Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (15 page)

“You
know I can’t reveal our client list,” he snorted.

I
kept my voice humble. “The thing is, I also sent a copy of the letter to a
reporter I know. He might not do anything with it as it stands, but you going
out of your way to keep it out of the legal rag—well, that is news, Dick. You
should tell your secretary to stand by for a call from Murray Ryerson. And I’ll
mail another copy to Leigh Wilton. Maybe you can bribe the receptionist to
bring it to you when it arrives.”

His
final words to me were not a pledge of everlasting friendship.

Step
Aside, Sisyphus

The
morning went downhill from there. On my way back from my run I stopped to talk
to Mrs. Hellstrom. I realized I’d been too upset Friday night to tell her what
had happened to the dogs. Distress made her voluble. She grew even more
dismayed when I broke in to tell her about Mrs. Frizell’s condition.

“I’ll
have to go over there this morning to visit. Mr. Hellstrom doesn’t like me
having anything to do with her, she’s an unpleasant neighbor in some ways, but
we’ve been through a lot together. I can’t leave her rotting there.”

“The
nurses don’t want her told about her dogs until she’s stronger,” I warned.

“As
if I would do such a cruel thing. But that Mr. Pichea—can you be sure he
won’t?”

A new
worry. When I stopped at home to shower and have breakfast I called Nelle
McDowell, the charge nurse at the women’s orthopedic ward. When I explained the
situation, and asked her please not to let either of the Picheas see Mrs.
Frizell alone, she gave a sardonic crack of laughter.

“It’s
not that I disagree. I agree a hundred percent. But we’re shorthanded here as
it is. And he’s the lady’s legal guardian. I can’t stop him if he wants to come
visit her.”

“I’m
going down to the probate court this morning to see what I can do to challenge
that guardianship agreement.”

“Be
my guest, Ms. Warshawski. But I gotta warn you, Mrs. Frizell does not act
mentally competent. Even if you arrange a full-blown hearing instead of the
shotgun affair we had last week, no one is going to think she can look after
herself.”

“Yeah,
yeah.” I hung up disgruntled. The only person with legal standing to complain
was Byron Frizell, and he’d approved Pichea’s appointment. I drove downtown to
the Daley Center, where the civil courts are located, but I wasn’t optimistic.

The
probate court was less than sympathetic to my inquiries. An assistant state’s
attorney, who’d been in Little League when I went to law school, greeted me
with the hostility typical of bureaucrats whose deeds are challenged. With a
lofty tilt to his chin, he informed me that Mrs. Frizell’s guardianship hearing
had followed “appropriate procedures.” The only grounds for challenging
Pichea’s guardianship—especially in light of Byron Frizell’s support—would be
incontrovertible proof that he was denuding the estate.

“By
which time she’ll be dead and it won’t matter what he does with her estate,” I
said savagely.

The
attorney raised supercilious eyebrows. “If you find any grounds for questioning
Mr. Pichea’s probity, you can come back to see me. But I’m going to have to
report your inquiries to him; as the guardian, he needs to know who shows an
interest in his ward’s affairs.”

I
felt my eyeballs bulging with frustration, but forced an affable smile to my
lips. “I’d be glad for Pichea to know I’m interested. In fact, you can tell him
I’ll be sticking to him like his underwear. There’s always the faint chance
that will keep him honest.”

To
make my morning as useless as possible I stopped across the street at the
city’s Department of Human Services to find out why they’d labeled Mrs.
Frizell’s dogs a menace to her health. The bureaucrats there weren’t as hostile
as the ones at the probate court; they were merely lethargic. When I identified
myself as a lawyer with an interest in Mrs. Frizell’s affairs, they dug up the
report that had been filed with emergency services when the paramedics picked
her up last Monday. Apparently Mr. Contreras hadn’t scrubbed down the front
hall well enough: one of the paramedics had trod in “fecal matter,” as the
report identified it, on her way out the door.

“That
was just because Mrs. Frizell had been lying unconscious for twenty-four hours.
She couldn’t let the dogs out. The rest of the house was clean.”

“The
rest of the house was filthy, according to our report,” the woman behind the
counter said.

I
flushed. “So she hadn’t vacuumed lately. The dogs hadn’t relieved themselves
except by the door. She was very conscientious about letting them out.”

“Our
report says otherwise.”

We
batted it back and forth for a while, but I couldn’t budge her. Helplessness
was making me feel savage, but screaming obscenities would only hurt my cause.
I finally got the woman to give me the name of the public servant who’d made up
the report, but by now there wasn’t any point in seeking him out.

As I
hiked across the Loop to my office I wondered whether I could file a multimillion-dollar
suit against Pichea and the city on Mrs. Frizell’s behalf. The problem was, I
didn’t have standing. My best bet would be to find out something really
disgusting about Todd and Chrissie. Other than their personalities, that
is—something that would disgust a judge and jury.

Tom
Czarnik was waiting for me in the lobby of the Pulteney Building. He hadn’t
shaved today. With his bristly chin and angry red eyes he looked like an extra
from Mutiny on the Bounty.

“Was
you in here on Sunday?” he demanded.

I
smiled. “I pay my rent. I can come and go when I please without your
permission.”

“Someone
left the stairwell door unlocked. I knew it had to be you.”

“You
track my footsteps through the layers of dust? Maybe I’ll take you on; I could
use a sharp-eyed assistant.” I turned toward the elevator. “Machine working
today? Or do I use the stairs again?”

“I’m
warning you, Warshawski. You interfere with the safety of the building and I’ll
report you to the owners.”

I
pushed the elevator call button. “You get rid of a paying tenant and they’re
more likely to lynch you.” Half the offices in the Pulteney were empty these
days—people who could afford the rents were moving north to newer buildings.

The
elevator creaked to the ground floor and I climbed in. The squeak of the
shutting doors drowned Czarnik’s farewell curse. When we clanked to a halt on
the fourth floor I discovered his rather childish revenge: he’d used his master
key to open my door, and propped it wide with an iron weight.

When
I checked with my answering service I found Murray had returned my call. Max
Loewenthal had also phoned, asking if I’d stop at his house for drinks tonight.
His son and Or‘ Nivitsky were leaving for Europe in the morning. And I had a
message from a company in Schaumburg wanting to know who was slipping their
production secrets to a competitor.

I
called Max to accept with pleasure. The serenity of his Evanston home would
make a welcome relief from the places and people I’d been seeing lately. I
phoned the Schaumburg outfit and arranged to see their operations vice
president at two. And I caught Murray at his desk. He agreed to meet me for a
sandwich at a place near the paper, but he wasn’t enthusiastic about my story.

Lucy
Moynihan, who owns and runs Carl’s, plucked us from the line at the door and
ushered us to one of the tables she saves for her regulars. She grew up in
Detroit and is an unregenerate Tiger fan, so I had to wait for her and Murray
to finish dissecting yesterday’s game before I could tell him about Mrs.
Frizell and her dogs.

“It’s
sad, Vic, but it’s not a story,” Murray said through a mouthful of hamburger.
“I can’t bring this to my editor. The first thing he’ll want to know is how
much you’re motivated by your hatred of Yarborough.”

“Dick
hasn’t got anything to do with this. Except that he and Pichea are at the same
law firm. Don’t you think it’s interesting that he’s getting the Chicago Lawyer
to suppress my letter?”

“Frankly,
no. I think he’s protecting Crawford, Mead’s fair name. Anyone would under the
circumstances. Bring me some real dirt and I’ll go to bat for you. This just
doesn’t cut it. You’re on a crusade for the old lady and it’s distorting your
perspective.”

“This
is a story. It’s happening all over the Lincoln Park perimeter as the yuppies
muscle into old neighborhoods. People forced out of bungalows they’ve spent a
lifetime in to make way for the sacred gentrifiers. Only in this case Pichea’s
added a personal vendetta against an old woman because he hates her dogs.”

Murray
shook his head. “You’re not selling me, V. I.”

I
pulled a five from my billfold and slapped it on the table, too angry to eat.
“Don’t come around asking me for favors in the future, Ryerson, because there
won’t be any.”

As I
stormed to the door I saw him pick up my turkey sandwich and start eating it.
Great. Perfect conclusion to a bad morning.

On my
way to Schaumburg I stopped at a fast foodery for a milkshake. I couldn’t go
indefinitely on anger and I wanted to present a professional front to my
prospective clients. Fortunately I’d dressed for success today in a taupe
trouser suit with a black cotton top. And since I drank the shake through a
straw I didn’t even spill any on myself.

The
meeting took all afternoon. At five-thirty I left them with a proposal and
joined the parking lot on Interstate 290 crawling back to Chicago. There wasn’t
any good way to get from the northwest suburbs to Evanston. There wasn’t any
good way to move in the northwest suburbs at this time of day, period. I got
off at Golf Road to drive directly east. It wouldn’t be any slower than staying
on the expressway.

The
Cubs were playing in Philadelphia. I turned on the radio to see if the game had
started, but got the inane blather Harry Carey called his pregame show. I
switched to WBBM and the news. Nothing was going on in the world that I cared
much about, from the baking of the Southwest to the news that the savings and
loan bailout was now estimated at five hundred billion.

“Surprise,
surprise,” I muttered, trying NBC. Traffic was backed up on all the expressways
as people like me returned to the city after frolicking in the suburbs. On Golf
Road, too, although the man in the helicopter didn’t mention it. I braked hard
as a maroon Honda pulled into traffic from one of the five thousand strip malls
lining the street. Stupid jerk. He pulled in behind me, close enough to ram me
if I had to stop suddenly.

No
one had identified the body of an elderly man pulled from the Chicago Sanitary
and Ship Canal near Stickney earlier today. We got an agitated live report from
Ellen Coleman; who had found the body when she and her husband, Fred, were
walking along the side of the canal, scavenging for coins.

“And
I said to Fred, I don’t think I can face meatloaf tonight after seeing all that
ground-up flesh,” I mimicked savagely, turning back to Harry Carey.

It
was six before I reached the outskirts of Evanston. My linen jacket was limp
from sweat. When I checked my face in the rearview mirror I saw a black smudge
across my cheek. My dark curls were lying wet on my forehead. I found a Kleenex
in my purse and scrubbed my face clean with spit. I couldn’t do anything about
the rest of my appearance.

Max’s
house was part of a small block that shared a private park and beach at the
south end of Evanston. When I pulled into the driveway Max leaned over the side
of the second-story porch.

“The
front door is open, Vic; you can come on up.”

A
shallow step led to the porticoed front entrance. The air inside was still and
cool. I couldn’t imagine heat or sweat among the Chinese porcelains that filled
niches and stands along the hall and stairwell. I felt sloppy and out of place
in the midst of Max’s immaculate tidiness. My black pumps had a film of dust on
them that didn’t belong on the red Persian runner lining the stairs.

The
red carpeting continued in the upper hall, leading to the porch door. The porch
had been enclosed with sliding screens, which were open now so that Max and
Michael and Or‘ could watch the lake stained orange and pink in the reflection
of the setting sun. Michael and Or’ were sitting in one corner drinking iced
tea. Max came forward to greet me, leading me by the hand to a nearby chair,
and pressing a drink on me. I took a gin and tonic and felt some of the stress
leave my shoulders.

Like
the rest of the house, the porch was immaculate and beautifully furnished. The
deck chairs were made of dark, polished wood covered in thick, flowered
cushions. The occasional tables, unlike the glass or cast iron of most porch
furniture, were constructed of the same wood with bright tile inlays. Blooming
plants in Chinese pots stood on ledges around the perimeter.

A
brake of dawn redwoods screened the porch from the house to the south; the
front of the other house lay further back. Although shrieks from neighborhood
children drifted up, we couldn’t see anyone.

Lotty
arrived a few minutes later and the conversation turned to music, and Or’s and
Michael’s summer schedules. Or‘ was conducting at Tanglewood, he touring in the
Far East. They would join up again in the fall for a tour in Eastern Europe, although
both were worried by the anti-Semitic violence in that part of the world. Lotty
seemed to have put her anger over Carol to one side, greeting me with a kiss
and taking enthusiastic part in the conversation.