Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (49 page)

“And
Emily Messenger?”

I
shook my head. “I’d like to get part of her story out. I think whoever killed
her mother is gunning for her because he thinks she can ID him. If he knows she
didn’t see anything but a pair of shoes maybe she’ll get some breathing room.
But she’s been mauled around pretty badly. She doesn’t need the media groping
at her too.”

Murray
drained a bottle and signaled for another. “My sources say your pals think she
killed her mother. That they may apply for a warrant in the next day or
two—it’s a question of which way they think Fabian will jump.”

I
tried not to let my face or voice show my shock at the news, but I couldn’t
keep aside a twist of anger with Conrad and Finchley. Conrad must have known
that this morning, but he couldn’t tell me. The applause heralding the sequined
performer’s return gave me room to collect myself—I didn’t want to denigrate
Conrad to Murray.

Halfway
through the first number Cyrus came in. He’d dressed to be noticed: in a room
filled with gaudily or shockingly clothed men his white silk shirt and soft
black trousers pulled the eye. The shirt alone, with the epaulettes and notched
collar that proclaimed Thierry Mugler, must have set Cyrus back a grand.

He
kissed one man, waved at a few others, and settled himself on a bar stool like
a lion willing to be courted. I edged my chair deep in the shadows to keep him
from spotting me.

“We
need to get him apart from the crowd before he gets too attached to anyone,” I
muttered to Murray.

“Don’t
expect me to use my charms to compete with the talent in here,” Murray muttered
back.

“Spoilsport.”
I scribbled a note on my pad. “Give him this, and use your body to block his
view of the room. If I’m lucky, when he reads it he’ll be ready to go out the
back way with you.”

As
soon as Murray’s bulk was between me and Cyrus I put a twenty on our table and
moved casually through the curtain at the back of the room. On the other side
were the toilets, phones, and the cubicles the owners used for offices and
storage. Couples were groping each other in the narrow hall; here and there
used condoms dotted the floor. The smell of sweat and semen was intense.

I
breathed through my mouth while I tried the door to an office. It was locked,
but not very seriously. The people around me were absorbed by their own
affairs. I took a credit card from my wallet and pried the lock open just as
Murray and Cyrus came through the curtain. Cyrus was looking nervously over his
shoulder as they came—he still hadn’t seen me. Before he did I grabbed his arm
and hustled him into the cubicle, with Murray pushing from behind. I switched
on a light, found a chair, and sat in it with my back against the door.

“Cyrus,
this is a pleasure.”

In
the fluorescent light his skin looked pasty. “Warshawski! What ... ? How ... ?”

“Sal
told me you come here. Don’t worry about the enforcers—it was me who sent the
note. A lucky guess.”

I’d
written—anonymously—that someone demanding payment had come looking for him,
armed with a tire iron, but that my friend would help him escape out the back.
Given his expensive habits it seemed like a good possibility that he owed more
than one person money.

“What
do you want? I could start screaming. Gee-Gee would hear me and throw you out.”

“Nah.
My friend here would just say he’d gotten carried away—like some of the guys in
the hall. Gee-Gee might resent his using the office but I bet he wouldn’t throw
him out. We’re going to talk. You’re going to tell us what’s happening at City
Hall.”

“What
if I don’t?” He was sulky but no longer frightened—he knew me well enough to
know that whatever threat I might pose it wouldn’t be physical.

“Oh,
Murray here is with theHerald-Star —show him your press pass so he knows I’m
not lying—and if you don’t talk he’ll run a big story on you as a City Hall
mole. That would probably get a whole lot of people peeved. Might even cost you
your job.”

Murray
perched on the corner of the paper-laden desk, which filled most of the
cubicle. He pulled out his wallet and showed Cyrus his pass, then asked me for
the correct spelling of Cyrus’s last name.

Cyrus
looked from Murray to my chair blocking the door. “You wouldn’t dare.

Libel
laws—”

“Only
apply to lies. This would be the truth. Of course, if you felt like giving me a
few simple facts, Murray would forget he ever met you. He’s got plenty of City
Hall sources. No one would think about you in connection with anything he
writes.”

As
Cyrus licked his lips, hesitating, Murray pulled the phone over. “I can call
the news desk and tell them to reserve space in the late edition.”

Of
course he couldn’t, really—only on television do stories about corruption go
directly into the paper without a hundred editors, fact checkers, and lawyers
deciding whether the article will offend an important advertiser. But Cyrus
didn’t know that. His shoulders sagged and his face crumpled.

“Century
Bank, City Hall, Home Free, Lamia.” I ticked them off on my fingers.

“We’ll
cover those and you’re free. I know that Home Free is fudging their Wage and
Hour reports in a major way. Who are they paying not to investigate?”

His
face cleared—he was so relieved, the Wage and Hour sheets couldn’t be the main
problem. He talked his way glibly through the characters in the city building
and labor departments who were on the dole. I recognized some of the names but
Murray knew all of them—local politics are his meat and drink.

Cyrus
rattled off names for about five minutes, including two more contractors
besides Charpentier that Home Free worked with. “That’s all I know.

So
you can get away from the door.”

“That’s
all you know about the Wage and Hour inspection,” I corrected. “But that isn’t
what got everyone downtown excited about the Lamia project. Lamia had a
building permit, and suddenly, overnight, that got canceled. Why? Was it the
aldermen or the mayor? The aldermen own zoning and building in their wards, so
I know it wasn’t the building department.”

It
took another five minutes of prodding. It wasn’t fun: I don’t like myself in
the role of bully and Cyrus wasn’t attractive as a scared rabbit. Finally, when
Murray actually got connected to theHerald-Star ’s city desk, Cyrus started to
talk—and then only after repeated pledges of absolute silence on his name.

“It
was the bank, see. Century had always been a small bank, and most of their
investment was in their own community. Then they suddenly started changing
their lending policies. Apparently some big management group bought the bank or
was trying to buy the bank—I don’t know that part.”

He
licked his lips nervously, worried that I might doubt him on this point and
blow his cover. I told him not to worry, I knew who Century’s new owners were.

“We
heard about it because people complained to the city’s Fair Housing Department.
Loans were being turned down that Century always used to approve—minority
businesses, women’s stuff, minority home mortgages. All that kind of thing. Of
course, the U.S. government regulates banks, not City Hall, but people
complain, they talk to the alderman, maybe their particular alderman has an in
with someone in Congress who can help, maybe the alderman just passes a note to
the Fair Housing Department.

“When
you called up and started asking questions about Lamia I thought that was the
story. I’d ask a few questions, see if the alderman could be approached, and
you could take it from there. So I talked to a few people. In housing and in
finance. And I heard rumors, nothing specific, but all kinds of reasons why no
one was supposed to ask questions about Century Bank. One guy said the
president—of the United States, I mean—had told the mayor it was off-limits. A
woman in the treasurer’s office said no, it was someone in Congress. Someone
else said it was the U.S. Housing Department—that they would cut off all
Chicago’s public housing money if we questioned anything Century did.”

He
licked his lips again and pulled a packet of cigarettes from pants so tight I
wouldn’t have thought the pockets could hold anything. I hate the smell of
smoke, but his need was greater than mine. I didn’t say anything while he lit
up and sucked in a mouthful of smoke.

“If
the rumors were that high-level I knew someone important was involved. So I
didn’t want to push on it. I’m just a clerk in the zoning department. I was
going to call and tell you it was more than I could take on. And then I got the
phone call.”

He
toyed nervously with the cigarette, until he suddenly jumped as it burned his
fingers. He looked around for an ashtray. Murray silently handed him a coffee
cup. Cyrus dropped the butt into it and rubbed his fingers together.

“They
told me—I can’t tell you what they told me. Then they said no one was supposed
to ask questions about Century Bank or Lamia, and why was I. Vic—you got to
believe they threatened me in a—a dreadful way.” For a moment I thought he
might cry, but he fought it back. “I—they were so specific. I told them it was
you. That you were a friend of mine and you’d wondered because the Lamia women
were friends of yours. So they told me you were poison, and anyone who talked
to you was poison, and they’d know, they had ways of knowing, if I talked to
you. I didn’t mean to betray you, Vic, but I couldn’t help myself.”

The
three of us were silent for a moment. I rubbed the side of my head where I’d
been hit on Saturday. They were a mean bunch of guys. I looked at Murray and he
nodded fractionally: that was all Cyrus knew.

“We’ll
go out the back way,” I told Cyrus. “I doubt anyone is paying attention to
you—it’s been two weeks. They must know you haven’t been in touch with me, but
let’s not run any risks.

“I’m
flat,” I added to Murray. “Cyrus ought to be able to buy a bottle of the Widow
to celebrate getting me off his back. I saw it on the menu for eighty bucks.”

Murray
made a face at me but pulled four twenties from his wallet. We gave Cyrus a
couple of minutes to get back into the room, then picked our way past the
athletes in the hall and went out through the alley.

Night
Watch

Murray
and I wandered down Broadway without speaking. It was close to ten, but on
Belmont we found a storefront pasta place willing to feed us. The waiter was
sitting at a table with the only other customers, a group of five arguing about
the rival merits of Eagle River and Spring Green, Wisconsin, for vacation homes.

As
soon as he’d taken our order he rejoined the argument. The waiter preferred
Eagle River.

“So
Century’s new owners are violating the Community Lending Act. Does that mean
they have to break Cyrus’s legs for asking?” I said when I was sure no one was paying
attention to us.

“Maybe
the sale isn’t complete and they’re afraid a whiff will get back to the feds,
who’ll block it. Or maybe Cyrus is right and you’re poison—they’re afraid that
you looking into it will put the kind of spotlight on the situation they can’t
afford. As long as people are only grumbling to their aldermen, JAD

Holdings
isn’t in much trouble. Especially if the rumors Cyrus heard are right and
someone high up in Washington is pressuring the city not to act. I personally
liked theory number two, that pressure was coming from Congress, ’cause maybe
that’s our pal Alec Gantner.”

“It
doesn’t matter.” I paused while the waiter dumped spinach tortellini in front
of me. “I mean it doesn’t matter if it’s Gantner, the president, or the housing
secretary—they’re all Republicans singing from the same score. What I have
trouble with is why the White House, or even a senator, would go out of their
way to cover up violations of the banking act.”

Murray
snorted. “It’s when you act naive that you’re unbearable, Warshawski.

Look
at Iraqgate. Look at BCCI—children of the high and mighty in both parties
making out like bandits, knowing their daddies will keep the FBI or IRS from
ever digging too deep.”

“Maybe
JAD is doing something else with Century besides cutting back on minority
lending.” The pasta was soggy from having sat in hot water all night; I ate
enough to take the edge off my hunger, then pushed the plate aside.

“You
think they’re laundering money.” Murray finished his lasagna in one large
forkful and spoke thickly through a mouthful of cheese.

“It
stands out a country mile. They’re giving Home Free a fifty-million-dollar line
of credit. No storefront not-for-profit needs money on that grand a scale. But
the real question is—where’s it going? If we knew what JAD Holdings was up to—
How soon can you start getting a line on them?”

Murray
leaned across the table to start on my tortellini. “Depends on what’s available
through Lexis. Or if one of my Washington sources is willing to squeal. If I
have to do a manual search—I don’t know when I can get into the government
offices downtown. They’re all closed indefinitely, you know.”

“I
could have guessed.” I smacked the table in frustration. “If I don’t get some
hard information soon, either Emily or I—or maybe both of us—are going to be
fish food.”