Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (41 page)

He
put his spoon back into the granola and gave me a grim little smile. “Those are
very heavy accusations, Vic. I can see why you didn’t want to meet at my
office. It would be hard for you to retract those remarks if I had a witness to
them.”

“You’ve
been practicing law in a mighty strange place lately if you bring in witnesses
to this kind of conversation. By the way, you notice I’m not asking you how you
know I was down at Diamond Head last week. That’s because your daddy-in-law
Peter must have told you. I already know the manager is working hand-in-glove
with the goons who are using the plant as a front for stolen goods. So that
must mean Peter knows about that stuff too.”

Dick’s
face turned pale with anger, so much that his eyes blazed like sapphires
against his skin. “There are slander laws in this state, and they’re
specifically designed to stop people like you from uttering garbage like that.
A front for stolen goods? You can’t offer me one shred of proof of that. You’re
flailing around because you got caught with your pants down the other night.”

“Dick,
I saw seven men loading spools of Paragon wire onto trucks in the middle of the
night.”

He
snorted. “And so it must be theft.”

“They
tried to kill me.”

“They’d
caught you breaking and entering.”

By
now I really was flailing around. “Chamfers told them who I was. They were
tipped off, and they were waiting for me. Anyway, they get tons more wire from
Paragon than they use in production. What do you think they’re doing with it
when the plant is shut down? Sending it to the Salvation Army?”

“If—and
I mean if-—some employees are stealing from the company, do you think Peter
would condone it?” He gave a pitying smile. “Despite all your bravado, I can’t
help thinking you’re a teeny bit jealous of Teri. Her life must look pretty
good to you sometimes. So you’re trying to get at her through her father.”

“Me-
Jealous of Teri? Jealous of someone who has to go to Neiman-Marcus just to have
something to do with her Iff voice rose a register to a falsetto. ”Jesus, Dick!
Get a grip on yourself. What do you think I’ve been doing for the Last decade:
lying in wait until our paths crossed by tool accident so I could take a bead
on your wife?“

He
flushed and frowned. “Be that as it may, I’m warning you for your own good to
back away from Diamond Head. Certainly to stop throwing around outrageous
accusations like theft. Words like that won’t let you down any more lightly if
this thing comes to a major confrontation. Peter was most upset when he heard
it was you who’d gone into the canal. In fact, it was a major embarrassment to
him, given your connection to me. Thank God he was able to persuade the papers
not to print anything about it—”

“You
weren’t born stupid, Dick.” I cut him off, my own eyes blazing. “Use your
goddamn head. I just finished telling you I can link goons at Diamond Head to
the plant manager. And you’ve just connected Peter Felitti to the plant manager
and the goons. Which side do you want to be on when all this comes out? Not
even Peter Felitti can suppress it forever. Besides, I know a guy at the
Herald-Star who’s itching to run a piece on what I was doing at Diamond Head
Friday night.”

Dick
curled a lip. “Oh, yes, you and the guys you know. Being divorced has certainly
been an asset to your women’s lib lifestyle, hasn’t it?”

My
hand swept up reflexively; I flung coffee down the front of his
charcoal-striped shirt. Barbara was hovering nearby in case I needed
protection. I pulled a twenty from my purse and thrust it into her apron
pocket.

“Maybe
you and Marge can reenact your Good Samaritan routine for the talent here. Boy
can’t go to all his high-priced meetings with coffee on his shirt.” I was on my
feet, panting.

“You’ll
be sorry for this, Vic. Very sorry you ever chose to have this conversation
with me.” Dick was white with humiliation and fury.

“You
called the meeting, Richard. But by all means, send me the dry-cleaning bill.”
My legs were trembling as I left the diner.

I
found a bench at a bus stop across the street and sat there, taking in great
gulps of air. I was still shaking with fury, pounding my right fist against my
thigh. People waiting for the bus backed away from me: another crazy on the
loose.

When
I realized the public impression I was creating, I brought myself under
control. The end of active rage left me exhausted. Listlessly I watched Dick
emerge from the diner, shut off the alarm to his Mercedes convertible, and spin
down the road with a great roar from his exhaust. I didn’t even care enough to
hope a blue-and-white stopped him. At least, not enough to hope very hard.

By
and by I crossed the street again and returned to the diner. The place had
emptied out; the waitresses were clustered at a table, drinking coffee and
smoking.

Barbara
sprang up when she saw me. “You okay, hon?”

“Oh,
yeah. I just need to wash my face and pull myself together. Sorry to treat you
to a nursery-school display.”

She
grinned wickedly. “Oh, I don’t know, Vic. You’ve given us more action in five
days than we usually see all year. Livens up the place and gives us something
besides our bad backs to talk about.”

I
patted her shoulder and went to the tiny bathroom in the rear, along the
corridor where Marge had dropped the grease on Friday. That was another good
turn I’d done them: the hall was cleaner than I’d ever seen it.

I
bathed my face in cold water for several minutes. It was no substitute for a
nap, but it would have to get me through the day. I put on lipstick under the
flickering neon light. Its pallid glow emphasized the planes of my face,
digging harsh grooves into it. It was a foreshadowing of what I might look like
in great age. I grimaced at my reflection, emphasizing its grotesque lines.

“You
look dressed for success to me, my girl.” I saluted my image.

I
suddenly remembered the arrangements I’d made to have a security system
installed this morning. I used the restaurant pay phone to call Mr. Contreras;
he would be home all morning and would be glad to let the workmen in. He
sounded subdued, though.

“Are
you sure you don’t mind? I’ll come back home and wait if it’s going to be a
hassle for you.”

“Oh,
no, doll, nothing like that,” he assured me hastily. “I guess I’m worrying
about going to see Eddie.”

“I
see.” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m not going to push it down your throat. You should
stay home if the idea makes you that unhappy.”

“But
you’re going anyway?”

“Yeah.
I really need to talk to him.”

He
didn’t say anything after that, except that he’d be on the lookout for the
workmen, and hung up.

Barbara
brought me a cup of fresh coffee to take with me. “Drinking something hot will
calm you down, hon.”

I
sipped it as I walked along Belmont. The reflexive swallowing did indeed make
me feel more myself. By the time I reached the Bank of Lake View on the corner
of Belmont and Sheffield, I felt able at least to undertake a conversation.

A
squat stone building with iron bars on the windows, the bank looked sleepy and
remote from the financial gyrations of its big downtown brothers. The barred
windows allowed little light to penetrate; the lobby was a dingy, musty place
that probably hadn’t been washed since it opened in 1923. The bank took its
commitment to the neighborhood seriously, though, investing in the community
and serving its residents with care. They’d eschewed the high-stakes projects
that had ruined many small institutions in the eighties; as far as I knew they
were in good financial shape.

Most
bank functions took place in a high-ceilinged room beyond the lobby. The three
loan officers sat behind a low wooden rail across the floor from the tellers. I
could see Alma Waters, the woman who’d helped me with my co-op mortgage, but I
followed protocol and presented my card to the receptionist.

Alma
bustled out to meet me. She was a plump woman somewhere between fifty and sixty
who wore bright, tight-fitting dresses draped in scarves and gaudy jewelry.
Today she sported a combination of red with shocking pink and a series of black
and silver bead necklaces. Sailing toward me on spiky black patent-leather pumps,
she shook my hand as warmly as though I’d borrowed a million dollars instead of
fifty thousand.

“Come
on back, Vic. How are you? How’s your apartment? That was a good investment you
made. I think I told you at the time you could expect that stretch of Racine to
start coming up, and it has. I just renegotiated a mortgage for someone on
Barry, and you know, the value of her little two-flat had gone up eightfold. Is
that why you’re in today?” She had whisked my folder from a drawer while she
spoke.

It was
a stretch for me sometimes just to come up with the seven hundred a month on my
place on top of my rent downtown. That’s what I needed, all right—to treble my
mortgage.

I
smiled. “Partly. The part about that piece of Racine coming up. I need some
help—help that you may not feel able to give me.”

“Try
me, Vic.” She gave a rich laugh, showing a mouthful of bright, even teeth. “You
know our motto: ‘Growing with the community we serve.’”

“You
know I’m a private investigator, Alma.” She should: my uncertain income had
made me a tough sell to her managers. “I’m working for an old woman who lives
up the street from me, Harriet Frizell. Mrs. Frizell… well, she belongs to old
Racine. The part that hasn’t come up yet. And now she’s fallen on hard times.”

I
gave a brief but—I hoped—moving picture of Mrs. Frizell’s plight. “She used to
be a customer here, but sometime in February she moved her account to U.S.
Metropolitan. I can’t believe she’s got much. But I also can’t believe the pair
who leaped in to act as her guardians are neighborhood angels. I’m not asking
you to tell me what her assets were—I know you can’t do that. But could you
tell me if she gave any reason for making the move?”

Alma
fixed bright, merry eyes on me for a minute. “What’s your interest in this,
Vic?”

I
spread my hands. “Call it neighborly. Her world rotated around her dogs. I
agreed to help look after them when she went into the hospital, but came home
from a trip out of town to find they’d been put to sleep. It keeps me
suspicious of the people who did it.”

She
pursed her lips, debating the matter with herself. Finally she turned to the
computer on the far side of her desk and played around with the keys. I would
have given a week’s pay—from a good week—to read the screen. After a few
minutes of tinkering she got up with a brief “I’ll be right back,” and headed
for the rear of the bank.

When
Alma had disappeared into an office built into the back of the lobby, my baser
instincts overcame me: I got up and looked at the screen. The only thing visible
was an opening menu. Untrusting woman.

Alma
spent quite a while pitching my case to her boss. After ten minutes or so the
phone rang on one of the other loan officers’ desks. The woman spoke briefly,
then got up and disappeared into the back office as well. I finished the coffee
Barbara had given me, memorized an upbeat pamphlet on auto financing, found an
ornate ladies’ room in the basement of the bank, and still had time to study a
home mortgage brochure before the two women emerged.

They
stopped at the second officer’s desk long enough for her to pull a file from
her cabinet. Alma brought her over to me, introducing her as Sylvia Wolfe. Ms.
Wolfe, a tall, spare woman of about sixty, wore a tidy gray cardigan suit more
in keeping with a bank than Alma’s flamboyance. She shook hands briskly, but
let Alma do the talking.

“We
had a long talk with Mr. Struthers about what we could tell you. Sylvia came
along because she actually worked with Mrs. Frizell. Your neighbor had been a
customer here since 1926 and it was a blow to lose her. Mr. Struthers decided
we could show you the letter Mrs. Frizell sent us, but of course, Sylvia can’t
let you look at any of her financial records.”

Ms.
Wolfe thumbed through a fat file with expert fingers and wordlessly handed me
Mrs. Frizell’s letter asking that her account be closed. The old woman had
written on a piece of yellowing lined paper, torn from a pad she might have had
since first opening her account. Her writing was disconnected, as though she’d
written the letter over a period of several days without bothering to check
what she’d said on the previous occasion, but the content was clear enough.

I
have had an account at your bank for many years and never would believe you
would cheat an old customer, but people take advantage of old women in terrible
ways. My money with you is all I have, yet you are paying me only 8 percent,
but at another bank I can earn 17 percent, and of course I have my dogs to
think about. I want you to sell my seedees [sic] and close my savings account
and send my money to U.S. Meterpoltan [sic], I have a form for you to use.

“Seventeen
percent? What on earth could she be talking about?” I asked.

Sylvia
Wolfe shook her head. “I called her and tried to discuss it with her, but she
refused to talk to me. I even tried stopping by to see her, tried to tell her
only someone who really is preying on old people would promise her seventeen
percent, but she said of course I’d take that line now that it was too late. We
wrote and told her we’d reopen her account without any fees if she ever decided
she wanted to come back to us. We had to leave it at that.”