Burn Marks (9 page)

13

Washing Up

I slept late the next morning. Usually as soon as I wake up I get out of bed and get going—I’m not a napper or a snoozer. But today I felt a catlike languor envelop me, a sense of well-being that came from knowing I had my castle to myself. The street noises were subdued—the nine-to-fivers were long gone about their business—and I felt suspended in a little bubble of privacy.

By and by I padded into the kitchen to make some coffee. The remains of yesterday’s shambles made a slight dent in my euphoria, enough to decide me not to skip my run two days in a row. I had cleaned up after Cerise, but the dirty rags were still in the sink, giving off a faint smell of Clorox mixed with old vomit. I needed to throw them in the wash and might as well do it at the start of my run.

Down in the basement after doing my stretches, my good mood deteriorated further on finding that someone had dumped my laundry on the floor—wet. A note scribbled in angry haste lay on top: “You don’t own the basement too!” I knew Mr. Contreras would never have done such a thing. The second-floor tenants were Korean; their English didn’t seem up to the pointedness of the message. My third-floor neighbor was a quiet older Norwegian woman who almost never appeared. That left the banker, good old Vincent Bottone.

I put the clothes back in the washer, added the rags, poured in a double measure of soap and a good cup of Clorox, and left Westinghouse to do my dirty work. I stopped on the first floor for the dog, who was more than usually eager to see me—it had been several days since she’d had a good workout. Mr. Contreras was disposed to question me about my aunt and Cerise, but the dog was whimpering so loudly I was able to make my escape in fairly short order.

As I jogged up to Belmont and across to the harbor, my mind kept shifting to Vincent Bottone, trying to come up with some fitting response to his desecration of my laundry. Of course I shouldn’t have gone off and left it all day, but did he really have to dump it on the floor and add a hostile note? My best idea was to break into his apartment some weekend when he was out and steal his briefcase for Peppy to chew to bits. But then he might poison the dog—he was just the type.

By the time Peppy and I got back home my early euphoria had evaporated completely. I turned the dog back to Mr. Contreras and pleaded a heavy work load to escape a second barrage of questions. Halfway up the stairs I remembered my laundry and stomped back to the basement to shift it to the dryer.

The washer was still in its final spin cycle. Propping my elbows on the vibrating machine, I tried to resolve on an action plan for the day. I had to get my driver’s license replaced, which meant trekking up Elston by bus—I shouldn’t even have been driving last night without it. After that—I wondered if it was worthwhile trying to confront Elena about my missing stuff. If she knew, she wouldn’t admit it; anyway, the thought of dealing with her coy evasions nauseated me. If it was Cerise who had robbed me, I didn’t have any desire to find her, even if I knew where to look.

Since I wasn’t going to mess with those two anymore, there was nothing to stop my getting back to paying—and waiting—clients. I repeated some pretty stern orders to myself about going upstairs, getting dressed, and heading for the Loop, but something kept me planted in front of the washing machine.

The rhythm of the spin cycle was soothing. My mind relaxed while I stared at the dials. The niggling questions buried by Cerise and Elena’s exigent needs came fluttering back to the surface of my brain.

Rosalyn. Why had she gratuitously sought me out at Boots’s party? With a thousand people to meet—lots of them with lots of bucks—did she really want to assure herself that I was on her side?

I wished I could believe it. I just couldn’t. She could see I’d shelled out for her; that should have been guarantee enough for someone who wasn’t particularly close to her. Despite her and Marissa’s soap, my public support wasn’t particularly useful to her. I haven’t been politically active for a long time. My name is getting better known in the financial world, but it doesn’t count for anything in county politics. In fact, knowing I backed Roz—or any other candidate—could just as likely make people who know me from my PD days vote against her as for her.

I couldn’t help believing she thought I knew something that might damage her. She had some secret and her cousin was worried I knew about it. It was after he’d pointed at me that she’d come back and asked me to meet her at the swing. She’d sought me out to scout the lay of the land.

“It doesn’t matter, Vic,” I said aloud. “So she’s got a secret. So who doesn’t? None of your business.”

Grunting, I moved the heavy wet clothes from the machine to the dryer. I slammed the door shut and scowled at the knobs. The trouble was, she’d made it my business by seeking me out in that strange way. If she and Marissa were making a patsy out of me between them—I bit off the thought in mid-sentence and headed for the stairs. I was halfway up when I realized I hadn’t turned on the dryer. I stomped back to the basement and set the wheel in motion.

I put on my newest jeans so I’d look tidy and respectable for the driver’s license people. With it I wore a rose-colored blouse so I’d photograph decently.

All during the slow bus ride up Elston and the long wait while state employees processed applicants at a pace just short of total morbidity, I toyed with different ways of getting a fix on Roz’s situation. My first thought had been to head to the Daley Center to see if she was being sued. But if someone were on her case, the papers would have the story—the first thing the eager reporters do when someone runs for office is check the public record on them.

With a start I realized my turn had come. I filled out the forms, handed over my three pieces of identification, waited some more, agreed to give away my kidneys and eyeballs if some cokehead totaled me, and finally got my picture taken. My care in dressing had been to no avail—I still looked like an escapee from the psycho ward at Cook County. Maybe I should lose this license, too, and try again.

I trudged back onto the Number 41 bus and endured the long trek south. The sight of my demented-looking photograph did make me think of someone who might know what Roz was up to. Velma Riter was a photographer whom I’d met when she was with the Herald-Star. She’d been assigned enough times to cover stories I’d been involved in that we got to know each other, at least by sight. Shortly before leaving the paper to go into business for herself, she’d done a big photo-essay for a special issue on “Fifty Women Who Move Chicago.” I’d been included, as had Roz.

The artist was at home. She’d evidently been expecting some other call because she answered the phone eagerly on the first ring but seemed startled at hearing it was me.

“V. I. Warshawski,” she repeated slowly, drawing out the syllables. “Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just had my driver’s license redone. I was wishing you could doctor the photo for me.”

“Forged passports are my real specialty,” she said dryly. “What are you up to these days?”

“Not much. I saw Roz Fuentes on Sunday, though, out at a big shindig Boots Meagher was throwing for her.”

“I knew about it—she wanted me there, but I’m getting ready for a show. I wouldn’t even have answered your call if I hadn’t been expecting to hear from my agent.”

I made appropriate noises of congratulation, wrote down the gallery name and opening date, and apologized for disturbing her work. “You keep up with Roz?”

“I’m doing some work for the campaign.” A thread of impatience hit Velma’s voice. “Vic, I really don’t have time for a chat right now.”

“I wouldn’t be bothering you if I knew someone else to interrupt. Roz got me kind of worried, though. I wondered if she was digging herself into some kind of pit her pals ought to know about.”

“Just what did she say to make you think that?”

“Not so much what she said but what she did.” I told her about about Roz breaking away from the crowd just to sound out how much I cared about her alliance with Boots.

“You worry too much about other people’s business, Warshawski. Some people even think you’re a pain in the butt. Go catch some real criminals and leave Roz’s business alone. She’s cool,”

Her closing words made my cheeks flame. I hung up without even trying to reply. I had an ugly vision of myself as a crank and a busybody.

“She still shouldn’t have come around asking if I was going to do anything to hurt her,” I muttered aggrievedly to myself.

Hunching my shoulders, I went back outside. I was flat and I didn’t have a cash card. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with errands to replace my missing credit— to the bank to cash a check and apply for a new card. To the grocery to get some food and a new check-writing card. At four I finally took some time to go to the Daley Center and dig around a little on a background check for an old client. Velma’s words still stung so much I didn’t even try looking Roz up.

The documents library closed at four-thirty. I walked across town to my office to see what new bills had come in since Friday, stopping at a deli to pick up a giant chocolate-chip cookie and a cup of bitter coffee.

While I finished the cookie I switched on the desk lamp and called my answering service. Both Michael Furey and Robin Bessinger had phoned. And one of the managers from Cartwright&Wheeler, the insurance brokers where I’d made my presentation last Friday.

I sat down heavily. A potential client. A paying client. And I had completely forgotten to make a follow-up phone call. After spending five hundred dollars and two days on a presentation to them.

Maybe this showed the beginning of senile dementia. They say the short-term memory is the first thing to go. Harassed though I’d been yesterday by dealing with Cerise and Roland Montgomery, I still should have remembered to make a phone call that important. I looked at my pocket diary—there it was. Call Cartwright & Wheeler. I’d even put in the number and the name of the contact person.

When I phoned it was to get bad news—they’d decided they didn’t need my help at this time. Of course once they’d put off the decision the odds were against their choosing to hire me. But Velma was right—I spent so much time worrying about other people’s business, I couldn’t even keep track of my own. The vision of myself as a grotesque busybody returned. The outcome might not have been different if I’d remembered to call yesterday, but at least I’d feel like a professional instead of a fool.

14

Caught in the Act

I returned Furey’s and Robin Bessinger’s phone calls, more for something to do to stop my self-flagellation than from any real enthusiasm to talk to either. Furey wanted to apologize for his comments to me at the department yesterday and arrange a final trip to the Sox, who like the Cubs had long since faded into the sunset.

“I didn’t mean to criticize you,” he added. “It’s hard for us born-and-bred chauvinists to reform.”

“That’s okay,” I assured him with what goodwill I could muster. “I wasn’t at my best, anyway—Lieutenant Montgomery was jumping on my ass for the wrong reasons and it didn’t leave me feeling very friendly.”

After we’d talked a little about the meeting, and he’d given me some tips on the best way to handle Monty, he inquired about Elena.

I’d forgotten asking him to do a search for her. More dementia. More repellent busybodiedness. “Oh, nuts. I’m sorry—I should have told you—she showed up Sunday night safe and sound. With a truly hideous protégée.”

“Sounds bad,” he said with ready sympathy. “What was the protégée? Someone from the Indiana Arms?”

“Daughter.” I gave him a thumbnail sketch of Cerise. “Now she’s vanished into the woodwork, pregnant, addicted and all.”

“Want to give me her name and description? I could ask the boys to keep an eye out for her.”

“Ugh.” The last thing I wanted was for someone to drop Cerise on my doorstep again. On the other hand, for the sake of the fetus she was working on, someone ought to try to get her into a drug program. Why not the cops? I gave Michael the details.

“I don’t think this week is a good time for me to set a play date—I’ve been letting too many things slide and it’s starting to get me down. I’ll call next Monday or Tuesday, okay?”

“Yeah, Vic. Fine.” He hung up.

Furey was fundamentally good-natured. Caring enough to look out for a pregnant junkie he’d never seen. Eileen Mallory was right—he was good father material. I just wasn’t looking for a father. At least not for my unborn children.

I called Robin next. The lab they used had reported on the samples from the Indiana Arms. They’d confirmed his initial hunch on the accelerant—it had been paraffin.

I tried to force my mind to care about what he was saying. “Is it hard to buy?”

“It’s common,” he responded. “Easy to get hold of, even in large quantities, so I don’t think we can trace the user by looking for a purchaser. What’s interesting was the timing device they used to set the thing off. A hot plate had been plugged into it in the night man’s quarters.”

“So maybe the watchman had something to do with it.” Hard to think he didn’t if a timer was wired to his own appliance.

“The owner says he had only a night man at the desk, that he didn’t think the building warranted a watchman. We haven’t been able to locate the guy, though…. Vic, you’ve done a lot of work for Ajax in the past. Successful work. I wondered—I talked to my boss—could we hire you on this one?”

“To do what?” I asked cautiously. “I don’t know a thing about arson—I couldn’t tell an accelerant from a match.”

He didn’t respond directly. “Even though the building was underinsured, we’re reserving over a million dollars. People were injured, and that means liability claims on top of the property loss. The police may not care, but it’d be worth it to us to invest several thousand in a professional investigation if we could save the big money. We’d like you to try to find the arsonist.”

I watched the windowpanes vibrate at the continuous stream of rush-hour L’s running just underneath. A little dirt shook loose, but not as much as whirled up to add to the glass’s gray opacity. It wasn’t a scene to bolster my low sense of competence.

“My fan club at Ajax doesn’t exactly include a unanimous chorus of senior staff. Does your boss have the authority to hire me without a lot of other people getting involved in the approval process?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s easy. We budget for outside investigators—they don’t have to be approved on a case-by-case basis.” He paused. “Could I interest you in dinner tonight? Try to help you make up your mind?”

I could picture his head tilted birdlike to one side as he watched to see if the worm would pop out of the ground. The image made me feel like smiling for the first time since finding my laundry on the floor this morning. “Dinner would be great.”

He suggested Calliope, a lively place on north Lincoln that served Greek-style seafood. They didn’t take reservations, but people could dance in the adjoining cabaret while waiting for their tables.

After hanging up I shut my office for the day. Another couple of inquiries had come in that I ought to deal with, but I didn’t have the emotional energy for work this afternoon.

By the time I walked back to the north end of the Loop for my car and picked my way through the rush-hour traffic home, I just had time for a long bath before dressing for dinner. I lay in the tub a good forty-five minutes, letting my mind float to nowhere, letting the water wash away the sharpest edge of self-doubt.

When I finally got out and started dressing, the late-summer twilight was turning the evening air a grayish-purple. I watched Mr. Contreras working in the backyard. The tomato season was ending but he was cultivating a few pumpkins with tender care. He liked to do Halloween in style for the local kids. In the dim light I could just make out Peppy lying on the grass, her nose on her forepaws, gloomily waiting for activity that might include her.

I went down the back way to bid him and the dog good night. The old man was on his dignity, miffed at my shortness with him this morning, but the dog was ecstatic. I had to work hard to keep her from transferring leaf loam or manure or whatever Mr. Contreras was piling on the pumpkins to my black silk trousers.

He refused to be mollified by my light remarks. I felt myself on the verge of apologizing and bit back the words in annoyance—there was no reason for him to know every detail of my life. If I wanted to keep a few small segments private, I shouldn’t have to say I was sorry. I gave him a cool farewell and slid through the back gate so that the dog couldn’t follow. Her frustrated whimpering accompanied me down the alley.

I walked the short mile to the restaurant. Stepping around a wide hole in the concrete I slipped on a discarded hot dog. Just one more of the joys of city life. I dusted my trouser knees. The fabric was bruised slightly but not torn. Not enough damage to justify a move to Streamwood.

Robin was waiting for me outside the restaurant door, looking elegant in gray flannel slacks and a navy blazer. He had come early to sign up for a table and the manager was just calling his name when we walked in. Perfect. If you’re born lucky, you don’t have to be good. Robin ordered a beer while I had a rum and tonic and some of the cod roe mousse the Calliope was famous for.

“How did you become a detective?” he asked after we’d given our dinner orders.

“I used to be with the public defender.” I spread some of the mousse on a piece of toast. “Trial division. It’s hideous work—you often get briefed on your client only five minutes before the trial begins. You always have more cases than time to work them effectively. And sometimes you’re pleading heart and soul for goons you hope will never see the light of day again.”

“So why didn’t you just go into private practice?” He scooped up some of the mousse. “This is good,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “I never tried it before.”

It was good—just salty enough to go down well with beer or rum. I ate some more and finished my drink before answering.

“I’d spent five years in the PD’s office—I didn’t want to have to start again at the beginning in a private practice. Anyway, I’d solved a case for a friend and realize it was work I could do well and get genuine satisfaction from. Plus, I can be my own boss.” I should have given that as my first reason—it continues to be the most important with me. Maybe from being an only child, used to getting my own way? Or just my mother’s fierce independence seeping into my DNA along with her olive skin.

After the waiter brought salads and a bottle of wine, I asked Robin how he ended up as an arson specialist. He grimaced.

“I don’t know anyone whose first choice is insurance, except maybe the kids whose fathers own agencies. I majored in art history. There wasn’t money to send me to graduate school. So I started work at Ajax. They had me designing policy forms—trying to make use of my artistic background”—he grinned briefly—“but I got out of that as fast as I could.”

During dinner he asked me about some of the earlier work I’d done for Ajax. It was my turn to make a face— the company didn’t know if it loved or hated me for fingering their claims vice president as the mastermind of a workers’ comp fraud scam. Robin was fascinated—he said there’d always been a lot of gossip circulating, but that no one had ever told the lower-downs what their vice president had really been up to.

Over Greek-style bouillabaisse he spent a little time persuading me to go back into the Ajax trenches once again. I knew I needed a major job, not just the nickel-and-dime stuff that had come over the transom the last few days. I knew I didn’t feel up to hustling for new clients right now, I knew I was going to say yes, but I asked him to call me at my office in the morning with some details.

“It’s been a roughish day,” I explained. “Tonight I just want to forget the detecting business and unwind.”

He didn’t seem to mind. The talk drifted to baseball and childhood while we finished eating. Dancing in the back room afterwards, we didn’t talk much at all. Around midnight we decided the time had come to move the few blocks north to my place. Robin said he’d leave his car at the restaurant and pick it up in the morning—we’d both had too much to drink to drive, and anyway, it was a beautiful late-summer night.

We turned the six blocks into a half-hour trek, moving slowly with our arms locked, stopping every few houses for a long kiss. When we finally got to my place I whispered urgent warnings of silence on Robin—I didn’t want Mr. Contreras or Vinnie the banker descending on us. While Robin stood behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist, I fumbled in my bag for my keys.

A car door slammed in front of the house. We moved to one side as footsteps came up the walk. A car searchlight pinned us against the apartment entrance.

“That you, Vicki? Sorry to interrupt, but we need to have a chat.” The voice, laden with heavy irony, was almost as familiar to me as my own father’s. It belonged to Lieutenant Robert Mallory, head of the Violent Crimes Unit at the Chicago Police’s Central District. I could feel my cheeks flame in the dark—no matter how cool you are, it unsettles you when your father’s oldest friend surprises you in a passionate embrace.

“I’m flattered, of course, Bobby. Two and a half million souls in the city, including your seven grandchildren, and when you have insomnia you come to me.”

Bobby ignored me. “Say good night to your friend here—we’re going for a ride.”

Robin made a creditable effort to intervene. I grabbed his arm. “They’ll put you in Cook County with the muggers and the buggers if you hit him—it’s a police lieutenant. Bobby—Robin Bessinger, Ajax Insurance. Robin—Bobby Mallory, Chicago’s finest.”

In the searchlight Bobby’s red face looked grayish-white; lines I didn’t usually notice sprang into craggy relief. He was coming up on his sixtieth birthday, after all. I’d even been invited to the surprise party his wife was planning for him in early October, but I hadn’t thought of the milestone as meaning he might be getting old. I pushed aside the stab of queasiness the idea of his aging gave me and said more loudly than I’d intended, “Where are we riding to and why, Bobby?”

I could see him wrestle with the desire to grab me and drag me forcibly to the waiting car. Most people don’t know that if you’re not under arrest you don’t have to go off with a policeman just because he tells you to. And most people won’t fight it even if they know it. Even a good cop like Bobby starts taking it for granted; a citizen like me helps him keep his powers in perspective.

“Tell your friend to take a hike.” He jerked his head at Robin.

If I obeyed him on that one, he’d play by the rules. It wasn’t a great compromise, but it was a compromise. I grudgingly asked Robin to leave. He agreed on condition that I call him as soon as the police were done with me, but when he got to the end of the walk, he stood to watch. I was touched.

“Okay, he’s gone. What do you need to talk about?”

Bobby frowned and pressed his lips together. Just a reflex of annoyance. “Night watchman found a body near a construction site around nine-thirty. She had something on her linking her to you.”

I had a sudden image of my aunt, dead drunk, getting hit by a car and left to die. I put a hand on the side of the building to steady myself. “Elena?” I asked foolishly.

“Elena?” Bobby was momentarily blank. “Oh, Tony’s sister. Not unless she shed fifty years and had her skin dyed for the occasion.”

It took me a minute to work out what he meant, A young black woman. Cerise. She wasn’t the only young black woman I know, but I couldn’t imagine any of the others dead near a construction site. “Who was it?”

“We want you to tell us.”

“What did you find that made you connect her with me?”

Bobby pressed his lips together again. He just didn’t want to tell me—old habits die hard. I thought he was about to speak when the door opened behind me and Vinnie the banker erupted into the night.

“This is it, Warshawski. This is the last time you get me up in the middle of the night. Just so you know it, the cops are on their way over. Don’t your friends ever think— shining a light straight into a window where people are sleeping? And talking at the top of their lungs? Or are you trying to lure people inside?”

He had changed out of his pajamas into jeans and a white button shirt. His thick brown hair was combed carefully from his face. He might even have taken the extra time to shampoo and blow-dry it before dialing 911.

“I’m glad you phoned them, Vinnie—they’ll be real happy when they get here. And so will the rest of the block when the squad cars cruise in with those new strobes of theirs painting the nighttime blue.”