Warshawski 09 - Hard Time (21 page)

He shook his head. “You sound like dynamite right now, to be blunt. I don’t want you leading some menace to her doorstep. She fled her old apartment because someone was asking after her. Remember? You told me that yourself, and she confirms it.”

I ate a slice of my cold pizza. “What if they weren’t from INS or the state? What if they were the people who killed Nicola, come to make sure she hadn’t talked to her mother? No matter how much Abuelita Mercedes denied having heard from Nicola, they’d never believe her. Have you asked her yourself? If Nicola talked to her before she died, I mean?”

Morrell’s lips twisted in a half smile. “Bryant Vishnikov warned me that you’d wear me out if I got involved with you. No, I haven’t asked her that, and yes, I’ll make time to get back to Señora Mercedes in the next day or two.”

“Did Vishnikov tell you I’d consulted him about you as well? He didn’t give me a character reading, though.”

“Maybe there’s nothing people need to be warned about when they meet me,” he said with a sly smile.

“Or maybe too much to be covered in a single phrase. What does the C.L. stand for?”

“Good grief. Have you really been investigating me? I didn’t think any record still existed of those initials. My parents didn’t speak English, and they longed for America as for the promised land. They named me in the hopes I’d fit in when we finally got here and instead gave me something that got me beat up regularly. It would have hurt their feelings if I’d changed my name, so I use only my surname. Think of me as someone like Madonna or Prince.”

I imagined lying in bed with him, whispering “Morrell” instead of—what name could have been that embarrassing? Maybe they’d named him for name brands, like Clorox and Lysol. I blushed at my fantasy and hurried back to business.

The list of things that needed doing depressed me. I was like a tetherball, gyrating erratically from one side to another, depending on who was punching me. My physical stamina was limited and my emotional energy was not much greater.

“There’s one other thing I’d like to ask of you,” I said abruptly. “I don’t think it will wear you out, but who knows? I have a videotape of the police goons in my office. I’d like it taken to Cheviot Labs, to an engineer named Rieff who’s been doing some work on Aguinaldo’s dress for me. I was going to send it to him tomorrow, but I want copies made first. I’m too nervous about how much of my phone conversations may have been overheard. I’m thinking my assailant heard me talking to my client about my out–of–town trip and used the opportunity to plant drugs in my office. If they heard me leave a message for Rieff Saturday night they’ll go to him, or intercept me, or do something to keep the tape from him. The other thing is a copy of a report on Lucian Frenada’s finances. Global is going to slam him on—on Murray Ryerson’s show tomorrow night, but I have evidence that he’s not living in luxury off the drug business. I want a million photocopies so it’s public.”

“Fine.” Morrell held out a hand. “I’ll take care of those. What do you want me to do with the copies?”

“Of the videotape? One to my lawyer, the original to Rieff to see if he can pick up who Lemour was speaking to on his cell phone. One to Murray Ryerson. And the report on Frenada, that should go to all those people, and a bunch of reporters I know—I can make up a list for you.”

“How’d you videotape Lemour when he had you cuffed?”

“Carnifice Security isn’t the only high–tech player in the detective world.” I told him about the video glasses as I scribbled a media list on the back of an old parking receipt.

“I once helped photocopy details of torture conducted by the Brazil secret police,” Morrell said. “It was a project organized by the Archbishop of Rio. We had a terrifying time, sneaking into the office after hours to see the records, copying them, returning them without anyone getting caught out or squealing. We could have used glasses like those. You going to be okay getting home?” he added as the waiter brought a check. “You’d be welcome to stay with me—I’ve got a spare bedroom.”

It was appealing, the idea of not having to worry about who might be lying in wait outside my door. Besides, there was my fantasy, lying with his long fingers on my body—on my sore body, but maybe he had a lover of some sex and wouldn’t find an exhausted forty–plus detective sexy, anyway.

Lotty had almost been killed once, helping me in a crisis, and Mr. Contreras had been shot. Conrad had left me after a similar episode. I couldn’t bear to have one more person maimed on my account, even one I didn’t know well. I thanked him but turned my roaring Skylark south toward home.

26 If You Can’t Swim, Keep Away from Sharks

I had called Lotty from a pay phone on my way home to tell her I was still alive and to ask her to phone me with only the most innocuous questions. She wasn’t best pleased at being awakened—it was past eleven—and took in my request with a terse wish for me to stop being so melodramatic. Melodramatic and foolhardy. Those were hard words to take to bed.

When I left Mr. Contreras, he sent Peppy up with me for comfort. I hoped she brought enough that I could keep at bay my nervous fantasies about someone scaling the side of the building to break into my bedroom.

As I switched off the light the phone rang. I sucked in a breath, wondering what new threat might lie at the other end of the line, but I answered. “Warshawski’s twenty–four–hour detective service.”

“Miss Warshawski?”

It was a child’s voice, high–pitched with its own nervousness. “Yes, this is V. I. Warshawski. What is it, Robbie?”

“I’ve been calling you and calling you tonight. I thought you’d never answer. First I was just going to tell you about BB’s shoes—you know, you asked if any of them had horseshoe buckles or something, and I don’t think so—but this is worse, it’s about that man, that man they showed on the news. He was—” I heard a click and the line went dead.

I squinted at my caller–ID pad and dialed the number on it. It rang fifteen times without an answer. I hung up and tried again, making sure I’d entered the right numbers. After twenty rings I gave up.

One of his parents must have heard him talking to me and cut off the phone. I pictured the mad swimming Eleanor standing over the phone, listening to it ring when I called back. Or they turned off the sound and watched a light flashing red until I hung up, while Robbie protested, crying, his father mocking him for his tears and making him cry harder.

A week ago I might have driven out to the Baladine home, middle of the night or not. But only someone who had daring without judgment would do that. Or someone whose hamstrings weren’t so sore that she couldn’t run if she had to. Anyway, before leaping into action I should find out what man Robbie had seen on the news. There wasn’t any local television coverage this time of night, but if it was important—or grisly—the radio would carry the story.

“It’s midnight and hazy in Chicago, seventy–nine at O’Hare, eighty–one at the lakefront, going down to a low of seventy, with another muggy scorcher in store for us tomorrow. Sammy Sosa capped a sparkling June with his twentieth home run, the most in a month in major league history, but the Cubs dropped another one at Wrigley today, going two and eight over their last ten games.”

I drummed my fingers impatiently through another update of the Starr chamber’s slow grind; through the pious hypocrisies of the House Speaker and the President’s sincere bombast, through more mass murders in ex–Yugoslavia and riots in Indonesia.

“In local news, the drowning victim found late yesterday at Belmont Harbor has been identified as local Hispanic entrepreneur Lucian Frenada. It is not known when or how Frenada came to be in the water; the sister with whom he lived had reported him missing Saturday morning. Mrs. Celia Caliente says she does not know what would have taken her brother to Belmont Harbor, but that he was unable to swim. In other local news, accused killer—”

I snapped off the set. Lucian Frenada was dead. That’s why he hadn’t been answering his phone. I wondered how you got a man who didn’t know how to swim into the lake. I wondered how long it would be before I joined him.

I pulled on a shirt and tiptoed into the living room. If Baladine had one of those fancy listening devices tuned on my building, could it pick up the faint tap of Peppy’s toenails as she followed me? I slipped a finger between two slats of the blind and squinted at the street.

This part of Racine is close to the trendy bars of Wrigleyville, which means we get a lot of people trying to find parking. Even late on a Monday night, occasional knots of young men, made loudly cheerful by beer, swayed up the street. I stood for twenty minutes but didn’t see the same people pass twice.

If I boldly went out the front door, collected my car, and drove to Oak Brook, would I be followed? And more to the point, what would I do when I got there? Climb the security fence on my quivering legs, get arrested for trespassing, try to claim I was responding to an SOS from a twelve–year–old boy whom his successful and beautiful parents would paint as emotionally unstable. Prone to self–dramatization. And maybe they were right. Maybe it was only my animus to Eleanor and BB that made me take their child seriously.

I tried the Baladine mansion one more time, but the phone still rang unanswered. I climbed back into bed, lying rigidly, waiting for the sounds of traffic, of crickets, of drinkers laughing their way up the street, to resolve themselves into menace. There is no worse feeling than not knowing if you are truly alone in your own home. To my surprise, when Peppy pawed at my arm to rouse me, it was eight–thirty.

I rolled over and looked into her amber eyes. “Woof. Sorry, old girl. Bruises and too much of whatever anti–inflammatory Lotty gave me, and I even sleep through fear. Let’s get you out and fetch the paper.”

Ever since Peppy and Mitch learned that bringing in the paper netted a dog biscuit, they like to collect them for the whole building. This morning we were up so late that only my own
Herald–Star
was still on the sidewalk. Mr. Contreras sent Mitch out to join us, but Peppy drove him off with a serious growl and presented the paper to me, golden plume waving grandly. The encounter made me laugh out loud—a good thing, since the rest of the day was singularly lacking in humor.

I unfolded the paper in the vestibule outside Mr. Contreras’s door. The
Herald–Star
put Frenada’s death on the front page, under the headline
DRUG LORD DROWNS.

Late yesterday, police identified the man pulled out of Belmont Harbor early Sunday morning as Lucian Frenada, owner of Special–T Uniforms in Humboldt Park. Frenada had become the subject of intense investigation by
Herald–Star
reporter Murray Ryerson, who taped an exposé on the use of Frenada’s small business as a cover for a drug smuggling ring. This story will air tonight at nine on GTV, Channel Thirteen.

Police who raided Special–T late Saturday night discovered five kilos of cocaine inside the cardboard rolls used for shipping uncut fabric. While Frenada hotly denied any connection to the Mexican drug cartels, his bank accounts told a different story. Police speculate that he may have committed suicide to avoid arrest. Frenada grew up in the same Humboldt Park building as movie star Lacey Dowell, widely known by her fans as the Mad Virgin for her role in those movies. Dowell couldn’t be reached for a comment on her old playmate’s death, but studio representative Alex Fisher says the star is devastated by the news. (
Murray Ryerson and Julia Esteban contributed to this report.
)

The story ended with a tearful denial by Frenada’s sister, Celia Caliente, who said her brother had no money and that it was a struggle for him to meet his share of the mortgage on the two–flat they jointly owned. The story ran with a photo of Lacey Dowell as the Mad Virgin next to a picture of her at her First Communion. Their irrelevance to Frenada’s death underscored the titillative purpose of using them.
Buy this paper and get an intimate look at Lacey Dowell.
I thrust it from me with so much irritation that Peppy backed away in alarm.

“What’s up, doll?” My neighbor had been watching me read.

I showed him the story and tried to explain why it bothered me so much. The one thing Mr. Contreras picked up from my incoherent rant was that Murray was framing Frenada. He didn’t care whether it was because Global was feeding Murray the story or not—Mr. Contreras has always disliked Murray, even more than the men I date. I’ve never been sure why, and now, to my own exasperation, I found myself feebly defending Murray to the old man.

Mr. Contreras was pardonably incensed. “Either he’s acting like a scumbag, no matter what the reason for it, or he’s not. Don’t go being his ma or his scoutmaster, telling me he’s a good boy at heart, because someone with principles don’t carry on this way, and you know that as well as me, cookie. He wants the limelight, he wants that TV show they got him doing, and he’s looking the other way. Period.”

Period indeed. I knew all those things were true, but Murray and I had been friends for so many years it hurt like any other loss to see him move away from me. Away from truth. I made a sour face at my own arrogance: I was hardly the avatar of truth.

Mr. Contreras was still fuming, hands on hips. “So whatcha going to do about it?”

“I’m going to work out and eat breakfast.” I felt too defensive to share the rest of my morning’s agenda.

I assured Mr. Contreras I wouldn’t go to the park alone: Mitch and Peppy were happy to be my guardians. I did my stretches, then tested my legs with a modest run. I stuck my Smith & Wesson in a fanny pack. It bounced uncomfortably against my abdomen as I jogged, but the bruise in my side was still too tender for me to carry a shoulder holster.

I could only manage three very slow miles, but I was happy to be in motion again. While I jogged, I kept the dogs closely leashed, much to their annoyance. They kept tugging at me, testing the muscles in my side. I turned around frequently to see who was coming up on me, but we did a little circuit of the harbor where the cops had found Lucian Frenada without anyone trying to shove me off the rocks.

On the way back to the car I called Morrell from a pay phone. I started to ask him about the LifeStory report, but he cut me short.

“You’re calling from a pay phone, but I’m on my home phone. I don’t think you can take any chances with these people. There’s a coffee shop two blocks north of where we ate last night. East side of the road. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Cops and robbers,” I muttered to the dogs. “Or paranoids and orderlies. This is ludicrous.”

Yesterday I’d accused Alex–Sandy of getting a Hollywood scriptwriter to devise the plot to frame me with cocaine in my office, but today I felt I was acting out a B movie myself, playing at spies, with a guy so nuts he wouldn’t use his first name. I drove up to Edgewater and cadged a container of water for the dogs while I waited for Morrell. When he arrived, he looked more worried than wild, but who knows what face paranoia turns to the world. I asked if this charade was really necessary.

“You’re the one who called me last night worried about eavesdroppers. As to whether it’s necessary—that’s the misery of this kind of situation. You don’t know if you’re being watched or making it up. The psychological toll rises so high that you almost welcome a chance to give in, just to have the uncertainty end. Which is why it’s important that teammates keep each other’s morale up.”

I felt chastened and took the manila envelope he was carrying with a mumbled thanks. “I know I came to you first, but it seems nuts to be playing James Bond in my own hometown.”

He bent over to greet the dogs, who were whining for attention. “That’s quite a collection of bruises you’ve got. They from your jump on Saturday?”

I hadn’t had time to change out of running shorts and top. They revealed large patches of greeny purple on my legs and torso, as if Jackson Pollock had been spray–painting me.

“Well, you weren’t running away from a phantom.” He straightened up and looked at me, brown eyes somber. “I know living in Central America has distorted my judgment, and I try to correct for it when I come home. But you see how easily the lines between police and power get blurred, especially in a country like America, where we’re always on full alert against enemies. After fifty years of the Cold War, we’ve gotten into such a reflexive posture of belligerence that we start to chew up our own citizens. When I come home I like to relax, but it’s hard to put aside the habits that help me survive nine months out of twelve. And in this case—well, you did find drugs in your office. And Lucian Frenada is very dead.”

Robbie Baladine’s late–night call came back to me with a jolt. “There’s something odd about that death. Can you call Vishnikov, ask him to do the autopsy himself? Just in case SMERSH did use some poison known only to Papua natives before putting Frenada into Belmont Harbor.”

He grinned. “You’ll be okay, Vic, as long as you can joke about it.” He looked a little embarrassed, then added, “You have beautiful legs, even with all those bruises on them.”

He turned hurriedly toward his car, as if paying a compliment might leave him open to a hand grenade. When I called out a thanks, he smiled and sketched a wave, then suddenly beckoned me over to the car.

“I forgot. Since we’re playing at James Bond we need a more efficient way to keep in touch. Are you free for dinner tonight? Do you know a restaurant where we could meet?”

I suggested Cockatrice, part of the restaurant explosion in Wicker Park. It was walking distance from my office, where I hoped to spend the afternoon cleaning up files. First, though, I needed to run some errands.