Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (39 page)

I
dumped it casually in front of Mr. Contreras. “These are Mitch’s private
papers. Mrs. Polter had filched them from his room after he died, but she
decided to turn them over to me. Want to see if there’s anything hot in them
while I start dinner?”

I
bustled around with a skillet and olive oil, chopping mushrooms and olives as
if the little bundle held no interest for me. Behind me I could hear the
newspaper rattle as Mr. Contreras peeled it off, and then his laborious picking
apart of the contents. I dusted the chicken with flour and dropped it in the
pan. The sound of frying drowned the noise of the paper.

Finally,
after naming some brandy over the chicken and covering the pan, washing my
hands with the deliberation of a surgeon, and pouring a large whisky to cover
the thin beer that kept making me burp, I sat down next to Mr. Con-treras.

He
looked at me doubtfully. “I sure hope this isn’t what you almost got yourself
killed for, doll. It looks like a whole bunch of nothing. Course, it meant
something to Mitch, and some of it’s got sentimental value, his union card and
stuff, but the rest… It’s not much, and it don’t mean sh— Well, anyway, see for
yourself.”

I
felt a sinking in my diaphragm. I’d been expecting too much. I picked up the
stack of documents, grimy from the intense handling they’d had lately, and went
through them one at a time.

Mitch’s
union card. His social security card. A form to send the feds showing his
change of address, so he could continue to collect social security. Another for
the local. The Sun-Times story on Diamond Head’s change of ownership, so worn
it was barely legible. A newspaper photo of a white-haired man, smiling widely
enough to show his back molars, shaking hands with a well-fed man of perhaps
fifty. The inscription to this had been thumbed over to the point it was also
illegible. Picking it up by one of its top corners, I showed it to Mr.
Contreras.

“Any
idea who either of these gents is?”

“Oh,
the guy on the left is the old president of our local, Eddie Mohr.”

“Eddie
Mohr?” A prickle ran up the back of my neck. “The man whose car was used to
attack Lotty?”

“Yeah…
What’re you getting at, doll?” He stirred uneasily in his chair.

“Why
did Mitch carry his picture around with his most cherished possessions?”

Mr.
Contreras shrugged. “Probably he wasn’t used to seeing people he knew in the
paper. Sentimentality, you know.”

“Mitch
didn’t strike me as sentimental. He lost track of his son and his wife. He
didn’t have one scrap of paper that showed he cared about a soul anywhere on
earth. And here, along with the article about Jason Felitti buying Diamond
Head, is a photo of Diamond Head’s old local president. But if Mohr was
photographed for a newspaper, he couldn’t possibly be doing something he didn’t
want known,” I added, more to myself than to the old man.

“That’s
just it, doll. You want it to mean something. Heck, I do too. We’ve been
scratching around for the better part of two weeks without finding anything—I
know how bad you want this to be important.”

I
swallowed my whisky and pushed myself away from the table. “Let’s have dinner.
Then I’m going to take this down to my office. If I make a copy, the text may
show up more clearly: it does sometimes.”

He
patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, trying to show sympathy for my desire to
chase after wild geese. He helped me serve up the chicken and carry it to the
dining room. I brought Mitch’s little stash to the table and laid the papers
out in a circle between Mr. Contreras and me.

“He
needed his social security card. I guess he needed his union card, too, for his
pension. Or maybe it was the one thing he’d achieved in life that he felt he
could cling to. Why keep track of who owned Diamond Head?”

I
wasn’t expecting an answer, but Mr. Contreras popped up with one unexpectedly.
“When did that Felitti fellow buy the company? A year ago? Two years? By then
Mitch knew he couldn’t make ends meet on his pension. Maybe he thought he could
go to him for work.”

I
nodded to myself. That made sense. “And Eddie Mohr? He could help Mitch too?”

“Doubt
it.” Mr. Contreras wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Wonderful chicken, doll.
You put olives in it? Never would have occurred to me. No, being as how Eddie’s
retired, he wouldn’t have any input into who the firm hired. Of course, he
could make his recommendations —they’d carry more weight than just someone
walking in cold off the street—but him and Mitch wasn’t especially friendly. I
can’t see him going out on a limb for a fellow who didn’t have too much going
for him to begin with.”

“Who’s
that shaking hands with Eddie?”

Mr.
Contreras took his glasses out of his shirt pocket and scrutinized the picture
again. “Search me. Doesn’t look like anyone I ever saw before… I can see you’re
chomping at the bit to get out of here, go see what you can make of this
sucker. We can wait to have coffee when we get back.”

I
grinned at him. “Didn’t know I was so transparent. You coming?”

“Oh,
sure. You going on wild goose chases, I want to see how they come out. Even if
I can’t jump off a ledge onto a moving crane anymore. Bet I could, though,” he
muttered under his breath as I carefully did up all three locks. “Bet I’ve got
more left in me than you imagine.”

I
decided our friendship would last longer if I pretended I hadn’t heard.

We
had a quick run downtown. Now that the office workers were gone for the day I
found a place big enough for the Impala only a few doors from the Pulteney.

I
wondered if the people who’d ransacked my place last night had gone tearing
through my office as well, but the door was intact. Amateurs. Despite what
Rawlings said, these were people who didn’t know me. If they were really
looking for something they thought only I had, they would have tried my office
too.

My
desktop Xerox sprang smartly into life. By enlarging the photo and increasing
its contrast I was able in a few minutes to get enough of the inscription back
to see what Eddie Mohr had been up to. The South Side retiree, as the paper
labeled him, was accepting an award from a blurry name that I thought was
probably Hector Beauregard. Hector, the blurry secretary of Chicago Settlement,
was thrilled at the contribution Eddie had made to his favorite charity.

Mr.
Contreras, following along with a horny finger as I deciphered, whistled under
his breath. “I never figured Eddie for the charity type. Knights of Columbus,
maybe, but not some downtown outfit, which I guess Chicago Settlement is.”

I sat
on the end of my desk, hard. “It’s not just a downtown charity, it’s a pet of
my good old ex-husband, Dick Yarborough. Max Loewenthal’s son, Michael, played
at a benefit for them two weeks ago and I saw Dick there, leading the charge at
a feeding frenzy. This is not just curious, it’s downright creepy. I think I
need to talk to Mr. Mohr. Can you bring me along? Make the introductions?”

Mr.
Contreras removed his glasses again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why do
you want to talk to him? You don’t think he’s doing something, well,
underhanded with this Chicago Settlement outfit, do you? They wouldn’t put it
in the papers if there was something fishy to it.”

“I
don’t know what I think. That’s why I want to talk to him. It’s just too—too
much of a coincidence. Mitch carries his picture around along with a story
about Diamond Head. My old husband Dick is really pimping Chicago Settlement.
Meanwhile Dick’s father-in-law has a brother who owns Diamond Head. Eddie and
Dick and Jason Felitti all know each other. I’ve got to find out why Mitch
thought that was valuable.”

“I
don’t like it, doll.”

“I
don’t like it either.” I spread my hands in appeal. “But it’s all I’ve got, so
it’s what I have to use.”

“It
makes me feel, I don’t know, like a sneak. A scab.” My mouth twisted in
unhappiness. “Detective work is like that; it isn’t usually glamor and
excitement. It’s often drudgery, and sometimes it feels like betrayal. I won’t
ask you to come along if it really makes you feel like a scab. But I’m going to
have to talk to Eddie Mohr, whether you’re there or not.”

“Oh,
I’ll come if you’re set on it,” he said slowly. “I can see I kind of don’t have
a choice.”

Rawlings
called shortly after I got home. “Just wanted to hear your sweet voice, Ms. W.
Make sure you hadn’t fallen under a semi or something. I tried reaching you
yesterday, but didn’t put out an APB—figured if you were dead your corpse would
keep another day.”

“I
went out of town,” I said, annoyed to find myself offering an explanation.
“It’s been almost three days since anyone tried to kill me. Life is getting
dull: I kind of like the squad cars, though. I never thought the sight of a
blue-and-white would cheer me so much.”

“I
figure a classy dame like you expects presents, Ms. W., and since I can’t
afford diamonds I gotta offer you what I have. How about dinner tomorrow?”

I
laughed a little. “How about Wednesday? I’m going to be working late tomorrow.”

He
was busy Wednesday. We settled on Friday, at Costa del Sol, a Mexican place on
Belmont just west of the yuppie fringe. “If your work tomorrow involves taking
on armed punks and you’re not telling me about it, I’m going to be just a
little peeved,” he added.

I
felt an unexpected spurt of anger, but tried to speak temperately. “I
appreciate the squad cars and the concern, Sergeant, but I’m not turning my
life over to you. If that’s the exchange, I’d rather take my chances on the
street.” Temperateness and I apparently don’t mix too well.

“Is
that how it looks to you, Vic?” He sounded surprised. “I’m a cop. And however
much I like you, I don’t want civilians in the line of fire—it makes police
work ten times harder. I also get cold chills when I think about someone
climbing a ladder to your window and breaking in as cool as ice.”

“It
gives me cold chills, too, but I’m taking care of the situation. Anyway, I’m a
civilian—I don’t like cops telling me how to do my job. Besides, for a week you
guys wouldn’t believe there was a line of fire out there. Now I’ve proved it to
you, you want me to pack up and go home. Maybe cops and Pis shouldn’t get so
friendly together.” I regretted the last sentence as soon as it left my mouth.

“Unh.
Low blow, Ms. W. Low blow. I don’t see that our work has to be in conflict, but
maybe you do.”

“Conrad,
I know there are good cops; my dad was one. But cops are like any other group
of people—when they get together they act clannish. They like to show their
collective muscle to people outside their clique. And society gives you guys a
lot of power to bulk up your muscle. Sometimes I think my whole job consists of
standing outside different cliques—of cops or businessmen or whoever—with a
yellow flag to remind you that your outlook isn’t the only one.”

He
was quiet a minute. “You still want to have dinner with me Friday?”

I
felt my cheeks redden. “Sure. Yes, unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Well,
let’s just leave things here before we say so much we don’t want to get
together again. I can’t think fast enough to do a discussion like this on the
phone.” He hesitated, then said, “Will you promise to call me if someone tries
to hurt you? Run you over, climb through your window, whatever? Would that be a
violation of your principles?”

I
agreed amiably enough, but my fists were still clenched when I hung up the
phone. I should have known better than to get in bed with a policeman. Every
day for the last two weeks I’d been acting before I thought. And every day it
had gotten me into trouble.

The
phone rang again as I was heading into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I was
tempted to let it go—it was after eleven, after all. But maybe it was Rawlings
wanting to smooth things out. I picked up the bedroom extension on the fifth
ring. It was Murray Ryerson. By the noise in the background, he was calling
from a party in full swing.

“You
drunk, Murray? It’s way past a respectable time to call anyone.”

“You
getting old, Warshawski? I thought your night just got going about now.”

I
made a face into the phone. “Yes, I’m getting old. Now that you know that, is
your investigative reporter’s mind at ease?”

“Not
really, Vic.” He was shouting to be heard over the music. I held the receiver a
few inches from my ear.

“How
come you go falling into the Sanitary Canal without telling me about it? One of
my gofers just came sidling up to me with the news at the bar here. Of course,
he thought I must already know, since everybody believes you and I are pals.
You made me look bad.”

“Come
on, Murray, you told me the last time I saw you that what I was doing wasn’t
news. Don’t you come playing that ‘all pals together’ tune on your violin. I
won’t stand for it.” I was so angry, I snapped a pencil I’d been fiddling with
in two.

“You
can’t pick and choose ¦what’s news, Warshawski. An old lady losing her dogs
because she’s senile and they’re a nuisance—that just isn’t interesting. And
neither is a drunk deadbeat falling into the canal. But when you go in, people
want to know about it.”