Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (26 page)

“Yeah,
I thought it wouldn’t hurt you to get a dose of your own medicine. Not at the
time, I mean, but later, when it occurred to me to go see him in person. I
thought, well, Vic’ll be worried when she calls—if she calls—and don’t get an
answer. But I didn’t have any way of reaching you and I thought, all the times
you’ve kept me hanging without word one, it won’t hurt you none to be in a bit
of a stew.”

“Well,
I’m glad you had a good time.” I was too tired to fight. “By the way, how long
were you gone? Peppy seemed pretty eager to get outside when I stopped by at
one.”

That
was a low blow; I was sorry as soon as the words left my mouth. One of Mr.
Contreras’s jealously guarded prerogatives is having the dog live with him on
the grounds that I’m gone too much of the time to be a fit owner.

His
brown eyes clouded with hurt. “That ain’t fair, doll, when you know I’m here
day and night for the princess. I wouldn’t go off for days at a time without a
thought for her needs the way—well, anyway, I wouldn’t leave her in the lurch.”

He,
too, was pulling his punches—cutting himself short instead of launching a
full-scale attack on my periodic absences. I patted him on the shoulder and
turned to go upstairs.

“Don’t
you even want to know what I found out?” he demanded.

“Yeah.
Yeah, sure I do. Just let me wash up first.”

“I’m
barbecuing some ribs,” he called after me. “Want me to save some for you?”

News
about cholesterol and colon cancer had no effect on Mr. Contreras’s diet. In
fact, maybe years of spare ribs had made him the hale, fit man he was today.
They certainly sounded more comforting after my dreary afternoon than the
low-cal, high-nutrition dinner I’d been planning. I thanked him, but warned him
it would be a good hour before I’d be ready.

The
bath turned black as soon as I stepped into the tub. I couldn’t soak in such
filth. Submerging for a few seconds to rinse the sweat from my hair, I climbed
out and emptied the tub, wiping the grimy ring away as the water receded. I
turned on the shower, but I’d drained the heater filling the tub and cleaning
it.

Snarling
under my breath, I wrapped myself in a towel and went to phone Lotty while I
waited for the hot water heater to fill again. When I didn’t get an answer I
tried Max’s number. It turned out she had gone up to Evanston to stay with him
for a few days. She was doing well, or as well as could be expected, but there
was a strain between us—guilt on my part, fear on hers. I tried to patch it as
best I could, but we didn’t part in our usual harmony.

I was
shivering by the time we hung up, and was glad to find the water hot again. I
stood under it until the shower began running cool, long after the final traces
of Mrs. Frizell’s dirt had gone from my hair. Had Todd and Chrissie bested me
in yet another encounter, or was I on to something? It’s true U.S. Met wasn’t a
great bank, but Mrs. Frizell had moved her account four months ago, long before
Todd and Chrissie entered her life.

Maybe
Chrissie worked there—I pictured her going around to all the old people in the
neighborhood, getting them to transfer their money to the Met’s
noninterest-bearing accounts. I realized I didn’t know if Chrissie worked
outside the home. As to the missing title to Mrs. Frizell’s house, maybe that
was in a safe-deposit box someplace. Or up by her bed. Since she’d slept with
the dogs, maybe she figured her bedroom was the safest place to keep valuables.

I
toweled my hair dry and lay down for a short rest. I still had a third stop to
make on my day of burglary, and I wouldn’t be able to manage it in my present
shape. The phone woke me at nine-thirty: Mr. Contreras, wanting to know if I
was angry and punishing him by hiding out upstairs.

I sat
up groggily. “I fell asleep.” I cut off his apologies. “I’m glad you called—I
need to get up. Be down in five minutes.”

I
pulled on jeans and a white cotton shirt with long sleeves—I was still feeling
chilly despite the warm summer evening. I looked at the clock again and decided
to leave straight from Mr. Contreras’s. Strapping my shoulder holster on, I
pushed driver’s license, money, and keys into various pockets. The picklocks
dug into my thigh; I took them out and stuck them in the pocket of a denim
jacket, which I put on to conceal the shoulder holster. Now I felt hot, but
that couldn’t be helped.

When
I got downstairs Mr. Contreras had his door open for me. “You didn’t eat, did
you, doll? I’m heating your ribs in my toaster oven right now.”

He
waved a bottle of Valpolicella at me, but I declined. I couldn’t afford to
drink anything this late at night if I wanted to be able to move fast. He
bustled off to the kitchen.

I
went over to the maternity ward—I hadn’t taken time to coo over the puppies
earlier. Their eyes had opened and they were making tentative sorties from
Peppy’s side. She watched me closely when I picked them up to stroke them, but
it didn’t upset her the way it had when they were first born.

Mr.
Contreras came back with a plate of ribs, some garlic bread, and—in deference
to my eating habits—a plate of iceberg lettuce. He unfolded a TV table for me
and sat down with the wine. As soon as I saw the ribs I realized how hungry I
was.

“Tell
me about your day. You went to see Jake Sokolowski?” I asked through a mouthful
of food.

“No.
I just phoned him at Tonia Coriolano’s place. I didn’t figure he’d know
anything about Mitch’s kid—none of us did. Mitch didn’t care enough to keep up
with the boy and Rosie when they up and left thirty-five years ago.” He
swallowed some wine reflectively. “Or maybe he was just too ashamed at not
being able to look after them the way a man ought to do—and don’t go telling me
women can look after themselves. You marry a woman and get her a baby, you’re
obligated to look after them.”

After
glaring at me a minute to see if I would respond to the challenge in his voice,
he went on. “No, who I went to see was Eddie Mohr.”

“Eddie
Mohr?” I echoed.

“The
guy whose car was stolen. The one that the guys used for beating up the doc.”

“I
didn’t know you knew him.”

“Well,
I wasn’t sure I did, until after I checked with Jake. I mean, it’s not a common
name, but there could be more than one.”

I put
down my ribs, controlling an impulse to shout at him. When Mr. Contreras has
hot news, he tells it in pieces and usually backward.

“I’ll
bite: Who is Eddie Mohr? Besides owning the death car, of course.”

“Guy
used to be president of our local. He’s a few years younger’n Jake and me,
maybe only just turned seventy, so he started after us and wasn’t in our
particular crowd. But of course I knew him, so I went to see him. Got a nice little
house on Fortieth, east of Kedzie, lives with his wife, keeps a nice Buick.
Besides the Olds that got stolen, I mean. The Buick is his wife’s car, see—the
other one, the Olds, that’s his.” Mr. Contreras beamed in satisfaction at being
able to report important news.

“I
think I understand. What did he have to say?”

“Oh,
he was real shocked. I just wanted to make sure, you know, that he really
didn’t have anything to do with following your car, beating up the doc, that
kind of stuff.”

I had
wanted to know those things too. I would have liked to ask Eddie Mohr those
questions myself. One reason for doing my own legwork is that the people’s
reactions tell you more than their actual words. Of course, I could go see him
myself tomorrow. I’d only be the third person to interrogate him, behind the
cops and Mr. Contreras. He should have his answers totally memorized by then.

I
started to ask about where Mohr parked the cars— street or garage? And did it
make logistical sense that it was the Olds the hot-wirers took? And didn’t it
seem like a strange coincidence that the president of the Diamond Head local
was involved, however tangentially, in trying to run Lotty over when I was
trying to investigate the death of an old Diamond Head employee? But Mr. Contreras
wouldn’t be able to answer these questions, and it would only puncture his
balloon if I asked them.

“Was
he surprised to see you?” I said instead.

“Well,
naturally, me turning up out of the blue after twelve years, of course he was
surprised.”

“Disconcerted,
do you think?”

He
snorted. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at. You mean, did he act like he had
a guilty conscience, yes he did—he felt guilty as all get-out when I told him
who the doc was and how bad she’d been hurt. But of course he couldn’t know his
car would be stolen, let alone it would be stolen to attack her with.”

“How
come he owns two cars and you take the bus?”

He
opened his eyes in astonishment. “You trying to suggest he’s got more money
than he should? I could own a car if I wanted to—I sure don’t need two—but what
do I need it for? Waste of money, the taxes, the gas, the insurance, worrying
about parking it, whether hot-rodders’U steal it. You think just because a guy
gives his life to the union he can’t afford to own a car?”

I
shook my head, abashed. “Of course not. Just grabbing at straws.”

I
picked at the iceberg lettuce. “You know, Terry Finchley didn’t try to find
Mitch’s son. And Jake didn’t. But someone claiming to be young Kruger did go to
Mrs. Poker’s and ransack Mitch’s room only a day after his body was found.
Either the guy did come to town unbeknownst to anyone but Mitch, or someone
wanted something out of Mitch’s things bad enough to pretend to be him. I mean,
either way, the person knew where he lived. Which meant Mitch had to tell them,
because you and he—and Jake—were the only ones who knew.”

Mr.
Contreras cocked an intelligent eye. “You want me to ask Jake did someone call
trying to find Mitch’s new address?”

I
hunched a shoulder impatiently. “I suppose. I’d like to come up with some
photos, show ‘em on the street. You know, we don’t know whether Mitch’s son
stayed in Arizona. Hell, he’d be my age—older. He could be anywhere. You
remember his name?”

“Mitch,
junior,” Mr. Contreras said promptly. “I always remember resenting the fact
that he had a junior and I only had Ruthie. Stupid kind of thing. It doesn’t
mean nothing, I can see that now, but at the time… oh, well, you don’t want to
hear about that.”

I
wiped my fingers on the wet paper towel he had provided. Mounting a search for
a person who could be anywhere was way outside my resources—it meant going into
state motor-vehicle departments, writing the Pentagon, all kinds of activities
I didn’t have time or money to undertake. Still, a picture of Mitch, Jr., would
be very helpful.

“You
want to bankroll some ads, since you don’t waste your money on a car? We could
run some in all the Arizona papers, and ones around here. You know, if Mitch
Kruger, once of Chicago, writes a certain address, he’ll hear something to his
advantage.”

Mr.
Contreras rubbed his hands together. “Just like out of Sherlock Holmes. Good
idea, doll. Good idea. Want me to take care of it?”

I
graciously gave my consent and stood up. “I’m going downtown and I’d like to go
out the back way. In case the boys who took your pal’s car are waiting with
another one out front. Can you let me out through your kitchen?”

“Downtown?”
His eyes flicked to my left armpit. “What’re you doing downtown?”

I
smiled. “A little office work.”

“That
why you need the gun? To shoot holes in a letter and hope it’ll go away?”

I
laughed. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I am not going off for a violent
confrontation. I’m hoping I won’t see a single soul. But you know my methods,
Watson: guys start taking shots at me, or my friends, I don’t walk the mean
streets without a little protection.”

He
wasn’t happy; he wasn’t even sure he believed me. But he undid the dead bolts
on his back door and walked me to the alley. “I’m gonna fix you up with one of
those things the cops carry, so if you get in trouble you can give me a
signal.”

The
thought of a twenty-four-hour umbilical cord to the old man made me gulp. I
went down the alley as fast as I could, as if to get away from the very air
that had carried the suggestion.

The
South Loop is a ghost town at night. Its bars close with the evening rush hour.
Although the Auditorium and a movie theater are on its eastern edge and
Dearborn Park has sprung up on the south, little night life has spread north of
the Congress Expressway. A lot of that is of such dubious quality that you’d
rather encounter an actual ghost.

The
address for Jonas Carver—the man Lexus showed as Diamond Head’s registered
agent—proved to be just north of Van Buren. I parked the Impala a discreet
distance away, waited for a drunk—or perhaps dopehead—to drift across the
street, and went into the lobby.

It
was an old building that had been given a superficial rehab—just enough paint
to justify a rent increase commensurate with the new construction in Dearborn
Park. One of the cosmetic features was a heavy glass door with a double lock:
you had to have working keys in both of them at the same time for the door to
open. This would be a good test of the range of my picklocks. They had set me
back seven hundred dollars, but were supposed to be up to this kind of job.