Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (18 page)

Conrad
and I had kept the conversation light as he drove me north. The only reference
to the disagreement between us came after he kissed me good-bye, when he warned
me to take Fabian’s peace bond seriously.

“It
would be real stupid of you to get arrested under the new stalking law because
you think his kid needs protection from him.”

“She
does need protection, Conrad. And—just so you don’t think I’m going behind your
back—I’m going to call Terry to ask for it.”

Conrad
played with my fingers. “I’ve been dreading this case. Not Deirdre Messenger’s
death specifically, but what would happen between you and me if you got
involved in a police investigation again. You’re so single-minded when you
think you’re right. You can’t seem to compromise, and that makes you hard to
live with.”

In my
living room now I flushed as his words came back to me. But what kind of
compromise? I had agreed to make one for Lamia. Let well enough alone for Emily
too? I couldn’t.

Looking
into the ruby of the glass I could see my mother’s fierce dark eyes.

Gabriella
had been like some wild bird, choosing a cage as a storm haven, out of
bewilderment, then beating her wings so fiercely she broke herself against the
walls. If that was what compromise brought, I didn’t want it.

The
red glass was bringing not comfort but agitation. I poured the whisky into a
tumbler and sat down to call Terry Finchley. The conversation was not warm, but
we didn’t part irreconcilable foes. In fact, before we finished Terry even
apologized for sending me messages through Conrad.

“Believe
it or not, I didn’t mean to insult you. I thought you’d listen to him where you
wouldn’t to me.”

“As a
favor to you, I’m going to put the best spin possible on that one.” In turn I
apologized if my interview with Fabian had landed Finchley in hot water.

“I
guess I owe you some thanks,” he said sourly. “Without you I might never have
had a private conversation with the chief of detectives.”

“Out
of curiosity, whom did Messenger call?”

“Oh,
he went straight to the state’s attorney. And when it’s Fabian Messenger backed
up by a U.S. senator, even a Republican one, Clive Landseer talks to him in
person. He apparently told Fabian he could swear out a bond on you, Warshawski.
Then Landseer called Kajmowicz to make sure I wasn’t harassing an important
citizen.”

Finchley
gave a bark of bitter laughter. “By the time I talked to Messenger this morning
he’d calmed down some, but we had to walk on eggs to get him to let us speak to
the daughter. Officer Neely handled the interrogation. Frankly, the girl didn’t
seem all there. She had the animation of a robot, just mumbling ‘yes’ every
time Neely asked her about her old man.”

“He
terrifies her,” I said. “I’ve never seen him hit her, but I did come in on him
just after he’d smacked Deirdre. With his daughter watching. Who knows how many
times that happened? He didn’t have to beat Emily for her to be afraid he’d
treat her the same way he did her mother. And I have seen the ... the
psychological warfare he uses against her. He used it on his wife too. That’s
why I want to make sure he hasn’t coerced Emily into giving him an alibi.”

“Just
watch your step, Vic,” he echoed Conrad. “If you go near the kid and he wants
you arrested as a stalker or a molester we’ll have to do it.”

“Oh,
for Pete’s sake, Terry. Don’t come the heavy cop at me. If I have to leave
Emily alone I want some assurance that you guys won’t.”

He
paused at that. “I’ll check up on her at school Monday. Even though I don’t
share your belief that she’s got a story to tell.”

“How
can she know Fabian was home Friday night?” I asked, trying to sound sweetly
reasonable, not aggressively hostile. “She couldn’t possibly have stayed awake
all night long. Which reminds me: Fabian said Deirdre left a note—‘an insolent
note’ was his expression—the night she was killed, saying she was going
downtown. Did he tell you about it?”

“A
note? No.” Finchley was startled. “This is the first I’ve heard about it.

I’ll
ask Neely, but ... are you positive, Vic?”

“Yes.
I don’t make stuff up just to get the cops to pay attention to my suspicions.”

“Calm
down. I’m not throwing that particular accusation at you. But why would Fabian
tell you something like that and not me?”

I
swallowed some of my whisky. “He doesn’t know I date a cop, or even have
occasional friendly talks with other cops. It might not occur to him that I’d
have the wherewithal to ask. Speaking of questions, you find the murder weapon
when you roared through my office?”

“No.
Dr. Vishnikov says it was a blunt instrument, but a finished one. A mallet, a
bar, a bat—not a raw piece of wood that left splinters in her brains.

It
wasn’t done with your computer,” he added in what he thought was a joke.

I
tried to take it as such, reminding him that he was supposed to return my
machine in the morning. He said he’d get a uniformed man to take it to the
Pulteney first thing.

“You
do know, Vic, our best bet is to find that homeless woman,” Terry added.

“You
say Deirdre had positive evidence she’d returned to your building. If that’s
the case, I’ll bet anything you like she saw whoever killed Deirdre.

Always
assuming she didn’t kill Deirdre herself.”

I
took a breath to keep from howling into the phone. “Terry, I know you’re under
unbelievable pressure on this, with Channel 2 giving the latest garish updates
every half hour and Kajmowicz watching you. But you’re an honest cop, an honest
man. Don’t let the pressure blind you to evidence.”

“Get
me evidence and I will believe it—not reports of notes which may or may not
have ever existed. And don’t let your own biases blind you to the reality of
street life, Vic. Tamar Hawkings wasn’t too balanced when she ran away from
home with her children. I checked up on her today. She started in a shelter,
fought with one of the other residents, and had to leave. She’s been on the
streets for four months now. Even if she’d started out a model of mental health,
that kind of life would rock her. And as you learned yourself she’s not the
most stable person in Chicago. She could have dived right off the deep end if
she thought Ms. Messenger was from the hospital, coming to snatch her kids.”

“You’re
right, Terry. But I know Deirdre was expecting someone to join her Friday
night. She was keyed up in a funny kind of way.” I shut my eyes, trying to pull
Deirdre back into focus. “She thought she was showing someone up, and I have to
assume it was Fabian. I thought she was using the search for Hawkings as a
front. I’d appreciate it if you took my opinion as having some value. After
all, you never talked to Deirdre Messenger.”

“True,
Vic. It sounds like I missed a treat.”

We
hung up then, while we could still laugh. I prowled restlessly around my
apartment. The amount of food at Camilla’s party had been staggering: platters
of fried chicken, five kinds of potato salad, mounds of greens, acres of cakes.

Even
though I’d eaten sparingly, the thought of more food seemed nauseating. I
finished my whisky and stared balefully at the papers piled on the living room
table. If I wanted to work at home I’d have to sort through those and put them
away.

I
wondered what would happen if I tried to talk to Emily Messenger at school.

Would
Fabian have alerted the staff to have me arrested if I lurked about the Midway
looking for her? What other approach would get me a credible account of
Fabian’s whereabouts Friday night? I could talk to the neighbors, but on a
street where mansions float on outsize lots the mark of neighborliness is to
pay no attention to anyone else.

I
realized I couldn’t bear an evening at home alone,churning thoughts of Conrad
and Deirdre. Before I could second-guess myself I picked up the phone and
called Lotty. She greeted me with a friendly concern that acted like a balm.

“I’ve
been reading about Deirdre and wondering how you were feeling,” she said.
“How’s Conrad taking this?”

When
I gave her the thumbnail version of what had happened, I got my first
sympathetic hearing of the weekend. She had no trouble believing why I’d left
Deirdre alone in my office. She had known Deirdre for years and understood the
combination of neediness and arrogance that had made her so frustrating.

Finding
her sympathetic, I poured out my worries over Deirdre’s daughter.

When
I described my meetings with Emily, at the dinner party and last night, Lotty
clicked her tongue.

“So
Sal Barthele was right about Deirdre. I don’t see what you can do, though, Vic.
Unless you want to try to find Deirdre’s mother, see if she’s the kind of
person who might come to the girl’s rescue.”

That
was good, if wearisome, advice. The Herald-Star’s obituary should include the
names of surviving relatives. It shouldn’t be impossible to track down Emily’s
grandmother. I thanked Lotty, bleakly, and paused, wondering how to end the
conversation.

“Maybe
you’d like to drop by this evening,” Lotty suggested, brusquely, as though
afraid of rebuff. “Or is Conrad entertaining you?”

“Conrad
is on night duty. And yes. I’d like to come over. I’m not enjoying solitude
tonight.” As I locked my front door I felt closer to peace than I had for
weeks.

All
My Pretty Chickens and Their Dam?

I
spent Monday cleaning my apartment, preparing it for what I hoped would be a
very brief stint as a home office. Weeks’ worth of newspapers and magazines
infested every surface of the living room. I bagged and carted them to a
recycling stand, along with a collection of cans. Interspersed among the
magazines, I found old bills, unanswered letters, paper of every description.

Gritting
my teeth, I paid the bills, wrote letters, polished wooden surfaces, washed
plastic or metal ones, put away sheet music, laundered two baskets of clothes.

Once
started I couldn’t seem to stop: I scrubbed the bathroom, even the furry mold
between the tub and the floor. On my way home from the recycler I bought lye
and cleaned out the stove. When I woke up Tuesday morning, between clean
sheets, I frowned at the ceiling, wondering what was amiss. The spider thread
was gone, I finally realized. I was so used to seeing the shriveled body on her
trail of tattered silk that its absence unsettled me.

I lay
in bed awhile, basking in the pleasure of cleanliness. It felt like a return to
childhood to lie in my perfectly clean, well-scrubbed nest. Darraugh Graham
blasted into my calm a few minutes before eight.

“What
progress have you made finding a placement for MacKenzie?” he demanded without
preamble.

“None,”
I said baldly, startled into telling the truth. “A woman was murdered in my
office Friday night. That’s distracted me from providing outpatient therapy for
your son.”

“That’s
not what I’m asking you to do. Just find a charitable organization that needs
some help. It can be anything. I’d be happy to see him scrubbing toilets. But I
need to see it happening soon.” He sounded like Mitch barking for attention.

“I’ll
do my best.” I was annoyed that his top-executive mind could think only of his
own problem: a murdered woman, after all, is a little more obstructive than
cramps or a flat tire.

“I’d
appreciate that, Vic. When you do your best you generally perform very well.
But you have a tendency to be flippant and I’m not in the humor for that this
morning.”

“Just
a minute there, Darraugh. Don’t you ever read anything besides the financial
pages? Deirdre Messenger was bashed to bits in my office Friday night.”

“Oh.”
His bark subsided to a muted growl. “Fabian Messenger’s wife? I saw the
headlines but didn’t read the story. I’ll send Fabian a note. Not that I know
him well, but we’ve met a few times. I’m sure it’s put you off your stride, but
try to make MacKenzie a priority. I want him back in college. He’s getting on
my nerves.”

He’d
get on mine, too, if I had to be around him very long, but Darraugh had hung up
before I could commiserate. My calm destroyed, I got up to make coffee and do
my exercises.

After
a quick run with the dogs I called Marilyn Lieberman at Arcadia House to see if
they had any use for a hacker on probation. She turned me down emphatically.
Such expertise in programming as Arcadia required was provided by a board
member.

“Frankly,
Vic, I don’t want a hacker looking at my system. It would be too easy for him
to break into confidential files about our women.”

I
protested, but feebly: MacKenzie Graham hadn’t impressed me as an icon of
trustworthiness. I did try Lotty, for form’s sake, but she didn’t want the kid
for the same reason: she wasn’t going to entrust patient records to a hacker.

I
pressed my lips together in frustration—with Darraugh for putting me onto a
task better suited for Psyche, with myself for needing the money too badly to
be able to tell him to take a hike. Before I left the building the mail
arrived, compounding my woes: Lakeview had become such a trendy neighborhood my
property taxes were being raised a hundred dollars a month. The bank that held
my mortgage wrote in ecstatic terms, knowing how pleased I’d be with my
valuable property investment.