Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (20 page)

She
finished the brown murk and pulled a pitcher from the left side of the chair.
“I’d offer you some, but I’ve only got the one glass. You look kinda thirsty.”

I
made a hasty gesture of refusal. I wasn’t that hot.

“I
was kinda thinking of his clothes for the Goodwill,” she added.

Meaning
she thought she could sell them, perhaps to her other lodgers. “If you think
they want his clothes, be my guest. Let me just make sure this—son—didn’t
overlook something valuable.”

Of
course, anything valuable would be long gone, but Mitch Kruger hadn’t had
stocks or bearer bonds to worry about. There was no reason to be gratuitously
offensive to the lady by suggesting as much. Mrs. Polter gave gracious consent
to my searching Mitch’s room once again.

After
the glare of the street I couldn’t see in the unlit stairwell. I felt my way
cautiously up the stairs, not wanting to stumble on any loose pieces of
linoleum. None of the other inhabitants was roaming the halls, but a fresh
smell of bacon overlay the stale grease and cabbage in the air. Someone was
having a late lunch, or a very late breakfast. My stomach rumbled
sympathetically. I wondered if I could get a cheese sandwich at Tessie’s when I
finished here.

By
the time I reached the top my eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light to find
Mitch’s room. Between Mrs. Polter and the son not much remained. Certainly not
Kruger’s union card or his pension papers—not even the newspaper clippings. I
hadn’t paid much attention to his clothes, so I couldn’t tell if the landlady
had already skimmed off anything, but the portable black-and-white set was
gone. If I poked around until I found Mrs. Polter’s room I’d probably discover
it there. The temptation was strong, but I didn’t have any real desire to
confront her over it.

As I
made my way back down I thought gloomily about my own old age, if I lived that
long, and probable end. Would it be like this, in a derelict boardinghouse,
with nothing but an old TV and some threadbare jeans for an ungrieving landlady
to pick through? I wouldn’t even have Mr. Contreras to mourn me. Just as my
fantasies were reaching a peak of dreary loneliness, I caught my foot in a
loose piece of linoleum and reached the bottom on my hands and knees. I swore
and dusted myself off—nothing injured but my pride. If I went around
daydreaming instead of keeping my wits about me, Mr. Contreras would at least
survive to mourn me.

“That
you falling in there?” Mrs. Polter asked when I regained the porch. “Thought I
heard kind of a thud.”

“But
not worth your while to come investigate. You should get that linoleum tacked
down. It’d be kind of hard for you to haul away your boarders’ bodies if they
tripped and croaked… When did Mitch Kruger die?”

She
shrugged majestic shoulders. “Couldn’t tell you that, honey. But his son was by
here first thing this morning. Matter of fact, I wasn’t even up. He caught me
still in my curlers.”

That
must have been an awe-inspiring sight. “What did he look like, this son?”

She
moved her shoulders again. “I didn’t take his picture. He was a youngish fella,
maybe your age, maybe a little older.”

“Did
he leave a phone number in case you needed to reach him?”

“I
don’t have any call to reach him, honey. I told him the same I’m telling you:
take what you want while the room’s still paid for, ‘cause at the end of the
week I’m turning the rest over to the Goodwill.”

It
made me uneasy to give up the room, give up Mitch’s last connection to life. I
thought about shelling out another fifty to hang on to the room through next
week. And yet, what could I possibly find in there?

Still
uneasy, I crossed the street to Tessie’s. She remembered me at once, even what
I’d been drinking.

“You
look kind of hot today, honey. Want another draw?”

I
slid onto the stool. The thin brew soothed my raw throat. Her bar wasn’t
air-conditioned, but it was out of the glare of the sun. A fan blowing down the
counter dried my sweat, giving me the illusion of coolness.

“I
didn’t have time for lunch. Do you sell sandwiches or anything?”

She
shook her head regretfully. “The best I can do for you is a bag of chips or
pretzels, honey.”

I ate
the pretzels with my second beer. We had the bar to ourselves. She was watching
Donahue on a small black-and-white set tucked under the whisky bottles. The TV
was too clean to have been Mitch’s.

At a
commercial break Tessie spoke without looking at me. “I hear they found that
old man you were hunting last week, drowned in the San. They picked up his body
yesterday, what I hear. Your uncle, did you say?”

I
grunted noncommittally.

“Lily
Polter said you were a detective. So was he an uncle or a skipper?”

“Neither.
He grew up with an old friend of mine. My friend got upset when the guy went
missing.”

She
flicked a fly with her bar towel. “I don’t like being lied to. Most especially
not in my own bar.”

My
cheeks reddened under my sunburn. “I figured if I came in here and announced I
was a detective, someone might break a bottle of Old Overholt on my head.”

Her
eyes crinkled with unexpected laughter. “I might still do that. Especially if I
find out you’re lying to me this time around. What happened to the old boy?”

I shook
my head. “You know as much as I do. He fell into the Sanitary Canal, but he was
dead before he went in. I was over at Mrs. Polter’s trying to find a photo, but
some guy came by this morning, said he was my man’s son, and took his union
card and all his stuff that might have had a picture on it.”

“Said
he was his son?” she repeated. “You think he wasn’t?”

“I
don’t think. All I do is ask questions. I didn’t know anyone here in Chicago
had an address for the son, and even if they did, he got here mighty fast.
Still, maybe he had a nightmare warning him his father was dead and flew into
town on the chance. You didn’t see the guy, did you? Mrs. Polter couldn’t give
me a description.”

“I’m
not open that early, hon. But if I hear anything I’ll let you know. Could be my
old man saw something. He’s had a stroke, but he likes to sit outside in the
evenings and mornings, watch the street, same as he has for seventy years now.”

I
gave her my card and two dollars for the beers and the pretzels. As I headed
for the door Tessie spoke again.

“You
just somehow don’t look like the kind of girl who would let a drunk old uncle
drag around in circles. Something about the way you hold yourself, honey. I
figure you’re telling the truth when you say you’re a detective.”

That
sounded like enough of a compliment to take some of the drag out of my step. I
sketched a wave and went back into the heat.

It
was getting to be time to go back to the plant and try to intercept some of the
machinists on their way home, but my heart didn’t leap at the idea. Two beers
on an empty stomach after a day in the sun made me long for any alternative to
physical action. Like a nap. Anyway, how effective could I be in my current
shape? If someone looked at me cross-eyed I’d fall over. My wits weren’t nimble
enough to phrase questions that would be irresistible to answer.

I
coaxed the Cressida into third and headed north on Halsted. At this hour it was
faster to stay away from the expressways. Even Halsted was dense; I kept having
to shift up and down at the lights. Tomorrow I’d return the Cressida and rent a
car that worked right.

What
I needed was a different approach to Diamond Head. I’d been butting my own head
against a rock-hard wall there. I needed someone who might open the doors for
me. I do a lot of work for industrial outfits in Chicago. It was possible that
a grateful former client sat on the Diamond Head board. It was even possible
that the owners, whoever they were, overlapped with some other company I’d
worked for. Mr. Contreras kept saying Diamond Head had new owners; all I had to
do was locate them. And that was something my trusty lawyer could do for me. He
had a computer and access to the Lexus system—I didn’t.

I got
off Halsted at Jackson, where the remnants of Chicago’s Greek community he. I’d
only turned there because Jackson was the direct route to my office, but the
smell coming from the restaurants on the corners was too much for me. It was
almost five, anyway, too late to ask Freeman Carter to start a search. I
settled down with taramasalata and a plate of grilled squid and put the heat
and frustrations of the day behind me.

I had
a hard time getting through to Freeman’s office the next morning. The first
three times I dialed I counted twenty rings before hanging up. What on earth
had happened to their phone system? The call should have gone to a message
center. The fourth time I rang someone picked up the phone without knowing
where Freeman was. His reluctance to take a message made me decide to go down in
person.

I
hadn’t been inside Crawford, Mead’s offices since they’d moved to their new
crib near Wacker, but the walnut paneling, the russet Ferraghan hanging to the
right of the entrance, and the two outsize Tang urns were all the same as
they’d been on South La Salle. Why move at all if you were just going to
replicate your old surroundings at treble the cost?

Leah
Caudwell had been the firm’s receptionist since before Dick joined the firm.
She had always liked me, and had seen me as an aggrieved party when Dick and I
split up. Without exactly encouraging her to believe it, I’d never directly
contradicted the idea; the wear and tear on Dick were my substitute for
alimony.

I
walked over to the reception counter with a cheery greeting on my lips, but
found myself looking at a strange young woman easily thirty years Leah’s
junior. She was pencil thin, wearing a green knit sheath and a lavish amount of
lipstick.

“Leah
sick today?” I asked.

The
young woman shook her head. “She quit when we moved last November. Can I help
you?”

I
felt unreasonably hurt that Leah had left without notifying me. With a little
brusqueness I gave the young woman my name and told her I’d come to see
Freeman.

“Oh,
my. Did you have an appointment with him?”

“Nope.
I spent the morning trying to get through on the phone and thought it would be
easier to come in person. I’ll talk to his secretary, though; what I need
doesn’t require his personal attention.”

“Oh,
my,” she repeated helplessly, shaking her feathered curls. “Well, maybe you’d better
talk to Catherine. If you’ll have a seat I’ll page her for you. What did you
say your name was?”

Catherine
Gentry was Freeman’s secretary. Since she hadn’t been answering his phone I
didn’t know that she would answer a page. The receptionist’s manner made it
clear that something was wrong with Freeman, but it seemed hopeless to get her
to tell me anything. I handed her one of my cards and went over to the russet
armchairs underneath the Ferraghan. When Dick started at the firm fourteen
years ago he’d told me, awed, that the rug was insured for fifty thousand
dollars. I suppose it was now worth three or four times that, but Dick’s awe
had probably diminished commensurately.

After
I’d waited ten minutes, thumbing through the Wall Street Journal and back copies
of Newsweek, a thickset young woman came out, whispered something to the
receptionist, and came over to me.

“Are
you Ms. Warshawski?” She made a credible stab at my last name. “I’m Vivian
Copley. I’m one of the paralegals—I’ve done a lot of work for Mr. Carter
recently. What did you need to see him about?”

“It’s
certainly something you could help me with, but is something wrong with
Freeman? I haven’t talked to him for a few weeks.”

She
put a hand over her mouth and giggled nervously. “Oh, dear. I hate… I don’t
know if we’re supposed… but it’ll probably be in the papers anyway.”

“What?”
I demanded sharply. I was getting tired of the helpless fluttering of the
office staff.

“He
announced his resignation from the firm on Friday. They asked him to pack up on
the spot. Catherine’s here today taking care of his files, but she’ll be gone
tomorrow. We’re redirecting his clients to other partners, so if you tell me
what you needed to see him about we can figure out who the best person to help
you would be.”

I studied
my nails for a moment, wondering whether to ask for Dick or Todd Pichea. The
effect would be electric, but what would I gain from it?

I got
up. “Freeman’s been handling my affairs for so many years I wouldn’t feel
comfortable working with anyone else. Why don’t you just take me back to
Catherine?”

She
twisted a strand of hair around a finger. “We’re really not supposed to—”

I
smiled firmly. “Why don’t you just take me to Catherine?”

“I
think I need to talk to my boss about it first.” She whisked back inside the
doors that led to the firm’s offices.

I
waited about thirty seconds and followed her. Since I’d never been here before
I didn’t know where Freeman’s office might lie. I picked the right-hand
corridor at random and walked through the ankle-deep carpet, poking my head
into offices and conference rooms. I passed lots of myrmidons laden down with
files and computer printouts, but none who knew anything about Freeman Carter.