any children of your own—it’s always people who’ve turned up their noses
at parenthood who think they can lecture the rest of us poor slobs. For your
saintly information, we have a housekeeper, but the boys don’t like her because
she can’t speak English. They won’t let her baby-sit them.”

“Deirdre
came to my office last night.” Fabian was treating me to such a mix of
arrogance and intimacy that I couldn’t possibly approach my main questions with
finesse. “She was expecting you to meet her there, wasn’t she?”

“No.
No, she wasn’t, Warshawski. I had no idea she’d gone downtown. I only found out
when I got in from work. After a late meeting I was expecting to find dinner
waiting. Instead, she’d left me an insolent note. The last thing I wanted to do
was chase after her. Now I see it would have been better—but at the
time—anyway, I called Emily down.”

“So
Emily made you dinner. And then you went downtown to find Deirdre, to tell her
just what you thought of her for going off in that irresponsible way.

And
she sneered at you and you lost your temper and started pounding on her.

Then
it got out of hand and before you knew it she was dead. So this morning you
called your senator and got him to put some pressure on the cops for you.”

“What
are you talking about? Are you trying to imply that I hurt Deirdre? I was here
all night. It was Mrs. Sliwa’s night off and Deirdre left me alone with the
children. I couldn’t go off. In fact I—”

He
broke off abruptly. In fact he what?

“You
called the cops? Or sat waiting by the door to beat her up when she might
choose to walk in?” I prodded him.

He
looked furious but didn’t answer, going instead to the foot of the stairs.

“Emily!
Emily! Come down here. I want to talk to you!”

At
first there was no sound, but when he called her name again, more sharply, I
heard a faint shuffling on the upstairs carpet. His daughter came down the
stairs, her frizzy blond hair matted to her head on one side and blooming like
a giant bush on the other. She was wearing jeans and an ill-fitting yellow
blouse that made her blotched skin look muddy. She stopped on the lower
landing, five stairs above us. Behind her, like mice, I could see her little
brothers huddle in the shadows.

“This
is Miss Warshawski, Emily. She’s come here with some impertinent questions that
are none of her business, but we’re going to answer them anyway, in the hopes
she’ll go away and leave us in peace to do our mourning for your mother.”

“Hi,
Emily. I’m Vic. We met Wednesday night.” I climbed up a step and stretched a
hand out to her, but she didn’t respond; her face had subsided into the dull
mask that made her look retarded.

I
moved up to the landing and sat on the stair behind her. “Your mama came to my
office last night. Did she tell you where she was going? Or did she just assume
you would take charge?”

Emily
looked at her father, who sharply adjured her to answer the question.

“She
was gone when I got home from school.” Her whisper was so soft I could barely
hear her, even sitting four feet from her mouth.

“Did
she leave you a note?”

Emily
nodded fractionally. “Just that she was out, she didn’t know when she’d be
back, but we could have leftovers for dinner. There was a lot of food left over
from the party.”

“Do
you still have the note? If I saw it maybe it would tell me something about her
plans.”

“We
didn’t keep it, Warshawski. Not being oracles, we didn’t predict it would be
needed as evidence twenty-four hours later.” Fabian’s voice cracked across us,
making his daughter flinch.

I
ignored him, hoping that if I kept Emily looking at me it would lessen Fabian’s
control of her. “She was expecting your dad to meet her at my office last
night. Did he go out?”

Emily’s
mouth started to move but no words came out. Her shoulders began to heave under
the weight of suppressed tears.

“Tell
her, Emily,” Fabian commanded. “Tell her whether I went out or was here last
night.”

She
gulped convulsively, looked at Fabian, and started to cry.

“You
don’t have to lie for him,” I said gently.

“Just
tell her the truth, Emily,” Fabian insisted. “Was I or was I not here last
night?”

“Yes!”
she screamed. “You were here! I know you were here!”

She
stumbled back up the stairs, tripping on my left hand in passing. The mice
detached themselves from the shadows when she passed. They clung to her
shirttails as they all three scurried along the upper hallway.

“Satisfied,
Warshawski?” Fabian was smiling triumphantly.

“I’m
satisfied, yes, Messenger.” I got slowly to my feet. “I’m satisfied that you
have terrorized your daughter into lying for you. I’ll pass that message along
to the officer in charge of your wife’s murder investigation.”

“Pass
this one on to him, too: that I won’t tolerate your interference in my private
affairs. I intend to take steps to see that you don’t do so.”

“With
what? The same weapon you used on Deirdre? I’ll write a note to alert them to
the possibility.”

“I
don’t know how you stay in business, Warshawski—I really don’t. You seem to
reason with your endocrines instead of your synapses.”

I
paused with my hand on the front doorknob. “Is that supposed to be an insult, Fabian?
Is that how you started beating down Deirdre, telling her she only had feelings
instead of the superior firepower of your masculine mind? And was she needy
enough to listen to you? I’ve felt sorry for her for a long time, but what a
sad epitaph: I gave up my mind to bolster my husband’s failing ego.”

“Yes,
yes, that tired feminist cant. At least Deirdre was smart enough not to fall
for it. You got what you came for—now go.”

“Don’t
take your rage out on Emily after I leave. She’s too young to know how to stand
up to you.”

At
that his superior smile vanished and rage boiled over in him. “I want you
staying away from my daughter. You’re a terrible influence for a young girl,
with the ramshackle way you live. I found out you sneaked into her room in the
middle of the night after our party. If I learn you’ve come near her again
without my permission, believe me, Miss Know-it-all, I’ll be taking legal
action so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

On an
impulse so sudden I hadn’t known it was in my head I ran up the stairs to
Emily’s room. Fabian remained in the hall for a moment, too taken aback even to
call out to me.

I
knocked sharply on Emily’s door but didn’t wait for a summons to open it.

The
three children were huddled together on the bed. It hadn’t been made up and
sheets and blankets were churned into a lumpy knot. The little boy, Nathan, was
tucked under his sister’s right arm, sucking his thumb. Joshua, the elder,
leaned cross-legged against her other shoulder, reading a book aloud.

He
stopped when he heard me. The three stared with frightened eyes like birds
caught in an ill-made nest. I shoved aside a heap of books and papers to kneel
next to the bed.

“Emily,
I want to talk to you. I’m very worried by what may happen to you if I leave
you here alone with Fabian—with your dad.”

She
had her idiot face on, but I was beginning to know that was a shield to cover
strong feelings. Joshua had already learned to assume it, but the toddler
started whimpering behind his thumb. Emily hugged him closer to herself.

“You
don’t have to stay here to be hurt,” I said. “There are safe places for you. If
you want to come with me—now or at any time—I can see that you get help.”

Fabian
suddenly erupted into the room behind me. “I told you to stay away from my
daughter.”

I stayed
on my knees next to Emily. “Do you think your grandmother would let you and the
boys come stay with her? If she’s someone you trust, call her. Or call me. Or
you can come with me now. I’ll wait while you pack a toothbrush.”

“You’ll
do no such thing,” Fabian bellowed. “You’ll leave my house at once.

And
as for you, young lady, if I catch you going near this woman again—”

“You’ll
what?” I snapped. “Prove what a he-man you are? ... Emily, I’m parked out front
in a red Trans Am. I’m going to wait there for a while in case you decide you
want to come with me. And if you don’t, I’m going to check in with you every
day or so to make sure you’re okay. Do you still have my card?”

“She
certainly does not. I found it on her dresser yesterday and wormed out of her
the news you’d been in here trying to seduce her. You don’t need to give her
another one.”

I got
to my feet. “Fabian, you’re boring. You’re utterly predictable. I would love to
appear against you in court—it would be so much fun to watch you turn cartwheels.
How did you ever get a professorship here? Influence peddling?”

I saw
his hand go back. I put up a forearm in time to block his blow. I grabbed his
arm and pulled down hard enough to make him wince.

“Don’t
get physical with me, Fabian—I learned to fight on the South Chicago streets.
Nobody there knew the Marquess of Queensberry. ... I’ll be out front, Emily.”

When
I left the room Fabian slammed the door on me. I lingered in the hall for
several minutes to make sure he wasn’t beating on her, but heard only a soft
murmur of voices. Bending shamelessly to the keyhole, I could see him perched
on the bed next to his children. I couldn’t make out what he was doing, but the
snatches of words I heard sounded sympathetic, even loving. I went out to my
car scratching my head. I’d heard him strike his wife and bully his daughter,
but his tenderness now almost made me doubt my own memory of the abuse.