Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (27 page)

I
also noted bitterly that the tenant addresses—listed next to a phone outside
the outer door—were coded. Doubtless useful for private residents, but if you
wanted to see a business, like Jonas Carver’s, how were you supposed to know
what floor to go to? Fortunately the building was only eleven stories high—that
would cut my exploration time down significantly.

Just
to be on the safe side I dialed Carver’s code number. No one answered. Why
would anyone be here at midnight, anyway?

Looking
around to make sure no one was watching me, I set to work on the locks. After
half an hour I began to wonder if I should bunk down in the Impala and go in on
the coattails of the first person to arrive in the morning. I was also tempted
just to pull out the Smith & Wesson and blow the door down. I didn’t think
the noise would rouse anyone.

It
was almost one when my delicate probers finally released the spring in the
upper lock, enabling me to work the bottom one fairly quickly. The small of my
back ached from bending so long. I rubbed it and stretched against the wall,
trying to ease out the cramping.

A
small night-light gave just enough of a glow to see the elevator buttons. The
lobby was minuscule, about big enough for four people to wait together. I
pulled out a quarter and flipped it: heads I would ride to the top and make my
way down to Carver; tails I’d start on two and go up. In the dim light I could
just make out Washington’s profile. I summoned the elevator.

The
door opened at once. This meant the last person to use it had been heading
down, a good sign even though I didn’t seriously expect to encounter anyone. As
the door closed on me I saw an address board on the facing wall. I stuck a foot
out, got the door open, and leaned out to get Jonas Carver’s suite number. He
was on the sixth floor. Whether I had started at the bottom or the top it would
have made no difference. Maybe my luck was turning a bit.

The
lock on Carver’s office was much easier to negotiate than the lobby had been. A
good thing, since my back protested when I leaned over to play with it. I
knelt, trying to find a comfortable working angle, and .managed to slide the
dead bolt back in about five minutes.

Carver’s
office faced the air-shaft side of the building. No streetlamps bent their rays
up here. The only light in the room came from a cursor blinking importunately
in the middle distance. I groped my way toward it, found the desk it was
sitting on, and fumbled around until I found a lamp switch. I don’t know why I
hadn’t brought a flashlight with me.

The
room, which had seemed immense in the dark, showed up small and austere under
the lamplight. Besides the metal desk with the computer, it held two filing
cabinets and a small table with an electric coffeemaker. A door at the far end
led to a second room, presumably Mr. Carver’s personal headquarters. The desk
here was veneered in fake wood; an imitation Chinese rug covered part of the
floor. Carver, too, had a computer ready for action.

Information
on the companies Carver managed was no doubt waiting behind the blinking cursor
and would be revealed at the right command. My computer skills were not my
strong suit; figuring out the right command would be a chore. I tried instead
to find some hard copy in the filing cabinets, but they seemed devoted to tax
laws and government guidelines on how to run closely held corporations. I also
found manuals for using the computer. Gritting my teeth, I opened the binder
and began to read.

Around
half an hour later I figured I knew enough at least to get started. I bowed
politely to the computer and asked it for a directory. The machine obliged with
a speed and thoroughness that left me thoroughly confused. A line at the bottom
asked what I wanted to do—browse, create, edit, save, exit—and blinked
impertinently when I hesitated.

I
finally figured out which function key allowed me to browse. The machine,
impatient with my retardation, barely allowed me to hit it before demanding a
file name. I gave it “Diamond Head.” It spat it back, “File not found.” I tried
a variety of permutations on the name, but the machine didn’t like any of them.

Finally
I found my way back to the directory and studied it carefully. Something called
“ClientExec” sounded promising. I fiddled around with different letters and
managed—after numerous false starts—a combination the computer liked. A few
blinking lights and the client files lay in front of me. Not, of course, in
ledger form— just another set of menu options.

I
looked at my watch. It was close to three. It had taken longer to figure out
how to use the damned computer than it had to get in through the front door.
After another period of trial and error I found the Diamond Head records.

As
soon as I came to the list of directors and officers, I realized why Freeman
had been so upset this morning. Jason Felitti was the chairman, Peter Felitti
the vice chair, and Richard Yarborough the secretary. I let my jaw drop. I
didn’t know who Jason was, but I’d met Peter at the benefit Michael and Or‘ had
given. He was Dick’s father-in-law and the chairman of Amalgamated Portage.

I
laughed out loud, a little hysterically. Yeah, I knew one of the directors who
could put pressure on Chamfers for me, all right. Jeez, Louise. No wonder
Freeman thought I was trying to pull him into a private war with Dick! That
still didn’t excuse his rudeness, but at least I could see his point of view.

I
scanned the rest of the file perfunctorily. It was past four now and my eyes
were having trouble focusing on the shimmery green letters. I wished I knew how
to print the file, but I was too tired to figure out any more computer
shenanigans, and I didn’t want an early arrival to find me on the job.

If
Carver kept Diamond Head’s books, they were in a separate set of ledger files,
which I also couldn’t figure out how to hunt down. The summary data presented
here showed that Diamond Head was heavily leveraged. In fact, debt seemed to
exceed retained earnings by about a i: 2 ratio. And the company had a
relationship with Amalgamated Portage, which held a big chunk of the debt. That
was cozy—just keep it all in the family.

In
addition, Diamond Head had a connection to Paragon Steel. Carver’s files didn’t
spell out how, but Paragon seemed responsible for a lot of Diamond Head’s cash
flow. Paragon Steel. For such a huge conglomerate to be involved with a tiny
outfit like Diamond Head made no sense to me. I rubbed my eyes a few times to
make sure I was reading it correctly.

Paragon
was one of the few companies that had seen the writing on the U.S. steel
industry wall fifteen years ago. They had restructured themselves so that they
could produce relatively small lots of different specialty grades of steel on
very tight turnaround; they had gone into plastics in a big way; and they were
also one of the few Illinois companies to make out like bandits during the
Reagan defense buildup.

The
Wall Street Journal had done a major story on them only a month or so
ago—that’s why the details were fresh in my mind. I could see Paragon owning
Diamond Head—the small engines the latter made would fit right into their
defense operations. But Paragon providing a stream of cash to the smaller firm?
I shook my head over it, but time was rushing past. I’d have to worry about it
tomorrow.

I
rummaged in Carver’s desk and found a legal pad. I tore off a piece so that my
writing wouldn’t leave telltale dents underneath, and jotted down the key
points. There wasn’t anything else I could do right now. Anyway, I was longing
for sleep.

Fortunately
the keyboard offered me the choice of exiting. I did so, and more by luck than
skill found myself back at the blank screen with the blinking cursor. I looked
carefully around the two rooms to make sure I hadn’t left anything of myself
there.

On
the way downstairs I felt a faint twinge of conscience. What had Jonas Carver
ever done to me that I should invade his office? If he came into my place
rummaging through my files I’d break his kneecaps; he’d have every right to do
the same to me.

Gabriella
certainly would have disapproved. Her face set in stern lines, telling me I had
been a very bad girl, followed me into my dreams.

Before
going to bed I took the precaution of slipping a note under Mr. Contreras’s
door. I didn’t want to be awakened at the crack of dawn by his frantic leaning
on my bell. I also unplugged my phone. As a result I managed almost six hours’
sleep, enough to get me going, although not with any real enthusiasm.

I
hadn’t been running for several days and badly needed the exercise, more for my
mental than my physical well-being. The small of my back no longer ached, but I
could feel the stiffness in the muscles when I did my warm-up routine. I’d have
to take a chance on the guys who beat up Lotty hunting for me.

I
left my gun at home. It’s too hard to run with a shoulder holster under your
sweatshirt—the gun digs into your breast in an unpleasant way. I kept to side
streets instead of the more pleasant route over to the lake, and made it home
again without incident. After a shower and a late breakfast—fruit, yogurt, and
a toasted cheese sandwich to make it do for lunch as well—I tried to figure out
what to do next.

I had
to talk to Chamfers about the attack on Lotty. The cops claimed they’d covered
it and that he was clean as hand-laundered money, but I wanted to hear it from
him in person. I also needed to go to the public library and do a computer
search on Jason Felitti. Presumably he was a brother to Dick’s father-in-law,
or maybe an uncle, but I’d like more information than that. I wondered if
anyone at the Bank of Lake View would talk to me about Mrs Frizell. Probably
not, but it was worth a try.

I
looked at my watch. All that would have to wait. The first thing I needed to do
was see whether anyone at Paragon Steel would talk to me.

The
decision on what to wear was complex. I needed to look professional for a
conversation with Paragon managers. I wanted to be cool. I needed to be able to
carry my gun. And I needed to be able to run if necessary. In the end I decided
on jeans with a silk houndstooth jacket. It would look professional in
California. That would have to be close enough.

Before
I left I dug out my address book and dialed Freeman Carter’s home number. I was
pleased to find him in—he could easily have spent his week off in the country.

“V.I.
Warshawski, Freeman. I hope I’m not interrupting your lunch.”

“I’m
on my way out the door, Vic. Can it wait?”

“No,
it can’t, but I’ll be brief. Until four this morning I had no idea that Dick or
his father-in-law were involved with Diamond Head Motors. I think you owe me an
apology.”

“Four
this morning?” Freeman picked on the least significant part of my remark. “What
were you doing at four this morning?”

“Back-breaking
labor to find out what you could have told me with no loss of sweat. Did you
think I was trying to lasso you into a fight with Dick? It would have been
gracious of you to ask first.”

“Back-breaking
labor, huh? Well, I never thought it would hurt you to work for a living.”

“But
did you think I was trying to rope you into a standoff with Dick?” I persisted.

“The
thought did cross my mind,” Freeman said after a pause. “And it hasn’t quite
left it. It’s an incredible coincidence, your being interested in Diamond
Head.”

“Oh,
I don’t know. Crawford, Mead must be involved with a lot of mid-sized firms
around Chicago. Those are the ones I typically work with too. We simply have…
overlapping spheres of interest, that’s it.” The phrase, pulled from an old
course on political history, pleased me more than it did Freeman, who didn’t
say anything.

After
a long silence I plowed ahead. “You know, I’ve been thinking. About you and
Crawford, Mead, I mean. I can’t help wondering if they started working on
mergers and acquisitions during the Drexel glory days. I remembered at the
concert you said the firm was doing business you didn’t like—I don’t think you
would have stayed on board if it was something downright immoral, like fronting
for money launderers. But mergers—a lot of firms have found the tail starts
wagging the dog when they take that on, so it did seem like that was what you
might have had in mind. Since Peter Felitti is Dick’s father-in-law, maybe you
thought there was a conflict of interest handling that particular transaction.”

Freeman
gave a sharp bark that might have been laughter. “I should know better by now
than to say anything in front of you that I don’t want used in court against me
later. You come up with this theory on your own? Or you been talking to
people?”

“I’ve
been thinking. It’s what I do for a living, you know. A lot of my work is
figuring out why people do what they do. Diamond Head is carrying a huge debt
load—that sounds like junk financing. Dick’s name is on their board. That
sounds like he handled the business. You were angry. That sounds like you knew
about this and felt I was cutting too close to the bone.”

“Well,
I’m still not going to discuss the firm’s business with you, Vic. You could be
right—or you could be blowing smoke. That’s all I can tell you about
this—except I’m sorry I misjudged you the other day—but I sure as hell wish you
would work on something besides Diamond Head. Now I’ve got to go: I’m standing
up a friend.”