Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (47 page)

“The
night nurse thought it was an enterprising reporter,” Conrad pointed out. “She
could be right.”

“She
could be at that.” I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so bleak. “Did you bring
some clothes for me? Why don’t you let me wash up and change. I’ll meet you
outside in a few minutes.”

Conrad
studied my face, then said he’d bring the car around to the Huron Street
entrance. He handed me his canvas gym bag and left the room. As soon as he’d
gone I phoned the Streeter Brothers, a collective that does furniture moving as
well as bodyguarding. We’ve worked a lot together. I got Tim and explained
Emily’s situation.

“As
soon as she’s fit to move I’m going to get her out of here. But that may not be
for a few days. When you get here talk to a nurse named Ellen Higgins.

I’ll
try to reach her before I leave, but she’s the one person who will go to bat
for Emily right now.”

“If I
get booted, where do I reach you?” Tim asked.

“Leave
a message with my answering service. And if you do get booted, can you figure
out a way to hang around, make sure no one goes injecting strychnine into her
IV tube?”

When
he’d agreed, with the laconic good humor that was the Streeter brothers’
hallmark, I climbed into the clean jeans Conrad had found for me. He’d stuck a
single rosebud into the pocket of the T-shirt. I felt my heart twist in my
chest. I took an extra minute to comb my hair and place the rose over my ear
with an IV clip I found behind the bed.

Before
leaving the room I paged Ellen Higgins, to let her know the Streeters would be
around. Emily was sleeping, the nurse told me, from a sedative that would
probably keep her knocked out for the rest of the afternoon. Higgins didn’t
know if Fabian or Dr. Morrison would allow me to keep a guard there, but she
would accept Tim for the time being.

Ken
Graham came in as I was hanging up, clutching a bunch of tulips. “I thought I
was going to have to plant these on you, but you can carry them instead. How
come you get to gondola through the tunnels of Chicago while I have to sit on
my ass in Kenilworth persuading Darraugh I’m not a psychopath?”

“Is
your dad home? The flood knock out his building?”

“Yeah,
they don’t have power, but he’s directing operations from an emergency bunker.
Being Darraugh, he was smart enough to bag space in a Gold Coast Hotel
yesterday morning while everyone else was wringing their hands. Except for
people like you hogging the fun stuff down under, I mean. This episode may
finally unwind the last screw in Darraugh’s brain: they can send people into
his building to get papers, but for some kind of screwy safety reason they can
only go one at a time. So the physically fit are going one at a time to fetch
vital papers. On foot, up forty flights, because there’s no power. I did one
load for him and he still thinks I’m a psychopath. So I came to see if you
would marry me.”

“And
you brought a bridal bouquet. How truly thoughtful. You put any energy into my
accounts lately? Taxes are due tomorrow.” I picked up my bag of filthy clothes
with one hand and took his proffered flowers with the other.

“The
IRS is giving everyone in the Loop a filing extension—it was on the news this
morning.” He put his arms around me. “If I reconstruct your files in time, will
you marry me?”

I
dropped the flowers and the bag and extricated myself from his clasp. “If you
reconstruct my files I’ll see that a 501-c(3) counts it as community service.
You need that much more than you do a wife. ... I want to write a note for a
pediatric patient. Will you take it over to one of the nurses, please?”

I
tore a blank page from my chart and wrote a careful message to Emily, in care
of Nurse Higgins, telling her who the Streeter brothers were. With an
exaggerated sigh Ken tucked it next to his heart. He had to return to his
father’s hotel to act as a messenger boy, but he’d get back to my accounts
tonight, he promised.

“I
don’t think my calves are up to scaling Darraugh’s building again. Why do you
have to leave so soon? We could rest in this cozy little bed together.”

I
picked up the bag and left the room without answering.

The
Three Musketeers

My
fatigue pushed me into a deep sleep, but it was filled with tormented dreams.

Sometimes
I could hear Emily crying but couldn’t see her. I would follow her voice
through the unlit water-laden tunnels without finding her. At other times, I
was trapped in a steel coffin through whose walls I could see Fabian torturing
his daughter while Conrad and Terry Finchley laughed at my immobility.

When
I finally came to, my mouth was thick and my arms felt as though someone had
systematically pounded them with bricks. I gasped when I looked around, unable
to recognize my surroundings, thinking for a moment I had plunged into the kind
of nightmare where you think you’re awake but you’re not. After a few seconds
my heart rate returned to normal: the scrupulously tidy room was Conrad’s. I
laughed a little to myself—I’d have to tell him that when I wake up to clean
surroundings I think I’m having a nightmare.

His
bedside clock read a little after five. I’d been out almost four hours. I could
hear Conrad moving around in the living room. Wrapping myself in his
terry-cloth bathrobe I went to join him. It turned out to be Camilla, settling
herself in front of the television with a plate of chips and dip. When she saw
me she switched off the sound.

“If
it isn’t Lady Lazarus herself,” she said. “When my big brother said he had to
go to work I offered to come baby-sit. I wanted to see you walking and talking
with my own eyes.”

I
went over to hug her. “Lady Zombie is more like it. Why’d Conrad have to go to
work? I thought he was on days until summer.”

“He
traded shifts with one of the brothers so he could look over you today.

He’ll
be off at midnight. Now tell me all. Everything that the TV people didn’t cover
in your sixty seconds of fame and glory.”

I
scooped up a handful of chips and gave her the highlights of my search through
the tunnels. Although she didn’t want to hear it, I also told her about Gary
Charpentier’s immigrant scam.

She
was quiet when I finished. Over her head I watched the frenzied crews trying to
pump water from Chicago’s belly. The Loop was crawling with cops, sanitation
workers, and engineering teams.

“You
know what really sucks about that?” Camilla suddenly burst out. “Outfits like
ours that are scrambling to get a toehold don’t pay union scale so we can
compete. But we can’t make a living because creeps like Charpentier are willing
to use sharecropper labor.”

“Home
Free did give you the rehab job,” I pointed out.

“Yeah,
but we wanted new construction. Of course, that building we wanted to put up
didn’t have anything to do with Home Free, but at the same time you don’t see
them opening up jobs like the one you looked at to outfits like ours.”

She
followed me to Conrad’s kitchen while I made some coffee. I wanted to rest for
a week, but somehow I had to find the reserves to keep going. Caffeine wasn’t
the answer, but it might provide the illusion of energy.

While
I drank, Camilla rummaged in the refrigerator. “Ever since Conrad got that bad
cholesterol report there’s been nothing to eat here. I want a ham sandwich
after my hard day on the job, not low-fat yogurt.”

“Tell
me something, Zu-Zu. What city ordinance would Charpentier have been violating
out at the worksite?”

She
shook her head. “Beats me. Feds deal with immigrants. Of course, far as the job
itself goes, you name it, the city has an inspector. Plumbing’s the worst—their
guys are like the hounds of hell.”

I
couldn’t imagine a problem with plumbing inspectors that would have made Cyrus
Lavalle, my little City Hall spout, so nervous. I tried to imagine what other
kinds of things the city might worry about.

Camilla
found a can of tuna fish and divided her attention between me and making a
plate of sandwiches. “There’s Wage and Hour sheets.” She licked low-fat
mayonnaise from a spoon and made a face. “You know, they come around to see if
you’re paying prevailing wage. Of course, they don’t do a site audit—say you’re
paying out five thousand a week in payroll. At prevailing wage that would mean
you might have six people working full-time. But maybe you have twelve and
you’re paying them half the scale—the city wouldn’t come around to check how
many were there. If you told them six they’d believe you.”

I
thought about it. Wages aren’t the limit of payroll expense. There are taxes.
Workers’ compensation, which must cost a bundle in construction. Health
insurance, if you’re a union shop.

Eight
men had been at the site I’d stumbled on. If Charpentier was paying them
prevailing wage that would be sixty-four hundred in wages. Plus maybe another
thirty-six in benefits, insurance, and payroll taxes. Ten thousand a week. But
since all these guys were here illegally Charpentier wasn’t paying taxes.
Clearly the men weren’t getting union wages. Charpentier—and Heccomb—were
probably shaving six or seven thousand off the cost of the job. No wonder Home
Free fulfilled the liberal dream of building affordable housing.

Were
they bribing the inspectors to stay away—at a sufficiently high level that
Lavalle would be warned off for asking questions? I needed to call my
informant, but his unlisted home number was in my address book. Which was
either buried in the rubble of my apartment or stolen by my assailants on
Saturday in an effort to track Emily.

I ate
one of Camilla’s tuna sandwiches, ignoring her protest. She’d made four, and
even a hardworking carpenter could survive on three. If I couldn’t find Cyrus
until tomorrow—oh, no. Not even at work. City Hall was closed indefinitely
because of the flood. For the same reason I couldn’t try to find him at the
Golden Glow.

“Phoebe,”
I said out loud. “Do you have Phoebe’s home number on you?”

“Maybe.”
Camilla ate the last sandwich. “Not if you’re going to call to harangue her
about Lamia. Jasper may be a scumbag, using illegal workers to take bread out
of American mouths, but I don’t want to jeopardize our first real contract.”

I
cocked my head. “I think I can talk to Phoebe without getting into your
affairs.”

“Promise?
In writing?”

I
took Conrad’s shopping list from the refrigerator and scribbled a promise on
the back. Camilla laughed and went to the living room to dig out her address
book. I called Phoebe from the kitchen, while Camilla watched me from the
doorway.

“Phoebe!”
I cried heartily. “Good work! I saw it in yesterday’s paper but couldn’t reach
you sooner. I got tied up—you might have seen the story on last night’s news.”

“What
do you want, Vic?” She did not sound as if I were her long-lost sister.

“To
congratulate you on getting FDA approval for clinical trials for Mr.

T—your
T-cell enhancer, I mean. I’ve always admired your moves, but this one was
something special.”

“It
was bound to happen sooner or later. We were delighted, of course, that it
happened sooner.” Her voice was cautious.

“And
what did you give Senator Gantner in return? Not a hundred thousand for his war
chest. It must have been something else. Can I have three guesses?”

“You
can mind your own damned business.” She was angry but she didn’t hang up.

“Camilla’s
standing here watching me. I promised not to mention Lamia or the tradeswomen.
So I won’t. But what was it about Century Bank that Gantner and Heccomb wanted
to protect—bad enough that young Alec got his daddy to pressure the FDA for
you?”

“You
know, in all the years we were in school together I didn’t realize you had such
a vivid imagination.” Phoebe had mastered her temper, at least on the surface,
and spoke with light mockery. “There’s nothing wrong with Century. They were in
a squeeze. They couldn’t afford Lamia’s bid, so they went to Jasper—”

“And
got him to dress up as the Easter bunny,” I cut in. “Jasper and Alec Gantner
used Mr. T to persuade you to take a hike—Alec promised you his daddy would put
in some Republican muscle at the FDA, and he came through. I suppose you
could’ve cut Big Alec in on Cellular Enhancement, but I can’t see the owner of
Gant-Ag needing a venture capital concern as a revenue enhancer. You must have
smelled a rat. You may be the most arrogant woman I’ve ever worked with, but
you’ve never been stupid. Or even, as far as I know, dishonest.”

Camilla
started to move around the kitchen in her nervousness, opening cupboard doors,
straightening Conrad’s already neatly aligned dish towels. She dropped a pot,
which clanged loudly against the linoleum.

“You
throwing furniture now?” Phoebe asked at the noise. “It’s a red-letter day when
a woman like you thinks she can call someone else arrogant. All right—I don’t
think it’s a crime to admit I asked Alec for help. Mr. T—Cellular
Enhancement—is a good little company. They just needed some high-level
attention. So Alec got Jasper to give Lamia a Home Free rehab job. There’s
nothing sinister about that.”