Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (54 page)

I
landed with a clatter on a set of phone buttons built into the desk top.

Biting
off an expletive, I held my breath. The doors were rolling open. With any luck
my crash landing wouldn’t be noticed. As I waited I heard static from a
walkie-talkie, and the grunt of someone stooping. I slid quietly from the phone
buttons and crouched underneath the desk. A few seconds later a flashlight
played over the rug behind me. My left leg cramped up. I stuffed my fist into
my mouth to beat back a gasp of agony.

The
light disappeared. Footsteps were almost inaudible in the thick carpeting, but
with no sounds from lights or machines to mask them I could hear the guard
rustling off in the direction of Blakely’s office, the static from his
walkie-talkie giving an occasional belch. When I heard his key scrabble in the
lock I straightened out my cramped leg and crawled from my hiding place. I took
a quick minute to massage the knotted muscle, then peered around the edge of
the receptionist’s cave. In the murk I couldn’t make out the end of the hall to
see whether Blakely’s door was open, or where the guard was, but he wouldn’t be
able to see me either.

Staying
on my hands and knees, I slithered across the open space to the elevator. He
had wedged it open with a block of wood—the automatic call buttons wouldn’t
work, so he’d have to keep the car with him. I climbed into the car.

Without
a flashlight I wouldn’t be able to see inside—it was hard enough to do so in
the pale green of the emergency bulb in the hall.

Squinting,
I saw the guard had removed a panel over a manual control that had to be key
activated. My hands clammy with nerves, I fumbled with my picklocks in the
dark. The slender shafts buckled at first and in the distance I heard Blakely’s
door slam shut.

“Patience,
Victoria,” I whispered. “The lock is an extension of your fingers.

Feel
your way into it.”

The
light of the guard’s flash flicked in front of the door as two wards locked in
place. I turned the lever two thirds of the way to the left and kicked the
wedge away. The guard’s outraged bellow followed me down the shaft.

The
car stopped at eleven. Good guess: I wanted to go back to fifteen to retrieve
my briefcase. Aside from the fact that the case was covered with my prints, it
also had my name written prominently on the inside. Reward if found and
returned, or some such nonsense.

I
took the Gantner files from the small of my back and removed the contents,
which I tucked inside my shirt. Working the manila folders into a square, I
stuck it carefully between the elevator doors.

When
I got to the stairwell I expected to hear the guard running after me.

The
shaft was quiet. Sweat began running down the nape of my neck again. Of course.
He was summoning help on his walkie-talkie.

They
would assume at first that I was taking the elevator to the ground floor and
wait for me there. I hoped. I started to calculate how much time I had, then
decided it didn’t matter: I had to retrieve my briefcase.

Going
up the four flights of stairs was a punishment on my sore legs. I couldn’t
afford to sing or make any noise to deflect my mind. At least I wasn’t going
into the tunnels again. Away from the depths and toward the light, I thought,
remembering a night when I was eight or nine, when a snowstorm had blown into a
blizzard as I was halfway home from school.

Gabriella
always put a lamp in the living room for my father on stormy nights. I knew she
would set it out for me. As the balloon of snow encased me I peered up at the
shadowy bulks of buildings, looking for the light. My legs right now felt as
they had then, my little-girl legs in the red tights Gabriella insisted on for
winter, pumping one step after the other, looking for my mother’s beacon. She
had been waiting on the front sidewalk for me, wrapped in a shawl. At nine my
head already came to her shoulder, but she picked me up as if I were an infant
and carried me into the house. She put me to bed with a treat reserved for
special times: hot milk with cocoa and a dash of her strong Italian coffee.

I
came to the emergency light at fourteen and found my case only half a flight
above me. I paused before starting my downward journey, straining to listen. I
didn’t think I was being approached from either direction.

On
the downward journey I found a reservoir of strength I wouldn’t have imagined.
Perhaps it was my mother’s spirit enveloping me, but I found myself able to
sprint down the four flights to the eleventh floor. Retrieving the elevator, I
turned the lever all the way to the left. In normal operation it would have
stopped on the ground floor, but in its manual emergency mode it took me to the
service basement. Not so far from the tunnels after all.

I had
my gun in my hand as I exited, but if my guard had summoned allies they were
waiting in the lobby. In the dark I saw the red light of an exit sign.

Moving
with caution in the blackness I made my way to a door that opened on the
garage. In another five minutes I was on Canal Street.

With
a reckless disregard for my finances I flagged a cab at the corner of
Washington and rode to my front door. I was so beat I didn’t even try to keep a
lookout for Anton. I kept the Smith & Wesson in my hand with the safety off
as I staggered up the three flights: if he jumped me I would simply shoot him
on the spot.

I
reached my own door without incident. Maybe Terry’s threat of a police watch
had been more than bravado. Maybe the cops would help me out for a change.

Stopping
only to set the alarm and do up all my bolts, I sank into a hot bath. I soaked
for an hour, emptying and refilling the tub, flexing and stretching my legs
against the wall. While I lay there I read the Gantner files.

The
papers I’d taken away with me did not mention any Cayman Island banks.

They
did give a high-level summary of Gant-Ag’s and Gantohol’s debt position in the
bank, repayment figures, and a reference to the buying of Gant-Ag debt from
Century Bank.

When
I finally climbed out of the tub I moved slowly to the living room to call
Murray. Halfway through punching his number I thought again about Terry’s
threats. Maybe he’d tapped my phone too. I slowly climbed back into my jeans
and went out to my car. I drove along Diversey until I found a strip mall with
a pay phone.

I
managed to reach Murray at his desk. “I have a hypothesis, but I need to test
it. Can you meet me on the North Side this afternoon?”

“This
anything to do with young Messenger?” Murray rumbled at me. “We heard a rumor
she’d disappeared again, but the cops, the hospital, and Papa are all sitting
mum. I should have known that my best source was you.”

“The
cops and Papa weren’t so discreet with me—they brought search warrants to
inspect mine and my friends’ homes last night. Come to think of it, I’m
surprised they left you alone.”

“Maybe
they know you’re not very friendly with me. No, no, I take it back.

You’re
wonderful. Sorry, I momentarily forgot. Are you sitting on the kid?”

“I
don’t know where she is. I told Finchley to look at the Home Free construction
sites, but they’re not paying much attention to me these days. My hypothesis,
though, has to do with Gantner and Heccomb, and probably Deirdre’s murder.”

He
was so excited by the prospect of nailing one of the Gantners that he didn’t
try to push me on Emily’s whereabouts. He was busy until two-thirty, he told
me, but would be outside my front door at three.

“The
cops are on my ass. I’ll go down to Illinois Center—you can enter on Michigan
and leave almost anywhere. Pick me up at the Fairmont Hotel—you know the valet
entrance on lower Wacker?”

“Yes,ma’am
. The code is: John has a long mustache.”

I was
only half a block from the el. Just to keep Terry’s crew on their toes I left
my car in the mall lot and walked down Diversey to Sheffield, where I hiked up
the ancient stairs to the train. At Chicago Avenue I caught a cab to Wacker and
Michigan.

Illinois
Center connects to a complex of a dozen or so buildings, including three hotels,
through a series of underground passages. The floods had shut them for a couple
of days, but they were open again now. The long passages and steep escalators
made it easy to see I was alone. I emerged from the Fairmont’s underground
entrance precisely at three.

Murray
held his car door open for me with a flourish. “Heccomb isn’t in. He’s not
expected until five. I called on my car phone while you were hobbling
downstairs. What are we going to do?”

“Imitate
the Bears in their glory years. Fencik and Singletary hitting high and low. If
she isn’t a criminal, she’ll crack.”

Murray
gave a mock salute. “Did they leavescruple out of your brain when you were
born, O She-who-must-be-obeyed?”

“Never
heard the word. And now I’ve forgotten it.”

Coming
Up to Bat

When
we burst in on Tish she was hunched over her computer, still wearing the
shapeless khaki sweater in which I’d last seen her.

“Hi,”
I said in my heartiest voice. “This is Murray Ryerson with theHerald-Star .
He’s doing a story on Home Free. He wants to interview you.”

Her
muddy skin turned mahogany with annoyance. “You can’t barge in here any time
you feel like it. And you can’t do an interview with me. Jasper handles all
press inquiries.”

“And
there’s a good reason for that.”

I
pulled out my picklocks. As she gasped in fury I unlocked Jasper’s office.

She
reached out a hand for the phone, but Murray, with an apology, unplugged it and
put it on the floor.

I
brought a couple of chairs from Jasper’s office. “We’re going to have a long
talk. Murray and I want to be comfortable. As I said, there’s a reason Jasper
has forbidden you to talk to the press: he’s sitting on some ugly secrets,
about himself and his pals. He’s afraid in your naivete you might blurt out
something incriminating.”

She
was on her feet, pummeling Murray’s unmoving arms. “You can’t do this,” she
panted. “I’m getting the police.”

“You
are welcome to call them,” I said, picking the phone up from the floor and
reattaching it to the cord. “I’ll dial the number for you so we know we’re
getting the law, not Gary Charpentier or Anton.”

She
stopped pounding on Murray to scowl at me. With his arms free Murray set up his
tape recorder and tested the mike. I waited for him to finish his setup before
continuing.

“We’ll
start by showing the cops the cash Jasper keeps in that locked drawer in his
office. You know—the stuff he uses for off-the-books payments to his
contractors. So that people like Charpentier can throw spare change at illegal
immigrants from Eastern Europe while he pockets hundred-dollar bills.”

She
smiled in a contemptuous way but said nothing.

“She
knew about the illegal aliens,” I said instructively to Murray. “I bet her
mother will enjoy reading that.”

“We
weren’t hurting anyone,” Tish snapped. “They got more money than they would
have made at home. And if they lived a little rough for a few months it wasn’t
like they had to do it forever, like they were homeless or sharecroppers or
something.”

“That
sounds like Jasper Heccomb speaking. Are you sure you believe that yourself,
Tish?” Murray asked her, his blue eyes large and sincere. “Let alone the
question of whether American workers could have had decent jobs instead of
having to live on the streets, did you approve of this policy?”

When
Tish kneaded her hands without speaking I added, “You knew they were being paid
off the books. Did you know Jasper kept five million in that drawer in his
office?”

She
looked up at that, startled enough to blurt, “You’re wrong: he showed it to me
himself, on Monday. It was only fifteen thousand.”

I
nodded. “Jasper needed to show it to you because I’d broken in here Friday
night and seen the drawer when it was stuffed to the brim with hundreds. He
figured if he got his story to you first you’d believe it: you’ve looked the
other way many times because you need to believe him. He’s counting on you to
do it again.

“But
listen carefully while I explain something to you. Jasper and his friends are
likely going to jail, possibly for a very long time. You have to decide whether
you want to go with them. If the going gets rough it wouldn’t surprise me if
Jasper tried to set you up to take the fall for him. He may suggest that
financial high jinks here began when you were interim director, for instance. I
know for a fact that they’re framing Anton—you do know Anton, don’t you?”

She
was pretending to stare out the window in boredom, but all her emotions
registered on her surface with painful intensity. Despite her pose she was
trembling.

“You
can avoid a lot of grief by speaking frankly now. Or you can decide the crumbs
of attention Jasper throws you will carry you through five years in a federal
pen.”

“You’re
the one who’s going to jail,” she said, her eyes full of fire. “You just
admitted breaking in here.”