Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (19 page)

Mr.
Contreras, living on Social Security and a pension,was as sickened by the news
as I was. He met me at the mailbox, talking distractedly of how he’d rather
live in a car on underground Wacker than move in with his daughter, but where
was he going to get another twelve hundred a year? With a heartiness I was far
from feeling I clapped him on the shoulder and told him I’d think of something.

I
went downtown to the Pulteney to make a concerted effort to pull my accounting
files together. Using cold water from the seventh-floor bathroom I removed as
much of Deirdre’s remains as I could from my desk. The greasy fingerprint
powder covered so much of my office I didn’t even try brushing it away.

Terry
had said they would return my machine yesterday morning. I called over to the
station to find out where it was. Terry was out. I spoke with Mary Louise
Neely.

After
leaving me on hold for fifteen minutes she came back with more annoying news.
“It’s still in the evidence room. I’ll get someone to bring it by later today.
You’re not in your office, are you? You know that’s a crime scene: you
shouldn’t be disturbing it.”

“And
what are you wonder workers doing with it?” I snapped. “Are you going to pay my
IRS penalties if I don’t get my taxes filed on time?”

I
called my accountant, who told me I could get a filing extension—but only if I
paid what I owed by the fifteenth. After three hours of sorting papers, trying
to figure out what unmarked papers belonged to ninety-one, versus those that
stretched back to the Mesozoic, I’d had enough. Too much. I’d hire a temporary
accounting clerk to help me finish the mess later in the week.

Unfortunately,
when I started calling agencies I found that everyone else in Chicago had a
similar need in tax season: the soonest I could get someone would be next
Saturday, and I’d have to pay double overtime. I thought of my property tax
bill and decided to come back in the morning to finish the work myself.

After
that I went to the public library to go through the newspapers in an effort to
locate Deirdre’s mother. The obituaries, while giving her name—Elizabeth
Ragwood—didn’t give her home. She wasn’t listed in the city or suburban
directories. I left messages with a couple of newspaper friends, asking for
help, but didn’t hear anything before I left for home.

I
stopped at Mr. Contreras’s before going up to my own place. “I’m running with
the dogs: I need to clear my mind and straighten out my body. Then I’m going to
get something nice for us for dinner—let’s pretend we’re plutocrats who can eat
lobster and champagne when we feel like it.”

“No,
don’t go adding any more to your debts, doll. Let’s just have pizza or Chinese
takeout or something.”

I
kissed him lightly. “Leave it to me.”

On my
way back from the park I stopped at the high-end grocer near Fullerton for
scallops and a bottle of Taittinger. As I drove home I hummed the snatch of an
old song of my mother’s, about a fisherman who caught a whale and kept it in a
bucket where it cried out of its blue eyes not to be eaten.

The
song died on my lips when I pulled up across from the building. A police car,
unmistakable with its bristling array of aerials, was parked in front.

Terry
Finchley opened the driver’s door. Before he had his feet on the ground Fabian
Messenger had bounded from the passenger side. I went on up the walk to the
front door. If they had business with me let them come to me.

“Vic!”
Fabian ran after me. “Vic, please—give me back my daughter.”

His
voice was cracking with grief. I stared at him dumbfounded. When Terry caught
up with him he gave me a look of controlled fury that astounded me.

Officer
Neely, standing behind him, looked equally somber.

“What
gives, Detective?” I asked. “Has Fabian here joined the force?”

Terry
didn’t smile. “We talked about this Sunday, that you needed to stay away from
Emily Messenger. I thought you promised Conrad—”

Anger
swept over me. Calling the dogs to heel, I wheeled around and stormed into the
building. Mitch, less disciplined than his mother, stayed behind to sniff the
newcomers. When he saw the door shut on him he gave an outraged yip.

He
jumped up, his forepaws on the outer door momentarily blocking Finchley and
Fabian’s entrance.

Mr.
Contreras bustled into the hallway. Naturally he’d been watching the tableau
unfold from his living room window. He hurried down the half-flight of stairs
to the lobby door.

I cut
off his “what’s going on, doll” midstream. “I’m going upstairs and locking
myself in my apartment. Will you wait until you hear my door shut to get Mitch?
If Finchley wants to talk to me he needs a warrant.”

I was
halfway up the first flight by the time I finished speaking. Mr.

Contreras
followed, fretting with incomprehension, as someone began an energetic tattoo
on the inner door. Mitch, furious at his exclusion, let out a thundering roll
that drowned out Mr. Contreras’s worried questions.

“Just
give me thirty seconds,” I shouted at the old man, pushing him away from me.

I ran
up the stairs two at a time. Seconds after I’d secured the locks Terry pounded
on my front door. I went to the bathroom to sponge off. I would have loved a
shower—the dogs and I had run hard—but my sangfroid didn’t extend to standing
naked in the bath while cops surrounded me.

My
front door has a steel panel in it. Terry would have to shoot out the locks to
get in. He wasn’t that kind of cop, but I still wanted to be fully dressed as
soon as possible.

In
jeans and a sweater, with a jacket in case I got hustled downtown too fast to
grab a coat, I opened the door the length of the chain—the steel plate made it
impossible to speak through it shut. The chain admitted a crack of air about a
quarter inch wide, too narrow for a gun muzzle, say, but allowing conversation.

“What
is it, Terry?”

“Open
the door, Warshawski. You’ve pushed this past the joke stage. Way past.

I
have a warrant for your arrest, for violating the peace bond forbidding you
from having any contact with Fabian Messenger’s daughter.”

“What
happened? Did she intercept my thoughts?”

“I
told you this has gone five miles beyond funny. If you think Conrad will
protect you—”

“I
haven’t asked a man to protect me since my daddy walked me home past the thugs
in seventh grade. If you can’t tell me in a simple, civil way what the problem
is, and ask me what I know about it, I guarantee I will make you a
laughingstock in this town before the ten o’clock news goes on the air. And you
can see what the chief of detectives will do about your career after that.”

I
couldn’t see Fabian, but I could hear him pleading, almost in tears, for news
of Emily. Terry turned his head from the door.

“I’m
sorry, sir; I know you’re upset, but can you be quiet for a moment?”

When
Fabian subsided, Finchley put his face back to the crack. “Don’t make this
uglier than it already is, Vic. I have a warrant for your arrest. If I have to
break into your apartment to execute it, I will.”

“Then
you’ll have to break in. I’m going to shut the door now. While you’re shooting
out the locks I’ll be on the phone to the networks and my lawyer.”

Through
the crack I could make out the outline of Terry’s tightened lips. I thought we
had reached an unavoidable showdown when Mary Louise Neely stretched a hand
past Fabian to tap Finchley’s arm. The two retreated from my line of sight, to
be replaced by Fabian. He started to offer me a bargain, voiding the warrant in
exchange for Emily’s immediate release, but the bulk of his plea disappeared
under the bellowing of the dogs.

Great.
Mr. Contreras had decided it was time to come to my rescue. I was tempted to
walk out the back door and disappear. Not just from my neighborhood, but the
city, my job, the whole stupid mess of my adult life. Instead I opened the door
and let the raging horde stream in.

When
I’d quieted the dogs I turned to Finchley. “Before you cuff me will you tell me
what the hell this is about?”

His
black eyes were hot coals. “Emily Messenger, Vic. Where is she?”

“I’m
not clairvoyant, Terry. Get yourself a medium if you want someone who can
answer a question like that out of the blue.”

“She’s
been missing since yesterday afternoon. Messenger here says you know where she
is.”

“Messenger
here is pretty damned stupid.” I was too furious to try to help Terry out.

Officer
Neely cleared her throat. “When did you last see—talk to—Emily?”

“We
could have started there and saved a lot of aggravation. I have had no contact
with Emily Messenger since Saturday night. I have not spoken to her, seen her,
telephoned her, written, faxed, telegraphed, or ... or have I left something
out? If Fabian has misplaced her he needs to generate some new ideas about
where to find her.”

“Vic,
please!” Fabian cried. “Don’t torture me. And don’t lie. You came to my house
Saturday night and tried to make Emily leave with you. Do you deny that?”

“No.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “And do you remember why I did that?

Because
I’d seen you hit Deirdre and verbally torment Emily. I thought she would be—”

“Oh!”
An anguished howl burst from Fabian. “Detective, please—do I have to listen to
this slander? My daughter’s gone, and all Warshawski can do is make up lies
about her.”

His
voice was filled with genuine tragedy. Finchley frowned at me, demanding an
answer. Mr. Contreras looked at me sternly. Even the dogs whimpered.

“Come
on, guys,” I protested. “Turn the melodrama down a notch. I have zero idea
what’s happened to Emily.”

Fabian’s
throat worked convulsively. “She started crying in school yesterday.

When
they asked her what the problem was she wouldn’t talk. The only thing she did
was ask to speak to you.”

I
folded my arms and stared at him. “So far I haven’t heard about a crime being
committed.”

“The
girl went home from school about two o’clock yesterday and hasn’t been seen
since,” Finchley said tersely.

I sat
limply in the armchair. “She’s been gone twenty-four hours and you’re wasting
time howling at me? Get a grip on yourselves. Talk to her girlfriends, her
teachers, search the parks, the lakefront—”

A
pulse began to move in Finchley’s forehead. “Don’t goad me, Vic. She’s a lonely
girl. She doesn’t do after-school activities. We spoke to the teacher in whose
class she started crying. She says they went to a private room to talk things
over, but all the girl would say was that she wanted to see you. But Mr.

Messenger
had already given the principal a call warning him—at any rate asking him—”

“You’re
damned right I did,” Fabian cut in. “For all the good it did me.”

“So
the staff knew they shouldn’t call me. And they didn’t. Then what? They sent
her home?”

“When
she broke down in earnest they tried to find Mr. Messenger and couldn’t. They
asked her whom else they could call; she would only give your name. They didn’t
have a record of other relatives besides the parents. There’s a housekeeper at
the Messengers’, but she doesn’t speak English. The nurse escorted Emily home
and left her with the housekeeper.”

Finchley
pulled out a notebook to check where the story went from there. “Oh, yes. We
got a Polish translator for the housekeeper. She says the girl went up to her
room without speaking. The toddler—Nathan—heard her and demanded to go in with
her. When the older boy came home half an hour later, Emily put them in their
winter coats and took them out. She didn’t say anything to the housekeeper, who
assumed they were walking over to the park where Emily often takes them.”

I
shut my eyes. “I assume you’ve been to the park and asked the housekeeper for
the names of any girls who ever came to see Emily.”

“Of
course,” Finchley snapped. “We checked with the neighbors. We called her
grandmother. We located two girls who sometimes worked on team projects with
her. So we wondered if she’d come to you.”

I
opened my eyes and gave him a sardonic smile. “And naturally you swore out a
warrant before talking to the neighbors: the new procedure when hunting a
missing person. You check my office? The Pulteney’s address is on the business
card I left with her. If she was enterprising enough to start hunting for me
that’s where she’d go.” I couldn’t picture Emily being that definite, but I’d
never seen her at her best.

Finchley
made a gesture of annoyance. “We started there. And found you’d broken the seal
on the door. That’s a felony, in case you don’t remember.”

That
didn’t seem like an important enough issue to debate just now. “What do Emily’s
brothers say?”

“They’re
gone too,” Fabian said. “You must know—”

“All
your children have disappeared and you’re wasting time screaming at me?