Bitter Medicine (20 page)

A few minor, portable items seemed to be missing, but the only things I really care about—my mother’s wineglasses—were still standing in the dining-room cupboard. The little safe in the hall closet hadn’t been touched; it held her diamond pendant and earrings. I couldn’t imagine wearing such delicate jewelry myself, but I would never dispose of them. Who knows—I might have a daughter of my own someday. Stranger things have happened.

“Don’t touch anything,” the young white cop warned me.

“No, no. I won’t.” Not that it mattered. With nine hundred or so murders a year to solve, and aggravated batteries and rapes by the yard, a burglary wasn’t going
to get high priority. But we would all pretend that the burglary squad’s fingerprinting and searching would really accomplish something.

The only thing I would just as soon they didn’t look at too closely was the IckPiff ledgers. I went back into the living room to take a surreptitious look for them and realized what was wrong.

My coffee table is usually piled high with old copies of
The Wall Street Journal
, mail that I haven’t got around to answering, and miscellaneous personal items. Peter had stacked the ledgers and the membership file on the newspapers. When I left yesterday morning I had perched the name files precariously back on top. Now, not only were they gone—all the papers were missing. Someone had bundled up everything, newspapers, letters, magazines, an old pair of running socks I should have put away, and made off with them.

“What’s wrong?” the potbellied black cop asked. “Something missing in here?”

I couldn’t afford to talk about it. Nor even to say my old newspapers were gone. Because if someone stole your old newspapers, it had to be because they thought you were hiding something in them.

“Not that I know of, Officer. I guess it’s just starting to really hit me.”

Rawlings showed up around nine with an evidence team. He questioned the uniformed men, then sent them away and came into the living room. I had moved from the floor to the couch.

“Well, well, Ms. W. Didn’t think housekeeping was your strong suit when I was here before, but this mess is pretty special.”

“Thanks, Detective. I did it just for you.”

“That so.” He wandered over to the south wall, the one opposite the windows where I’d installed a wall unit for records and books. These were scattered on the floor, records partly out of jackets, books heaved every which way. He picked up a couple of volumes at random.

“Primo Levi? What kind of a name is that? Italian? You read Italian?”

“Yeah. The uniformed men told me not to touch anything until the evidence team came through.”

“And then you’d have a sudden housekeeping fit and clean it all up. I hear you. Well, they have my prints on file. And I presume they have yours. They get a brainstorm or run out of work and take to dusting all these books and records, they can sort ours out from the burglars’. What were they looking for?”

I shook my head. “Damned if I know. I’m not employed right now. I’m not working on anything. There’s nothing for anybody to look for.”

“Yeah, and I’m the King of Sweden. Anything missing?”

“Well. I haven’t been through all the books. So I don’t know if my copies of
Little Women
and
Black Beauty
are still here. My mother gave them to me for my ninth birthday and it’d break my heart if someone stole them. And my old Doors album—the one with ‘Light My Fire’ on it, or
Abbey Road
—I’d sure hate to find they were gone.”

“So what would someone think you have, babe?”

I looked around me. “Who you talking to?”

“You, Ms. W.”

“Not when you call me ‘babe,’ you ain’t.”

He made a little bow. “Excuse me, Ms. Warshawski. Ma’am. Let me rephrase the question. What would someone think you have, Ms. Warshawski?”

I shrugged. “I’ve been going round on that one ever since I got home. All I can think is that it was Sergio. I went to see little Fabiano a couple of days ago. That boy knows something he isn’t saying; he got upset at
my questions and started to cry. Yesterday he found some sleazebag to sue Dr. Herschel for malpractice. So I was with her last night, trying to cheer her up a little. Maybe the Lions decided to avenge Fabiano’s alleged manhood by coming through here.”

Rawlings pulled a cigar from his inside pocket.

“Yes, I mind if you smoke that in here. Besides, it’ll screw up the evidence team.”

He looked at it longingly and put it away. “You didn’t beat the boy up, by any chance?”

“Not so’s it’d show. He telling people I did?”

“He isn’t telling anyone anything. But we saw him all black-and-blue after his wife’s funeral. What we heard was he was in a car accident, but unless it fell over on top of his head, I don’t see it.”

“Honest and truly, Detective—that wasn’t me. I wondered, too, but all I heard was he hit his head on the Eldorado windshield.”

“Well, sister—excuse me, Ms. Warshawski—let’s all pray for the recovery of your neighbor. If it was Sergio, that’s the only way we’re going to nail him.”

I agreed with him soberly and not just because I wanted to nail Sergio. Poor Mr. Contreras. It was only two days since they’d taken out the stitches where the fetus worshipers had hit him. Now this. I hoped to God his head was as hard as he always claimed it was.

After the evidence team finished their ministrations and I signed a zillion or so forms and statements, I called our building super and got him to board up the
front door. I’d go in and out the back way until I had a new door installed.

I’d have called Lotty, but she had too many troubles of her own right now. She didn’t need mine, too. Instead, I wandered aimlessly through my place. It wasn’t that the damage was irradicable. Some of the piano strings had been cut, but the instrument wasn’t harmed. The things on the floor could all be put back. It wasn’t like Malcolm’s place, where everything was smashed to bits. But it was still a violent assault, and that is numbing. If I had been here… The noise of the door being smashed open would have woken me up. I probably could have shot them. Too bad I hadn’t been home.

I went back to bed, too depressed to try to clean up. Too worn out by the combined assaults of the last few weeks to do anything. I lay down, but I couldn’t get back to sleep for the thrashing in my head.

Say old Dieter discovered in the general mayhem of his office that the card catalog of members was gone. And he figured, as he’d said to the
Herald-Star
, that it was the evil abortionists who’d done it. And he hired someone—say the cute college kids I’d seen throwing rocks at Lotty’s—to smash in my door and create havoc so as to get the ledgers and card catalog back but make it look like a burglary. Or just to get even.

It was plausible. Even possible. But he’d have to guess I had the files; he didn’t know for certain. The one person who definitely knew I had them was Peter Burgoyne.

Who had he really been phoning from the restaurant? He’d said it was personal—maybe he had an ex-wife stashed in an attic someplace. And he’d gotten me out of the city for the day. But if he was behind the break-in, why? And who could he get on a moment’s notice to do something like this?

Round and round I went, my brain exhausted, my body worn out, the little slashes on my face and neck aching with tension. I could call him, of course. Better to see him. On the phone he might deny it, but he had such an expressive face that I thought I’d know he was lying by looking at him.

I could call Dick. See if there was some reason why Friendship or Peter Burgoyne didn’t want me having the IckPiff files. Dick might well represent Friendship. But why would they care about a poor old lunatic like Dieter Monkfish? I could imagine the reception I’d get from Dick, too.

Action. What every detective needs. I got up and phoned Peter’s house. I thought he sounded a little nervous at my voice.

“You okay?”

“Sure. Sure I’m okay. Why do you ask?” I demanded aggressively.

“You sound edgy. Something happen with Dr. Herschel—her malpractice suit?”

“Nothing more on that. Can I come out to Barrington today, pick up a copy of that record for her? You know, Consuelo’s file from the hospital?”

“Vic. Please. I told you I’d look it up on Monday. Even if I could persuade the hospital to release it today, there’s nothing she could do with it this weekend.”

I tried to set up a date with him for the weekend but he said that he wouldn’t have any free time until after his conference was over—he had taken Friday off and that was his last play day until next weekend.

“Well, don’t forget that record for Lotty. I know it’s not as important as your conference, or getting sued yourself, but it matters a lot to her.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Vic. I thought we’d thrashed all that out last night. I’ll get on to the damned records office first thing Monday morning.” He broke the connection with an angry snap.

I suddenly felt embarrassed at my suspicions and my rudeness and quelled an impulse to call Peter back with an apology. Since I wasn’t in the humor to clean and wasn’t able to sleep, maybe I’d stop by Beth Israel to check on Mr. Contreras.

I was dressing for a trip to the hospital when the phone rang; it was Dick, anticipating my thoughts. When we’d been in law school together a hundred years ago or so a call from him could make my heart flutter. Now it turned my stomach.

“Dick! What a surprise. Does Stephanie know you’re calling me?”

“Goddamn it, Vic, her name is Terri. I swear to God you call her Stephanie just to annoy me.”

“No, no, Dick. I would never do anything just to
annoy you. There has to be some other good reason, too—it’s a little rule I made for myself when we were married. Do you want something? I’m not behind on my alimony payments, am I?”

He said stiffly, “My client’s office was broken into two nights ago.”

“Which client? Or do you only have one these days?”

“Dieter Monkfish.” He spat the name out. “The police say that the area winos broke into it. But the door wasn’t broken open—the lock was picked.”

“Maybe he forgot to lock it. People do, you know.”

He ignored my helpful suggestion. “He’s missing some items. A membership roster and his account ledgers. He tells me you were by earlier on Thursday looking at them, that he shooed you out. He thinks you have them.”

“And you think I might have picked his lock, and so on. Well, I don’t have anything that belongs to Dieter Monkfish. Not even his wandering wits, let alone his ledgers. I swear to you on my honor as an ex-Girl Scout that if you got a warrant and searched my home, my office, or the premises of any of my close or distant friends, you would find neither hide nor hair of any papers belonging to Dieter Monkfish or his crazy pals. Okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said grudgingly, not sure whether to believe me or not.

“And now that you’ve called and virtually accused me of burglary, which is slanderous and actionable, let
me ask you something: Which one of your clients is paying Monkfish’s bill?”

He hung up on me. Dick’s manners are always so testy, it’s hard for me to see how he was elected partner in a firm that counts so heavily on public image. I shook my head over it and went over to Beth Israel.

The police had not bothered with a guard. They figured that Mr. Contreras had surprised home invaders in the act and had been coshed as a side effect—no one was gunning for him personally. Or bludgeoning. I didn’t disagree, just thought it would be good to have someone with him if he recovered enough to identify the marauders.

At the hospital they told me that he was still unconscious, in intensive care, but with good vital signs. In the little waiting room for the intensive-care unit, the resident on call informed me that head injuries are tricky. He might wake up at any moment, or remain unconscious for some time. And no, I couldn’t see him; the only people allowed into intensive care were family members, one at a time, fifteen minutes every two hours.

I’ve argued with Lotty about these rules a thousand times or so. You most need a warm and soothing presence when your life is on the line. Perhaps technology can save your body, but not your spirit. If I couldn’t move Lotty, who is a maverick in most medical matters, I wasn’t going to budge the resident—he had all of institutionalized Medicine to lean on. He ended the
argument by going back through the doors separating me from Mr. Contreras.

I was about to leave when an over-made-up woman in her mid-forties came in. She carried about thirty extra pounds, which made her look like an inflated rubber doll. Two boys followed reluctantly in her wake, one around twelve, the other a few years older. They wore clean jeans and white shirts with worn-out sneakers—today’s uniform for a boy dragged to formal events by his parents.

“I’m Mrs. Marcano,” she announced in the harsh nasal voice of the South Side. “Where’s my dad?”

Of course. Mr. Contreras’s daughter, Ruthie. I’d heard her voice wafting up the stairwell numerous times but had never actually met the lady.

“He’s in through there.” I jerked a hand at the door leading to the ICU nursing station. “The receptionist can get the doctor for you.”

“Who are you?” she demanded. Mr. Contreras’s wide brown eyes had been transplanted into her face, but without the warmth.

“V. I. Warshawski. His upstairs neighbor. I found him this morning.”

“So you’re the lady that got him into so much trouble. I might’ve guessed. He got his head cut open for you two weeks ago, didn’t he? But that wasn’t enough, was it? You had to try to get him killed, too, didn’t you?”

“Ma, please.” The elder of the two boys was suffused with the embarrassment only a teenager can feel when
his parents make public fools of themselves. “She didn’t try to kill Gramps. The detective said she saved his life. You know he did.”

“You’re going to believe a cop before you’ll listen to me?” She switched her attention back to me. “He’s an old man. He should be living with me. I got a good home. In a safe neighborhood; not like this Uptown or whatever, where he’s going to be attacked every time he sets foot outside his door.