Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (31 page)

He
called Bart, my twangy-voiced escort, and asked him to send up a couple of
women security officers. While we waited I tried probing further about Home
Free, about Deirdre, Lamia, and JAD Holdings and Century Bank, but he’d decided
on a course of action: I’d been there to spy on his uncle’s corn plants and I
needed to be given the boot. Despite my frustration I had to applaud his
ingenuity—it made a perfect cover.

After
five minutes—of my relentless questions and his stonewalling—two women in tan
uniforms arrived, wearing armbands that sported the ubiquitous Gant-Ag logo in
gold. They escorted me to an empty office and looked through my pockets and
socks. I offered to show them my bra and panties, but they demurred. When I’d
retied my shoes they led me—politely but firmly—to my car and drove with me
past the guard station.

Near
the experimental cornfield I pulled over again. Reaching through the fence I
pulled up a couple of stalks. I stood for several minutes, ostentatiously
studying them, lifting them up to the dull April sky to inspect them against
the light, pulling off individual blades. Holding them aloft I made a show of
carrying them back to my car.

Maybe
Gantner was more concerned about his corn plants than anything else, but no
helicopter stopped to bomb me. All during the long drive back to Chicago I
tried to decide why Gantner had agreed to see me. Was it because of Deirdre?

Or
Home Free? And what was JAD Holdings, to generate such a startling response?

I
longed to disguise myself as a load of fertilizer and infiltrate the corn
company.

A
Needle in a Corncrib

When
I left the remote exurban reaches at First Avenue I saw the city for a moment
as an outsider. Compared to the outsize malls and massive roads I’d left
behind, Chicago looked decrepit, even useless. I wondered if my beloved briar
patch was as tired as I was, and what would keep either of us going.

I
wanted to round out my day by talking to Donald Blakely, the third musketeer,
but it was five-thirty when I drove under the post office. I stopped hopefully
at the Gateway Bank building. The guard in the lobby told me both Mr.

Blakely
and Ms. Guziak had gone for the day—even hardworking execs leave on time on
Fridays. I managed to get back to my car just before a meter maid reached me.

Hot
dog—my luck was turning.

I
wished Tish wasn’t such a prickly pear—I’d love to know how Home Free’s
decision to drop out of direct placement had been reached. And whether Home
Free really was more effective now that they only built housing.

The
building they did was the crux of the matter. It was the one thing about Home
Free that smelled funny. Their projects couldn’t be such a secret. Even in
Chicago they’d have to pull construction permits.

I
stopped in front of the Pulteney. Maybe that was what Cyrus Lavalle, my City
Hall gopher, had found out: that the three musketeers had bribed enough
aldermen to keep from having to pull permits. That would certainly make Home
Free’s affairs hush-hush around City Hall.

I
smacked the steering wheel. It was before Lamia got involved with Home Free
that Cyrus had finked on me. Century Bank was what he hadn’t wanted to talk
about. And it was my mentioning Lamia, not Home Free, that had made Eleanor
roar off to use her phone in private.

Heccomb
was up to something that Blakely and Gantner knew about. And Phoebe, I
supposed. But what could it possibly have to do with Deirdre? On the other
hand, if it didn’t, why was Gantner using his powerful daddy to pull strings to
track the investigation? Or was that coming from Fabian?

Gantner
was right about one thing: it was hard to see any connection among Home Free,
Century Bank, and Deirdre’s murder. So why was I wasting time asking questions
about them? Certainly not solely out of concern toward Camilla or spite against
Phoebe. Some of it was curiosity, but a big chunk came from my old street
fighter’s resentment of rich, powerful people who tried to spin me around.

Last
week I’d told Phoebe I didn’t have time to undertake an investigation without a
fee. That was still true this week—how much resentment could I afford?

Maybeenough
to track down JAD Holdings.

I
climbed out of the car. An old man in a shapeless overcoat was rummaging
through a trash can out front. I went into the coffee shop. Melba greeted me
with the ease of old friendship but said she hadn’t seen any trace of Emily.

“I
asked around, too, girl—this town ain’t no place for young people to be out in,
not on their own without any money or sense. But no one’s seen a sign of them
this end of the street.”

I
went around the Pulteney one more time, looking along the alley as well as the
front, but saw no trace, either of Emily or Tamar Hawkings. No way in. How had
Tamar managed it? Could she have slid inside when I had the door unlocked on
one of my forays to the electrical box? I tried a grating in the alley but it
was firmly fastened in place.

Out
front I inspected the flaps in the sidewalk that opened for deliveries.

They
hadn’t been used in years, not since the last of the big retailers had moved
out of the Pulteney. They didn’t budge, even when I got my jack out of the
trunk and tried to pry them loose.

The
man in the shapeless coat watched me with interest. “You drop something down
there, girlie?”

“An
old friend,” I said absently. “You see her? She had a couple of children in
tow.”

He
came over to peer through the cracks in the flaps with me, as if hoping to see
his fortune in the dark beyond. When I repeated my question he shuffled back to
the garbage can mumbling that he minded his own business and he expected other
people to do the same.

I
tried to pry at the plywood with my jack. Rensselaer Siding had done a great
job—there wasn’t a chink or loose flap anywhere. I could break through the
boarding with enough time and the right tools, but this part of the city has
too many cops patrolling it, trying to keep it safe for tourists.

I
looked up as the el rattled past overhead. Ten years ago I might have shinnied
up a girder and made the ten-foot jump to a window ledge. Now I was almost
forty and leaps like that were beyond me.

“I’m
getting smarter, not older,” I said aloud.

The
old man looked up from his trash can. “That’s the spirit, girlie. You keep
getting smarter and pretty soon you’ll be back in kindergarten.”

He
chuckled to himself and repeated my remark. “Smarter, not older. Yeah, you keep
getting smarter you start getting younger.”

I
fished in my jeans for a dollar bill. “A good thought. Keep working on it.

And
have a cup of coffee on me.” As I climbed back into the car I could hear him
repeating the comment and laughing idiotically.

MacKenzie
Graham’s Spider was parked out front when I got home. I didn’t know whether to
be touched or annoyed. He climbed out and tried to take my bag of groceries
from me.

“I’ve
been looking at your computer. The files are retrievable, but it’s hot, dull
work. I thought you could show your gratitude by coming out to dinner with me.”

“My
boyfriend’s coming to dinner. And I’ll take the bag.” I felt a spurt of
irritation at his casual invasion of my evening. “You know, you’d have a
community service placement by now if you’d put the energy into looking for one
that you’re devoting to me. And you’d be back in college for the summer
term—you could graduate with your class.”

“You
only date college grads? What’s your boyfriend do—is he some kind of hotshot
lawyer?”

“He’s
in the law, that’s for sure. Your dad gave me until five today to find a
placement for you. Do you want me to tell him you’re working for me instead?”

He
gave a saucy grin. “It might get his goat, which would be worth something, but
maybe you’d better say I’ll have to go to jail instead. So what would I have to
do before you’d go out to dinner with me—kill the guys who are following you?”

“Get
a job. Narrow the gap between us from twenty years to ten.”

Mr.
Contreras had apparently been watching the melodrama from his living room,
because his door was open and the dogs bounding out when I went into the foyer.
Ken followed me inside. When I saw how happy the old man was some of my
irritation evaporated. Mr. Contreras’s life has been a little dreary since the
death of one of his old friends last year. Now he told me how much he enjoyed
talking to a young kid with a real mind.

“Great.”
I pumped enthusiasm into my tired voice. “You two have a good time.

Ken
could even run the dogs—that might count as an hour of community service.”

I
went upstairs on Mr. Contreras’s protests that Ken was a nice young man, why
couldn’t I show a little kindness for a change. When I finished unpacking my
groceries and checked in with my answering service I found Ken’s father had
indeed phoned. Promptly at five, my operator said, just as he’d threatened.

Although
it was close to seven now, Darraugh was still in the office when I called back.

“I haven’t
had any luck,” I said, before he could speak. “I’ve been to all the charities I
know and they don’t want a hacker. They feel he might violate their
confidential records.”

“What’d
you tell them for?” Darraugh snapped.

“Because
when it’s court-mandated community service work they have a right to be told
the truth. I can’t lie in such a situation.”

I
held my breath, wondering if I would get the ax and what I’d do for my mortgage
payments then. Darraugh was a little inhuman, but he wasn’t unreasonable. He
grudgingly accepted my explanation and asked me to keep looking.

“Anything
so I can get him back to school. He’s a pain in the ass.”

“No
quarrel here,” I said drily. “Meanwhile I’ve got him working on a project for
me. I don’t know whether we could persuade the probation officer that that
counted for something: in my current state you could easily prove I was a
not-for-profit outfit.”

Darraugh’s
infrequent laugh came out as a rusty wheeze. Adjuring me not to let MacKenzie
distract me from my own work he hung up. Conrad phoned a few minutes later to
tell me a late meeting with a witness would delay him. He didn’t think he’d get
to my place before eight-thirty at the earliest. My heart sank; I was so
exhausted I wanted to put him off altogether, but our life together had been
through too much strain lately. At least with some time to myself I could bathe
and take a nap.

I
started the bath water running and looked up Cyrus Lavalle in my Rolodex.

He
lived on Buckingham Street, but, in keeping with his ideas of how the rich and
famous live, had an unlisted number. I’d acquired it once during a meeting with
him when he’d scribbled it on a napkin to give to a waiter he’d been eyeing.

He
was not pleased to hear from me. “I keep my phone unlisted just so people like
you won’t bother me. Go away, Warshawski. I’m getting ready for dinner.”

“So
the sooner you tell me what I want to know the sooner you can finish primping.
Was it Alec Gantner or Donald Blakely who made Century and Lamia off-limits at
City Hall?”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about.” He dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Let
me ask the question a little differently. Century is obviously doing something
funny with their community loans, or they wouldn’t have made Lamia a hot
potato. It would be worth a lot to me, Cyrus, a real lot, to know what.” If he
took me up on it, could I get a real lot of money together to pay him?

He
was tempted—he took a long minute to answer. “You’re poison around town these
days, Warshawski. You know that? If people found out I was even thinking of
talking to you, I’d be dead. Now go away and don’t bother me.”

When
he’d hung up I climbed into the tub. I leaned back in the water, wondering how
I could find out what they were doing. It couldn’t be anything as simple as
violating the community lending act. They wouldn’t be bribing aldermen over
that, anyway—that was a federal offense. Although it might explain how young
Gantner tied into the picture, I couldn’t come up with a plausible scenario for
the whole story.

I
finally gave up on it and let myself relax, drifting into a light sleep. I woke
up shivering in the cold water. Hoping to get a real nap in before Conrad came
I dried off and climbed into bed. As soon as I lay down, though, my mind
refused to relax. I began a relentless churning through the same muddy paths
I’d been following since leaving Morris.

If
only I could see one of Home Free’s buildings maybe I’d understand what was so
sacred about them. Shoddy materials, most likely, for which they were paying
off the building inspectors. But no, I reminded myself fretfully, it was
Century Bank, not the charity, that had caused the omerta at City Hall. So
maybe I could go to City Hall or to Dodge Reports and see whether Home Free had
pulled a permit recently.

Tomorrow
was Saturday; I wouldn’t be able to get at the records until Monday.