Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (52 page)

Conrad
withdrew his arm and put his hands in his pockets. “And if this guy Charpentier
is right, and Anton is stalking you, not the kid—Emily?”

“Then
he’ll find me no matter where I am.”

My
slow shuffle down the hall had nothing to do with muscle fatigue. I had my
hands stuffed in my pockets, my head hunched down, ignoring the world around
me.

When
Officer Neely tapped my arm as I was unlocking my car I spun around in terror.

Her
face was blotchy, as though she had been crying, and when she spoke her voice
came out in a husky squawk. She was too wound up in her own miseries to notice
mine.

“I
need to talk to you.”

I
gestured to the front seat. The Trans Am is too noisy for private conversation.
I drove north to Montrose, where the lakefront is deserted this time of year.
At the tip of the spit of landfill I turned off the motor and leaned back in
the driver’s seat. Neely stared straight ahead.

“I
have a father like Fabian Messenger. You could probably guess that, couldn’t
you?” she burst out.

She
seemed to want some kind of response from me. “I could tell something about
this case was affecting you personally,” I said.

“I
don’t know how old I was when my father started coming to my room at night.
Maybe seven. My mother—” She stopped, her voice trembling too much for speech.

After
a minute or two she continued, in a hoarse monotone that made my bones ache. “I
told my mother he was hurting me in the night. She washed my mouth out with
soap for talking dirty. When I was in high school I ran with a bad crowd and
then I just ran away, to Chicago, to the haven at Clark and Division where bad
kids run to. I had sex and drugs, but no rock-and-roll.”

She
laughed derisively. “I was pregnant three times before I was eighteen.

The
third time, the abortion clinic I went to sent me to a counselor. I stopped
doing drugs. I started working. I went to night school and graduated from high
school. And then I took the exam and joined the force. I haven’t been to my
parents’ house in thirteen years.

“My
father’s a minister. A saint in the community. At Wednesday night prayer
circles the faithful beg that God will help him through the grief of having a
daughter who never calls or comes to visit.”

A
solitary runner pounded past the car. I watched his legs until shorts and flesh
merged into a blurry gray.

“It
took a lot of courage for you to break away from a home like that.”

She
looked at me for the first time, her eyes fierce. “I didn’t tell you my story
to get your sympathy. I joined the force because I wanted to arrest creeps like
my father. Don’t you understand? But now, instead of arresting the creep, I’m
supposed to arrest the kid. It’s like they want me to send myself to jail.

Or
worse, to a mental hospital where a girl like Emily will have one chance in a
thousand of coming out with her head straight.”

I
thought over the years I’d known Neely—always holding herself parade-ground
stiff, working harder than any other cop I knew, even Conrad. “The police have
been your family, haven’t they? What are you going to do now?”

“I
don’t know,” she whispered. “If I have to resign over this I will, but—what
would you do in my situation?”

I
shook my head. “I don’t know. I do think letting Emily get arrested is the
second-worst thing that could happen to her right now. Next to getting killed,
I mean. Maybe the third worst—I don’t know if letting Fabian take her home
would be more damaging than incarceration or not.”

“If
it’s Fabian instead of jail she’ll end up at Clark and Division.” Neely spat
out the words. “She needs someplace safe, and a counselor like mine. Only
she—my counselor—moved to Kansas to go to graduate school.”

“I
know a good counselor,” I said slowly. “And a safe house. But I don’t know if I
can get to Emily’s room. Terry’s asking the hospital to post a guard.”

Mouse
on the Loose

It
was almost one when I got back to my apartment. I was too tired to care whether
Anton or Gantner or even the Fourth Army was camped on my doorstep. I parked
the Trans Am out front and walked up the walk and stairs without trying to
scout the street. Inside I dumped my backpack in the foyer, set the electronic
alarm, and fell into bed without undressing.

When
I woke again it was dark outside. I lay in bed watching the evening sky through
my window. Why couldn’t Terry and Conrad listen to me? Was Finchley caught in
such a vise between Kajmowicz and Fabian that he was taking the easiest out,
going for Emily and ignoring things like the attack on me Saturday—not to
mention last night’s fracas?

I was
tired of taking arms against a sea of opposition. All it got me was knocks on
the head, my home trashed, and accusations from smug cretins like Zeitner.

I
climbed out of bed and imitated the roar of a jet engine. “The femikaze squad
is coming. Watch out, boys! Hang on to your crotches and duck!”

Yelling
at top volume made me feel a little better. I went into my living room and
started picking up papers. If Iwas going to see any of the musketeers arrested
I would have to dig up proof of the complete trail of money through Home Free.
Although that still wouldn’t prove Deirdre knew about it. I kicked the piano
bench in frustration.

I had
organized the books and papers in the living room and had started on the big
closet in the hall when Fabian and Finchley arrived, with an officer I didn’t
recognize in tow. I shut my door and greeted them on the landing.

“Terry,
Fabian, what a surprise. What do you want tonight?”

“Emily,”
Finchley said tersely.

“It’s
déjà vu all over again.” I looked at my watch. “Is the Loop still flooded, or
have we turned the whole city back a week?”

“Warshawski,please
!” Fabian’s voice broke. “Don’t torment me. Just tell me where my daughter is.”

“Terry,
I’m beat.” I couldn’t stomach Fabian’s histrionics tonight. “You know what I’ve
been through the last few days. I don’t need this. Has the strain turned
Messenger’s brain, or has he genuinely misplaced his daughter again?”

Biting
off his words, Terry told me that Emily had disappeared from the hospital. “As
you know. We told you to stay away from her. I can arrest you, you know, under
Messenger’s peace bond. But he’s willing to let it slide if you produce his
daughter.”

“Like
a conjurer from a hat.” I spat out the words. “I do not have his daughter.
Since saving her life early this morning I have not seen, talked to, or been
near Emily Messenger. Now get thehell out of my apartment and put out an APB
for her.”

“Cut
the crap,” Finchley snapped. “One of the nurses told us that a detective who’d
been in with the girl several times left with her around noon today. A woman.
With short hair. I could make you come downtown for a lineup. Instead we’ll
search your apartment.”

“You
damned well better have a warrant, then. And you’d better tell Lieutenant
Mallory to warn the city about a suit for harassment that I’ll be filing at the
start of tomorrow’s business day.”

“I
have a warrant.” Terry’s voice was case-hardened steel. “This is Officer
Galatea. He will conduct the search.”

I
took the paper from Galatea and studied it. My lips tight with anger, I let
them into my apartment, where I planted myself in front of the television.
While they went through closets, beds, searched my basement storeroom and the
attic crawl space, I watched the Cubs commit two errors in one inning.

Finchley
wanted to search Mr. Contreras’s home as well. When I told him my neighbor was
recuperating at his daughter’s house he was sure he had me cornered. I refused
to give him Ruthie’s number in Elk Grove Village, forcing him to call in to the
precinct to find someone who could get her last name from the hospital.

While
we waited for the station to get the information, Terry said, “In case you’re
wondering, someone’s already been to the doc’s and to Mr. Loewenthal’s.

You
do know that kidnapping is a federal offense, don’t you, Vic? And harboring a
fugitive from justice is a serious state crime.”

My
eyes felt like hot coals; I hoped my gaze could scorch. “Make up your mind,
Finchley: is Emily the victim of a crime or a dangerous perpetrator? Why do you
really want her—to protect her or to torment her? But more to the point, we had
this identical conversation eight days ago. All the time you were hassling me,
Emily was in terrible trouble. Now I’m telling you someone is on her tail, that
she may present a personal danger to the man who murdered her mother, that that
man may have snatched her in order to do her real harm—and you insult me and
invade my friends’ privacy. I found her for you before. You are going to look
like a hundred kinds of fool in the papers, not to mention to Kajmowicz, if I
do it again. But you’d better pray I find her alive.”

Finchley
narrowed his eyes at me. “Thanks for being so helpful to an overworked police
force. I know you, Vic, that’s the trouble. Heisting the kid could be your idea
of a noble gesture.”

“Thank
you, Terry. I’m honored that you think that of me.” I swept him an ironic bow
and returned to the Cubs.

The
station called back with Ruthie’s home number. Before Terry could dial it I
suggested he let me talk to Mr. Contreras.

“He
won’t let you into his place without a warrant, but he may if I talk to him.
And the sooner you realize Emily isn’t here the faster you can start trying to
figure out where she really is.”

Fabian
objected to giving me the chance to pass signals to my accomplice; I invited
him to listen in on the bedroom extension. Terry, who had experience of my
neighbor, agreed with me. Fabian, in a fretful impatience, got to hear Mr.

Contreras’s
detailed account of life in the suburbs, of the physical state of the dogs—who
his grandsons were running, so not to worry, doll—of how agonizing his rabies
shots were—but nothing like the shell he took at Anzio, so again not to
worry—and then distress at Emily’s disappearance.

Fabian
kept trying to interrupt, but Mr. Contreras turned on him in indignation. “How
come you’re harassing Vic instead of looking after your kids?

She
and I had to take care of them for you on Monday. If you paid attention to Vic
to begin with you would’ve put a guard on Emily’s room, like she told you to.
Now you’ve got one hell of a nerve—’scuse me, cookie, slipped up there, but
this jackass needs to learn some manners.”

“So
can they go through your apartment?” I asked. “The sooner they realize she’s
not here the faster they may try to find out where she really is.”

After
another spate of volubility he agreed. He was anxious to return home, but when
I asked if he could stay with Ruthie until Saturday he accepted the extension
with a wistful farewell.

“You
ain’t gonna leave me out here forever, are you?”

“Just
until I calm down enough to manage the drive without running over anyone,” I
promised.

When
he’d hung up I dug his spare keys out of the back of my toolbox and gave them
to Officer Galatea. It was clear to everyone by now that Emily was not in the
building, but Galatea and Fabian went through Mr. Contreras’s apartment. I
stayed with them to make sure they didn’t damage anything—Fabian was unstable
enough that he might break furniture to vent his frustrations.

Terry
did not apologize for his suspicions. “Just so you know, Vic, I’m having a team
stick to you like fleas on a dog. If you’ve stashed that girl someplace, we’ll
find her. And your future will not be pretty. Remember that.”

“And
the same to the horse you rode in on, Finchley. Now get out.”

As
soon as I saw his car pull away I stormed up to the Belmont Diner for supper
and a phone. For all I knew they might have put a tap on mine.

I
called Lotty while waiting for an order of roast chicken. “I’m sorry you had to
have the police in your home.”

“That
doesn’t matter, Vic: it’s that poor girl. What can possibly have happened to
her? Do you think—”

I
interrupted her. “I’m not a hundred percent certain, but I think she’s okay.”

Lotty
digested this, then said, “You haven’t left her someplace alone, have you? or
tucked away with your neighbor and the dogs?”

“I
haven’t done anything with her. As far as you and I are concerned, we never
heard of her. I’m only telling you because you’re the one person in the world I
can’t stand to deceive.”

“I
see,” Lotty said, at her driest. “Are you all right yourself? Or would you like
to come here for the night?”

“I
think I’ll sleep in my own bed for a change. I need my home around me. But
thank you, Lotty.”

When
my supper came I ate it hungrily, but not happily. I liked Conrad. But I didn’t
like anyone enough to put up with this kind of treatment. I certainly didn’t
feel any qualms about wasting the time of an overworked police force.