Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 07 (43 page)

“I
see. Thanks, Dorothy—I’ll resist the impulse.”

I
hung up and massaged my calves, sore from standing so long in one place. U.S.
Met had persuaded Mrs. Frizell to put her money into a load of junk. Maybe it
was time to pay them a visit.

The
Bank of Lake View stood just across the street from the el. Rather than hike
back home for the Impala, I climbed the rickety stairs and rode downtown. The
train was one of the old green models, with windows opened wide to bathe the
riders in gusts of hot air. These old-fashioned cars make me nostalgic for my
childhood, for trips downtown with Gabriella on the old Illinois Central, her
in gloves and a pillbox navy hat with a small veil, me on my knees next to the
open window, excitedly reporting on the passing scene. The scrub around the tracks
used to house pheasants and rabbits; once I saw a raccoon.

Today
there was nothing but pigeons and broken bottles on the rooftops. The only
wildlife I spotted was a man with a three-day growth lying next to one of the
chimneys. I hoped he was still alive.

I got
off at Chicago and walked west to U.S. Met’s headquarters. They’d always been a
maverick, outside the mainstream of Chicago finance—their location a mile north
of the Loop was just a physical manifestation of it. They had built themselves
a modern building about ten years ago, though, and it rivaled any of the West
Loop architecture for gleaming glory. Only ten stories high, it still had all
the green stone, smoky curved windows, and brass inlays of the bigger modern
towers to the south.

The
owners had been shrewd gamblers on where the city’s growth would take place
when they put up the new offices—or their politically connected directors had
nudged them in the right direction. A decade ago this area had bordered Skid
Row. Now it was home to a high-end retail area that abutted the new gallery
district. Judging by the lights at the windows, all ten floors were rented out.

I
presented myself to an information officer in the corner of the
chrome-and-green lobby. “I have an appointment with one of your bankers, Vinnie
Buttone.”

She
ran a long magenta nail down a phone list. “Your name?”

I let
out a tiny breath of relief. I’d been ninety-eight percent sure Vinnie was
here, but it was nice to be proved right. “Chrissie Pichea.” I spelled it out
for her.

She
tapped out Vinnie’s extension. “Someone’s here for Mr. Buttone. Chrissie
Pichea.” She stumbled over the last name. I was glad I hadn’t tried
“Warshawski” on her.

She
sat silent, perhaps on hold while Vinnie’s secretary found out where he was and
whether he would want to see Chrissie. He could be anywhere—looking at loan
applicants out on a building site, or, given U.S. Met’s clientele, a juice
operation. Fortunately for me he turned out to be in the building and willing
to see his sweet, helpful neighbor.

The
receptionist directed me to a row of elevators artfully hidden behind some
columns. I rode to the fourth floor, checked with the receptionist there, and
was sent into the inner recesses of the bank.

The
green-and-gold splendor of the lobby was carried out in muted tones in the
building’s upper reaches: green plush—with a thin pile as befit the junior
level of management that trod it—and walls covered in a gold fabric-board. A
few bright prints on the walls drew the eye and made the long corridor seem
lighter.

Most
of the office doors stood open, revealing a phalanx of sincere young men in
shirtsleeves and ties talking on the phone. Vinnie’s office, near the end of
the hall, was shut. I knocked below the prim black label identifying him as an
assistant vice president of commercial lending.

“Chrissie,
hi. Come on over here… I thought we’d be more comfortable—” I turned at the
sound of Vinnie’s voice, coming from an open conference room catty-corner to
his office. When he recognized me his round face looked glassy with surprise,
then shattered into anger.

“You!
What are you doing here? I ought to call security—”

“I
came to see you, Vinnie. Being as how we’re neighbors and we all want to do the
neighborly thing for each other on North Racine.” I shut the door behind me and
helped myself to one of the fake wicker chairs.

“I
want that door open. I’m expecting someone, and anyway, I don’t want you in the
bank.”

“You’re
expecting Chrissie Pichea, but you’re getting me.” I smiled. “I gave them her
name downstairs—it seemed like the easiest way to get up here. You and I have
so much to talk about I just didn’t think I could wait until tonight.”

He
looked from me to the door, then at a phone in the corner of the small room.
“I’ll give you five minutes, then I’m calling the bank security people and you
can explain yourself to the Chicago cops. If you haven’t bought off all of
them.” He took his heavy gold watch from his wrist and laid it ostentatiously
on the table in front of him.

I dug
in my bag for the envelope I’d prepared at Lake View and set it down in front
of him, parallel to the watchband. “Even though you were hoping for Chrissie
and got me, I think you’ll be pleased to see this stuff. I believe the two of
you have been looking for it. This will save you the trouble of trying to
arrange another break-in.”

He
shot me a venomous look, but opened the envelope. When he’d unfolded the copies
of the title and the bonds his face turned glassy again and the color seeped
away from behind the skin. He studied them far longer than the four pieces of
paper merited.

“The
test will be tomorrow,” I said brightly. “Got them memorized yet?”

“I
don’t know why you think I’d be interested in these things,” he said, but his
voice lacked conviction.

“Oh,
I expect because you, or someone you know, came busting into my place Friday
night looking for them. Come to think of it, it must have been you—you’d know
when I was away. Talk about police—I ought to bring them over here. I couldn’t
figure out what you might want, but when I found these I had to believe I’d hit
the jackpot.”

He
suddenly picked up the papers and ripped them across.

“Not
very bright, Vinnie: you must be able to see those are only copies. And now
you’ve proved they’re important to you.” I watched his lips move wordlessly.
“Let’s talk about the Diamond Head bonds. Did you sell them to Mrs. Frizell?”

He
shook his head, still without speaking.

“Did
you get Chrissie to sell them to Mrs. Frizell?… Am I getting warm?”

“I
didn’t get anyone to sell them to her. I don’t know anything about them. I
don’t even know they’re hers: bonds don’t have their owners’ names on them.”
His voice gained strength as he spoke; he sounded positively pompous on the
last sentence.

“You
don’t find the fact that they’re with her house title suggestive? Or the fact
that I discovered them nestled together in Mrs. Frizell’s box of most treasured
possessions?”

“Yeah,
I know you: you’d say anything. Like accusing me of breaking into your
apartment just now. But the Picheas are the old lady’s legal guardians. If
these things had been in her house they would have found them.”

I
smiled. “They weren’t in her house though.”

“Where—”
he started to blurt out, then stopped before completely betraying himself.

“Where
were they? Ah, that’s why it pays to get a professional investigator when
you’re after this kind of treasure. You have to know where to look.

“Let’s
talk about the investment advice you and Chrissie have been spreading around
the neighborhood. Mrs. Tertz, Mrs. Olsen, Mrs. Hellstrom, they all agree you’ve
been coming around filled with helpful hints—how they can beat their CD rates
by ten points. I have an ugly feeling that if they’d taken you up on it they’d
have some Diamond Head paper too. Was this your own idea, or did the bank send
you out to do it?”

He
picked up his watch. “You’ve had your five minutes. Now I’m going to call
security. And I’ll be meeting with a lawyer to talk about you slandering me.”

I
grinned derisively. “Just don’t make it Dick Yar-borough or Todd Pichea.
They’ve got enough to do these days. Now, if you call security, I’ll ring up
the feds. They’re very interested in your kind of sales help. And they can
subpoena bank files, which I can’t.”

He
looked longingly at the phone, but couldn’t quite make up his mind to dial.
“What do you want, anyway?”

“Information,
Vinnie. Just information. I’ve figured out a fair amount, you know: you
peddling Diamond Head’s junk, Todd and Chrissie taking over Mrs. Frizell’s
assets… So they could get rid of the bonds before anyone saw them? Or just
mortgage her house and then sell it off so she can’t spoil Yuppieville anymore?
And I figure Todd’s law firm did the legal work when Jason Felitti
debt-financed Diamond Head. And since Jason sits on the board here at U.S. Met,
he must have got the bank to take on some of the junk. So he gets eager young
bankers like you to sell it in your spare time. I see you guys going door to
door, kind of like the Girl Scouts.”

And
where was Dick in this scenario? Surely not asking Todd Pichea to sell Diamond
Head bonds to the little old ladies in his neighborhood. I surely couldn’t have
been in love once with someone who would carry on like that.

“I
don’t have anything to say to you. It’s time for you to leave.” Vinnie’s voice
came out in a hiss.

He
didn’t try to phone the bank’s cops, but he wouldn’t talk, either. I kept at
him for half an hour, alternately cajoling and painting a picture of his
probable future in the federal pen, but he didn’t budge. When I finally got up
to leave he was still staring ahead, glassy-eyed.

Back
in the muggy sunshine, exhaustion overwhelmed me. It was only twelve-thirty,
but a fight with Dick and hard work at two banks made me want to go back to
bed. I still needed to canvass some of my neighbors and try to talk to Murray
Ryerson this afternoon before Mr. Contreras and I went off to meet Eddie Mohr.
And I wanted to get hold of Max Loewenthal. My body couldn’t be allowed the
luxury of wearing out so early.

I
hiked back to State Street and started down the stairs to the el. The thought
of the long trek home from Sheffield seemed too much. I turned around and waved
down a cab. The driver, who swayed and pounded the steering wheel in tune to
the beat booming from his stereo, had a serene disregard for any other traffic.
On the short stretch from LaSalle to Fullerton he managed to get up to seventy.
His anger at my request to slow down was so menacing that I slid out when he
stopped at the light on Diversey, tossing the amount on the meter onto the seat
next to him. His screaming, mixed with the booming of his radio, followed me as
I crossed the street to board the Diversey bus.

The
ponderous journey west let me slump comatose in a corner. The chance to pull
back from the world around me, even for a quarter of an hour, was unexpectedly
refreshing. When I climbed off at Racine I wasn’t ready to leap tall buildings
at a single bound, but I thought I might be able to manage an afternoon of
work.

Back
at my place I expected Mr. Contreras to come out, either to talk to me about
the work in my apartment or remonstrate some more against going to see the old
local president this evening. It seemed like a lucky break when he stayed
inside his own apartment, but it did make me wonder if he was too upset to want
to talk to me. When I saw he wasn’t out back fiddling with his garden, I even
got a little worried. He’d been looking after himself for a lot of years,
though. I had to assume he could do it for one more afternoon.

The
workmen for my apartment had come and gone. They’d put electronic fingerprints
on all the doors and windows. A note by my front entrance explained how to
activate the system. Mr. Contreras had paid the bills for me. That was another
thousand dollars I’d have to scramble together in a hurry. I hadn’t realized
they had to be paid on the spot.

Following
the instructions in the manual they’d left, I programmed the little control box
next to my front door. If anyone tried to climb in on me now, Chicago’s finest
should be with me in minutes.

My
morning frenzy had left me sweaty and wrinkled, even a little smelly. I took an
extra half hour to lie in a cool bath before changing into my jeans.

It
was getting on for two now. Murray Ryerson should be back from his usual
prolonged lunch with obscure sources. Fixing myself a sandwich with some of
last night’s leftover chicken, I went into the living room and dialed his
number at the Star. He answered the phone himself.

“Hi,
Murray. It’s Vic.”

“Whoo,
Vic, what a thrill. Let me get my asbestos gloves in case the phone gets too
hot to handle.”

“Good
thinking, Ryerson. The more sarcastic you get, the easier it will be to have
this conversation.”

“Oh,
She-who-must-be-obeyed, to what do I owe the honor of your call? Or is it
privilege? After you shouted vile words at me and slammed the phone in my ear
last night?”

I ate
some of my sandwich while I tried to figure out how to get us away from
hostilities and to the point.