Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (24 page)

I
swallowed some coffee. “After that history I’m surprised you even wanted to
join the police.”

He
grinned, his gold front tooth glinting. “Maybe I wanted to even the score.

No,
things had changed. Some. When I got home from Vietnam I tried college, but I
felt too old, too out-of-place. I had to do something and the options didn’t
look that great—drive a bus, be a busboy—so I took the test and went to the
academy. The Finch was in my class. He was a college boy. University of
Illinois criminal justice major. They thought he was too big for his britches.
A couple of the guys jumped him one night when I happened to be passing by.
After that we got to be buddies.”

His
beeper went off. “This had better not be some triple homicide calling me back
to work.”

He
got up to find a phone but came back a minute later. “Speak of the devil.

It’s
Terry, looking for you.”

I
went to the pay phone in the back of the restaurant. Terry was stiff, a bit
formal, but straightforward. He wanted to share the lab results with me. The
bat did have Deirdre’s brains on it. Besides my own prints, the only ones
they’d found were Emily’s.

“Doesn’t
look good, Vic. I just wanted you to know.”

“Isn’t
it strange, Terry? Wouldn’t you think you’d find her brothers’ or her parents’
prints? Even visitors’? The thing sat in the hall where anyone could see it—I
noticed it when I went to dinner down there. And a star like Nellie Fox—it
makes you want to pick it up and hold his signed bat. I did it myself at the
time.”

“Maybe.”
Terry was dubious but polite: perhaps Conrad had been lecturing him too. “I’ll
put it to the lieutenant.”

I
thanked him for letting me know right away. On my way back to the table I felt
curiously optimistic. Unlike some of the stories I try out in the hopes they’ll
work, I believed what I’d said to Terry. I didn’t know where Emily was, or what
the bat was doing under her radiator, but I felt sure she hadn’t killed her
mother.

Conrad
and I finished the evening at the Cotton Club after all. While I leaned against
his shoulder, lazily moving to the band, I wondered what part of my story he
might have told Terry Finchley to make me seem more human.

In
the (Electronic) Eye of the Beholder

Before
leaving my apartment I called Alice Cottingham at Emily’s high school. It had
occurred to me last night that the girl could have confided in some of her
other teachers, and that Cottingham might be able to find that out. I caught
her just as she was about to start a class, so she was curt. She didn’t think
her colleagues would shelter a student without telling the parents, but—to get
me off the line—she agreed to get Emily’s class schedule and see whether any of
the teachers felt the girl had singled them out for special confidences.

This
morning I found a meter available right in front of Home Free. When I went
inside, Tish was at her desk, her thin body shrouded in a giant khaki sweater
and shapeless granny skirt. Her heavy brows furrowed when she saw me.

The
usual warm Home Free welcome.

“Hi,
Tish. V. I. Warshawski. I was in here last week.”

“I
remember.” Nothing in her deep voice made it sound as though she’d been lying
awake at night savoring the recollection.

“You
were going to set up a tour of some of your projects for me so I could see what
they look like. Remember that too?” Her churlishness made me speak brightly, as
one does to a peevish toddler.

Tish
gestured at the stacks of paper on the desk. “I’ve got all this work to do and
no one to help me with it. I don’t have time to respond to frivolous requests.”

“Nothing
frivolous in it. But I’ll tell you what—I’ll get you some first-class volunteer
help if you’ll take five minutes to answer a few questions.”

“What
kind of questions?”

“About
Deirdre Messenger.”

She
looked away from me to the computer in front of her. She was working with some
graphs. I couldn’t make out the details. As we both watched, goldfish began to
swim across the screen in a random pattern.

“I
can’t talk to you about Deirdre.”

“Is
she considered classified information, high-level, for your board only?

Should
I ask Jasper?”

“He
doesn’t want to be bothered right now.” She glared at me.

“It’s
a choice between you or him, Tish. If you can’t talk to me I don’t mind it
being him.”

I
started toward the rear of the room, where Jasper’s door was. Tish moved out of
her chair and across the small space between us so fast that she had her arms
around me before I could touch the doorknob. I disengaged myself without much
difficulty—not only was I stronger and used to fighting, but her own action
startled her.

“What’s
he doing in there?” I asked mildly. “Holding an orgy?”

Her
face flooded with color. “How can you say things like that?”

My
pity at her gaucherie warred with impatience at it. “Come on, Tish. You’re
making such a big deal out of this that you’re rousing my curiosity. I only
wanted to ask some questions about Deirdre Messenger’s role on your board. And
see if in exchange you’d like a volunteer. You’re acting as though I’ve
stumbled onto the secret of the century.”

She
drew herself up straight. I was surprised to see she was taller than me—she
took a good five inches from her height by hunching down into her clothes.

“If
you don’t leave these private premises I will call the police.”

“Fine.
I don’t mind the police.”

“Oh
... oh ...fuck you anyway.”

When
she stormed back to her desk I tried the door. It was locked. Tish picked up
her phone and spoke into it. She tried to shield the mouthpiece with her hand,
but the room was too small for secret conversation.

“I’m
sorry, Jasper. I know you didn’t want to be disturbed, but that detective who
was here last week came in and she won’t leave. I threatened to call the
police. ... Deirdre Messenger ... Okay.”

She
hung up and turned back to her computer. A few seconds later Jasper came out of
the inner room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“Vic.
Good to see you. Tish says you have some questions about Deirdre Messenger? She
was murdered in your office, wasn’t she? That must have been a shock. I hope
the police don’t suspect you.” He smiled at me with a friendly sympathy.

“Until
the police make an arrest they suspect everyone. I’m helping out by trying to
learn who Deirdre met with that night.”

“It
wasn’t me,” Jasper said. “How about you, Tish?”

Her
lips pressed together, she typed furiously, refusing to share in his banter.

“If
that’s all, Vic ... I hate to be rude, but when you come by unannounced you
can’t expect people to meet with you.” He looked at the heavy metal weighting
his wrist.

“You
guys don’t have a good track record returning my calls. All I want to know is
what Deirdre did for you. Who she worked with. I’m trying to generate some
names of people to talk to—new leads, you might say. So I can find out whom she
was meeting last Friday night.”

Jasper
looked reproachfully at his aide. “We can’t dismiss questions like this, Tish.
Not when one of our own volunteers has been murdered.”

Tish
sat rigidly in front of her machine, not looking at us. “I’m sorry, Jasper. I
shouldn’t have lost my temper. It’s just ... I’m swamped.”

“I
know that, Tish. You work far too hard as it is. It’s difficult balancing so
many demands.” His smile was still beguiling; I found myself feeling I’d been
the source of unfair demands on Tish.

“I
don’t think Deirdre was close to anyone at Home Free,” he continued, to me. “Of
course, the day-to-day work she did for us Tish knows more about than I do.
What’s your afternoon like, Tish? Got any time later on?”

“I
can make time. You tell me which is more important, talking to her or finishing
this report.”

He
went over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She sat still under his touch,
like a timid rabbit, trying not to show the pleasure she found in it.

“Tish,
darling, if you will make time to meet with Vic, and if you will be an absolute
angel and stay late to finish the project, I will come back here after my
afternoon meeting and whisk you off to the fleshpot of your choice.”

She
kept her eyes fixed on the computer screen. “All right, Jasper. If you want it
bad enough to spring for dinner. You can come back at three-thirty,” she added
to me.

He
squeezed her shoulder and let her go. “Atta girl. Tish makes this office work.
If I had to pay her what she’s worth, we’d need to double our revenues.”

You’re
used to people working hard for love, I wanted to say, but couldn’t be so cruel
to Tish. Instead I grunted noncommittally and thanked both of them.

“There
is one other thing, Jasper, which Tish tells me only you can decide but which
could make a big difference in her horrendous work load. Do you know Darraugh
Graham?”

“You
mean the CEO? Don’t tell me the cops suspect him of killing Deirdre.”

I
gave a thin smile. “He has a son who needs to do some community service work.
How about letting him do it here?”

“Community
service?” Jasper raised his brows. “What’d he get busted for? A few lines?”

“A
few telephone lines. Into DOE files. He needs to put in about five weeks in a
not-for-profit. I’m sure the judge would be extremely enthusiastic about Home
Free.”

Jasper
narrowed his eyes at me. “A hacker, Vic? Do you think I was born yesterday? Or
were you?”

“What’s
that supposed to mean? You’d rather have someone who might sell your
electronics to support a drug habit than a computer whiz? He could get this
office automated and straightened out in a week.”

“Tish
is a computer whiz too. And don’t be naive, Vic. I don’t want a hacker who can
poke into my files. If that’s a big letdown for Darraugh Graham, I’m sorry.
We’ll write him off as a donor. Tish will see you this afternoon. I’ve got to
get back to my meeting.” He stalked back to his office, for once forgetting to
smile.

What
was in his damned files that he had to protect—unreported income? I was
consumed now with curiosity about who in that back room needed such careful
sheltering. Once outside the office I looked around for a convenient place to
watch the entrance. The vertical blinds still shut out any view of the inside.

When
I glanced up at the lintel I found an electronic eye watching me. An important
precaution in a neighborhood like this? Or overly vigilant for a storefront
operation?

I
went back to the Korean novelty shop. The lamp I’d admired last week was still
there. Dust was gathering on the baby’s upper lip, but the shade still
trumpeted “Oh, Mama” in bright red letters. If I went inside to look at it,
though, I wouldn’t be able to tell when the Home Free door opened.

For
the benefit of the electronic eye I drove my car around the block and parked
close to Leland. Picking up the towels that I kept in the backseat for the dogs,
I crossed to the far side of the street and went into a Laundromat. It was
about three doors south of Home Free, with big windows that afforded a good
view of the street.

A
couple of women in Azeri headscarves were chatting in one corner. Another young
woman sat by herself reading a Korean newspaper. None of them paid any
attention to me; I didn’t really even need the verisimilitude of doing laundry,
but it wouldn’t hurt the towels to be clean once a year.

The
water had just started roaring into the machine when the Home Free door opened.
I squinted and then felt my jaw go slack in surprise. Phoebe Quirk came out,
accompanied by young Alec Gantner, the senator’s son whom I’d met at Deirdre’s
last week. The impulse to run outside and grab hold of her, to shake her until
she told me what the two of them wanted together with Jasper Heccomb, was so
strong my legs ached from the effort of standing still.

It
wasn’t surprising for Phoebe to meet with Heccomb: she was a backer of Lamia,
and Lamia was rehabbing a building for them. It wasn’t surprising for Alec
Gantner to be there—he was a director of Home Free. Why, then, did Jasper and
Tish feel they had to shroud the meeting in secrecy? Was there some conflict of
interest—were Phoebe and Alec involved in some other deal that should have
precluded the Lamia project? But what could that be?

I
looked at the washing machine. It would take almost an hour for it to complete
the cycle. I was coming back this afternoon to see Tish: if someone wanted to
steal the towels in the interim, she was welcome to them. While Gantner and
Phoebe climbed into her BMW I scuttled down the street for my Trans Am. By the
time Phoebe got to her office I was sitting in the antechamber waiting for her.

The
Old Girl Spiderweb

Phoebe
was humming under her breath. She gave a cheery “good morning” to the
receptionist before noticing me.