Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (6 page)

I got
to her South Side mansion an hour past the invitation time, and I was lucky I
wasn’t later than that. After hanging up with Lotty I called Kevin Whiting, an
officer I knew in Missing Persons. Of course, as he explained to me, Tamar
didn’t technically count as a missing person—she’d only been gone an hour.

But
he promised to notify the Loop foot patrols in case she came back to the
Pulteney.

A few
minutes later Whiting phoned back: there was already a bona fide missing
persons search for Hawkings on file. Leon Hawkings, of an address on West
Ninety-fifth Street, had notified them six months ago that his wife had
disappeared, taking their three children with her. So if anyone on the beat
found her, they would call her old man first.

“Oh,
no, Kevin—you can’t do that. She ran away in the first place because he was
beating up on her and the kids.” I assumed she was telling the truth about
that—why else would she live as she was these days? “Can you check to see
whether you guys responded to any calls at that address—domestic violence,
disturbing the peace, that kind of thing?”

“You
gonna put me on your payroll, Warshawski? You know we’re not automated.

No
way I can look that up here. You have to go out to the precinct and ask.”

I
chewed my lower lip. “Until I know for certain, can you call off the dogs?

I
don’t want to add to her misery.”

“They’re
still missing, ain’t they? So why bother the husband now? You just trot your
little heinie over to Chicago Lawn and ask at the precinct. If any Loop patrols
see a likely-looking family I’ll get you to look at them before we bring in her
old man.”

“Thanks,
Kevin. You’re a prince.”

The truth
was he was lazy. If he didn’t have to notify a worried spouse, with all that
implied for meetings, forms, and follow-up, he was just as happy. I called
Chicago Lawn, but I didn’t know anyone at that remote outpost and they weren’t
giving free tips away to private eyes that day. I thought about roping Conrad
into the quest, but decided against it. Finding out Tamar Hawkings hadn’t filed
any complaints against her husband wouldn’t prove anything. Not every woman
who’s been beaten up calls the cops. Most don’t, as a matter of fact. They just
keep checking themselves into emergency rooms with tales of falling down stairs
or running into doors.

I
called Marilyn Lieberman, the executive director at Arcadia House. “You
remember my mentioning a homeless woman camping out in my basement?”

“Oh,
yes. You wanted to try to palm her off on me and I told you no. The answer’s
still the same.”

“What
if I told you she was running away from an abusive husband?”

“Would
that be the truth?” Marilyn demanded.

“She
says. And we’re in the business of believing women’s stories, aren’t we?”

Marilyn
expelled a long breath. “Oh, Christ, Vic. We’re full up right now, but if it’s
a choice between your basement and doubling up with someone else, I suppose ...
although if the kids have been on the lam for six months they’re going to be
pretty wild. I just don’t know. Bring her over and let me set up an interview
with Eva.”

Eva
Kuhn was Arcadia’s therapist. “There is one small problem,” I confessed.

“She’s
disappeared for the time being.”

Marilyn
listened to my Tamar saga with scant sympathy. “She needs more help than we can
give her, Vic. Butif she shows up again, andif you can persuade her to go
anyplace else with you, I’ll get Eva to do a diagnostic intake. Talk to
Deirdre, though: she’s got contacts at the shelters.” She hung up with a snap.

I
took my second-best flashlight and went down to the basement. It was a forlorn
hope. Even if Ms. Hawkings returned here she wasn’t going to hang around for me
to find her. I even swallowed my fear of the rats and went behind the boiler,
where I’d spotted the family on Monday.

The
boiler was a great cast-iron monster that dated to the twenties, when the
Pulteney had gone up. The furnace had been converted first from coal to oil,
and then, early in my tenure, to natural gas. At some point, long before I
moved in, a false wall had been built between the boiler and the foundation. It
allowed just enough room for an average-size person to move—or six rats to walk
abreast.

After
the third one sauntered past me I shone the flash over the wall in a
perfunctory way. Maybe the Hawkings were hanging out behind the false inner
wall—that seemed to be where the rats were nesting—but I couldn’t see an
opening. I retreated hastily and returned to my office. Even my dreary routine
of reports and accounts was better than crawling around with rats behind the
boiler.

I
discovered that I’d done enough work in the last few weeks to generate some
invoices. By three o’clock I’d gotten two thousand dollars’ worth of statements
printed and stuffed into envelopes. I could do some work for Phoebe Quirk
before going home to change. I tracked down an acquaintance at City Hall who
might snuffle around to get some information for me on why the city had
canceled Lamia’s permit.

When
Cyrus Lavalle heard my voice he whispered theatrically that I should know
better than to identify myself by name to his co-workers. And no, I couldn’t
possibly come to his office, but if I would show up at the Golden Glow at five
he’d meet me there.

“Come
on, Cyrus. You know me by now. I’m not going to threaten you in public with
pictures of Andrew Jackson—I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”

“No
way, Warshawski,” he whispered. “There’s plenty of people around here who rate
you down below the sewer system. It’s worth my job to be seen with you.”

In
other words, he wanted a free drink and the possibility of driving a hard
bargain for information on Camilla’s building project. I gave in with bad grace
and went back to work.

I
actually had an outstanding paying project for Phoebe—a background check on the
owners of a little drug company she was interested in. They had a single
product, a T-cell enhancer for which they’d been seeking FDA approval to begin
human testing. The company was actually called Cellular Enhancement Technology,
but in my files I used Phoebe’s nickname for them—Mr. T. Mr. T had been
languishing for two years, but if they ever got approval they could make
someone like Phoebe a lot of money.

The
biology they were working with was way beyond me, but not the credentials of
the biologists. I called the various universities where they claimed to have
studied, verified their degrees, and logged in to a credit rating service to
see whether their financial backgrounds were as good as their academic ones.

That
seemed to be enough work for one day. I shut down the system and locked up. On
my way out I took a last tour of the basement, but the rats still had the place
to themselves. I didn’t really expect to find Tamar Hawkings again: in her eyes
I’d probably betrayed her to the social worker. She wouldn’t return for more
treachery.

The
temperature had risen steadily all day, melting the glass shards from trees and
cars, turning the streets to slush, and filling the air with a horrible stench.
On the way across the Loop to the Golden Glow my socks turned into damp mats
inside my Nikes.

Inside
the small bar I found a table by the heat vent and stretched my legs out
gratefully. The warmth of the Tiffany lamps gave me a moment’s illusion of
rest.

I was
early, both for Cyrus Lavalle and the commuter drinking crowd. Sal Barthele,
who works the place personally, came out from behind her famous bar with the
Black Label bottle. She’d found the mahogany horseshoe in the old Regent’s
Hotel when it was torn down twelve years ago. Sal had stripped and polished it
by hand, returning it to the high gloss it had when it left its English
manufacturer in 1887. Sal won’t keep a waiter who doesn’t wipe up every drop of
liquid the instant it touches the surface.

I waved
off the Black Label. “Not tonight. I’m off to Deirdre’s after I finish with
Cyrus Lavalle.”

“Girlfriend,
you need a drink to get through an hour with Cyrus. You coming down with
something?”

I
faked a punch at her. “Yeah. It’s called middle age. I have to run the dogs and
change and drive and socialize. I’ll never get through that routine if I have
whisky now.”

She
sat chatting with me until Cyrus showed up—twenty minutes late. He was a sight
for jaded eyes, in a crimson Nehru shirt and lavender silk trousers. He made a
great show of pleasure at seeing me, seeing Sal, seeing all the people he met
on his regular rounds at the bar. When I was able to halt his dramatic
flourishes I drew a blank. It didn’t surprise me—Camilla’s tradeswomen wouldn’t
generate enough gossip to filter along to ward heelers like Cyrus. He promised
to initiate some delicate inquiries.

“And
for a hundred I’ll share what I hear with you, Warshawski.”

“Forget
it, Cyrus. For a hundred I can buy the alderman and learn it direct.”

He smirked.
“Yeah, youcould . But you won’t. You don’t know how to bribe people without
turning red and blowing your moves.”

I
guessed that was a compliment, although in Chicago it’s kind of shameful not to
know how to buy an elected official. “I don’t have a similar problem with you,
my friend. Fifty is my top offer. I don’t care more than that.”

He
bargained me up to sixty-five and left a happy man. I, on the contrary, jogged
back through the slush to my car with my head pounding. Between Tamar Hawkings,
Darraugh Graham, Phoebe and Camilla—it was too much. I’d become a private eye
because I wanted to be my own boss. Lately all I seemed to do was jump through
other people’s hoops.

I
turned the Trans Am’s heating system on full power and tried to dry my feet
during the slow trek home. The fog had thickened so much that traffic was
stalled on both the Kennedy and Lake Shore Drive. I zigzagged through the side
streets, but the trip still took half an hour.

I
longed for a bath and the drink I’d turned down at Sal’s, but once home I
resumed my headlong dash through the day. Putting on sweats, I collected the
dogs from Mr. Contreras and took them over to the lake in my car—the night air
was too thick to risk running through the streets with them. We chased each
other around the lagoon a few times, not a wonderful workout for any of us, but
enough to tide the dogs over until morning.

By
the time I’d showered and changed into wool crepe slacks and a silk evening
shirt it was past seven, the scheduled start of Deirdre’s party. I shrugged
into my old winter coat and clattered back down the stairs. Once in the car my
earlier pettishness returned. I thought of Deirdre’s hunched shoulders, the
lost soul laced with venom, and drove well within the speed limit all the way
south.

The
Cocktail Party

When
Fabian Messenger joined the University of Chicago law faculty, he bought a home
in the old Kenwood neighborhood. A mile north of the university campus, Kenwood
is filled with mansions—thirty-room houses on outsize lots, built in the last
century and packed with all the wood paneling and stained glass that the
Victorian imagination demanded. For a long time the neighborhood went downhill
as people who could afford the houses let racial fears drive them away.

Nowadays,
though, the rehab contractors were having a field day as rich doctors or law
professors like Fabian fed their egos on size, opulence, and proximity to Lake
Michigan.

It
was eight when I pulled up across from the Messenger home. Palace. I took a
deep breath and went through the open iron gates. I’d been afraid I was so late
I’d have to sidle to a table while everyone dropped their forks and stared.

The
roar of happy drinkers reassured me as I rang the doorbell. Deirdre apparently
favored a long cocktail hour. No one heard me over the din, so I pushed open
the door and joined the melee.

Women
in cocktail dresses and men in evening clothes spilled out of a brightly lit
room on my left into the hall. A few people glanced at me, but returned
immediately to their chatter when they saw they didn’t know me. I looked around
for some place to dump my coat. The day had grown so warm after its icy start,
I hadn’t needed a coat outside, let alone in here.

An
old oak wardrobe stood against one wall, more for decoration than use: two flowered
straw hats hung from its hooks, but nothing else. I hesitated to hang my shabby
old wool there. As I hovered uncertainly next to the wardrobe I saw an umbrella
stand, also decorative: instead of umbrellas it housed an old baseball bat,
hand-signed by Nellie Fox.

I was
about to take the coat back to my car when a small boy sailed into the hall,
his pale bangs the same cornsilk as Deirdre’s when I first met her. He was
handing round a tray of Deirdre’s cream puffs, but was so wound up with the excitement
of the party that he couldn’t stop long enough for anyone to take them. I put a
hand on his shoulder, stopping his gyrations so abruptly that he dropped the
tray.

He
gulped. The vivacity drained from his face and his lower lip started to quiver.