Killing Orders (13 page)

Barbara Paciorek, Agnes’s youngest sister, answered the door. She had been about six when I last saw her. A teenager now, she looked so much like Agnes had when I first met her that a small shock of nostalgia ran through me.

“Vic!” she exclaimed. “Did you drive all the way up from Chicago in this terrible weather? Is Mother expecting you? Come on in and get warm.” She led me in through the back hallway, past the enormous kitchen where the cook was hard at work on dinner. “Daddy’s stuck at the hospital—can’t get home until they plow the side roads, so we’re going to eat in about half an hour. Can you stay?”

“Sure, if your mother wants me.”

I followed her across vaguely remembered hallways until we reached the front part of the house. Barbara led me into what the Pacioreks called the family room. Much smaller than the conservatory, perhaps only twenty or thirty feet across, the room held a piano and an enormous fireplace. Mrs. Paciorek was doing needlepoint in front of the fire.

“Look who’s dropped in, Mother,” Barbara announced as though she was bringing a pleasant surprise.

Mrs. Paciorek looked up. A frown creased her handsome forehead. “Victoria. I won’t pretend I’m happy to see you; I’m not. But there is something I wanted to discuss with you and this saves me the trouble of phoning. Barbara! Leave, please.”

The girl looked surprised and hurt at her mother’s hospitality. I said, “Barbara, there’s something you could do for me if you’d be good enough. While your mother and I are talking, could you find a filling station with a tow truck? My Omega is stuck about a half mile down the road. If you call now, they should have a truck free by the time I leave.”

I sat in a chair near the fire across from Mrs. Paciorek. She put her needlepoint aside with a tidy anger reminiscent of Rosa. “Victoria, you corrupted and destroyed the life of my oldest child. Is it any wonder that you are not welcome in this house?”

“Catherine, that is pig swill, and you know it.”

Her face turned red. Before she could speak, I regretted my rudeness—today was my day for tangling with angry women.

“Agnes was a fine person,” I said gently. “You should be proud of her. And proud of her success. Very few people achieve what she did, and almost no women. She was smart and she had guts. She got a lot of that from you. Be proud— feel pleased. Grieve for her.”

Like Rosa, she had lived with her anger too long to want to give it up. “I won’t flatter you by arguing with you, Victoria. It was enough for Agnes to know I believed in something for her to believe the opposite. Abortion. The war in Vietnam. Worst of all, the Church. I thought I had seen my family name degraded in every possible way. I didn’t realize how much I could have forgiven until she announced in public that she was a homosexual.”

I opened my eyes very wide. “In public! She actually announced it right in the middle of LaSalle Street? Out where every taxi driver in Chicago could hear her?”

“I know you think you’re being very funny. But she might as well have screamed it in the middle of LaSalle Street. Everyone knew about it. And she was proud of it. Proud of it! Archbishop Farber even agreed to talk to her, to make her understand the degradation she was subjecting her body to. Her own family as well. And she laughed at him. Called him names. The kinds of things
you
would think of. I could tell you had led her into that, just as you led her into all her other horrible activities. And then—to bring that—that creature, that vile thing to my daughter’s funeral.”

“Just out of curiosity, Catherine, what did Agnes call Archbishop Farber?”

Her face turned alarmingly red again. “It’s that kind of thing. That kind of attitude. You have no respect for people.”

I shook my head. “Wrong. I have a lot of respect for people. I respected Agnes and Phyllis for example. I don’t know why Agnes chose lesbian relations. But she loved Phyllis Lording, and Phyllis loved her, and they lived very happily together. If five percent of married couples brought each other that much satisfaction the divorce rate wouldn’t be what it is . . . Phyllis is an interesting woman. She’s a substantial scholar; if you read her book
Sappho Underground
you might get some understanding of what she and Agnes were all about in their life together.”

“How can you sit there and talk about this—perversion and dare compare it with the sacrament of marriage?”

I rubbed my face. The fire was making me a little lightheaded and sleepy. “We’re never going to agree about this. Maybe we should just agree not to discuss it anymore. For some reason, it brings you solace to be furious at Agnes’s way of living, and it brings you further pleasure to blame it on me. I guess I don’t really care that much—if you want to be that blind about your daughter’s character and personality and how she made her choices, that’s your problem. Your views don’t affect the truth. And they only make one person miserable: you. Maybe Barbara some. Perhaps Dr. Paciorek. But you’re the main sufferer.”

“Why did you bring her to the funeral?”

I sighed. “Not to piss you off, believe it or not. Phyllis loved Agnes. She needed to see her funeral. She needed that ritual

Why am I talking? You’re not listening to what I’m saying, anyway. You just want to fuel your rage. But I didn’t come all the way out here in a snowstorm just to talk about Phyllis Lording, although I enjoyed that. I need to ask you about your stock transactions. Specifically, how you came to buy two thousand shares of Ajax last month.”

“Ajax? What are you talking about?”

“The Ajax Insurance Company. You bought two thousand shares on December second. Why?”

Her face had turned pale; the skin looked papery in the firelight. It seemed to me a cardiac surgeon would talk to his wife about the strain her wild mood changes put on her heart. But they say you notice least about the ones you’re closest to.

Her iron control came through for her. “I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to have a lot of money. I don’t know what two thousand shares of Ajax are worth—”

“Almost a hundred twenty thousand at today’s prices,” I put in helpfully.

“Yes. Well, that’s a fraction of the fortune my father left in my care. It’s very possible my accountants thought it was a good year-end investment. For transactions that small they wouldn’t bother to consult me.”

I smiled appreciatively. “I can understand that. What about Corpus Christi? You’re an influential Catholic. What can you tell me about them?”

“Please leave now, Victoria. I’m tired and it’s time for my dinner.”

“Are you a member, Catherine?”

“Don’t call me Catherine. Mrs. Paciorek is appropriate.”

“And I would prefer you to call me Miss Warshawski Are you a member of Corpus Christi, Mrs. Paciorek?”

“I never heard of it.”

There didn’t seem to be anything left to discuss at that point. I started to leave, then thought of something else and stopped in the doorway. “What about the Wood-Sage corporation? Know anything about it?”

Maybe it was just the firelight, but her eyes seemed to glitter strangely. “Leave!” she hissed.

Barbara was waiting for me at the end of the hallway where it angled off toward the back of the house. “Your car’s in the garage, Vic.”

I smiled at her gratefully. How could she have grown up so sane and cheerful with such a mother? “How much do I owe you? Twenty-five?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I—I’m sorry Mother’s so rude to you.”

“So you’re making up for it by towing my car?” I took out my billfold. “You don’t have to do that, Barbara. What your mother says to me doesn’t affect how I feel about you.” I pushed the money into her hand.

She smiled with embarrassment. “It was only twenty.”

I took the extra five back.

“Do you mind if I ask you something? Were you and Agnes, like Mother keeps saying—” she broke off, blushing furiously.

“Were your sister and I lovers? No. And while I love many women dearly, I’ve never had women lovers. It makes your mother happier, though, to think that Agnes couldn’t make her own decisions.”

“I see. I hope you’re not angry, that you don’t mind

“Nope. Don’t worry about it. Phone me sometime if you want to talk about your sister. She was a good lady. Or give Phyllis Lording a call. She’d appreciate it very much.”

Chapter 15 - The Fire Next Time

IT WAS SO late when I got home that I didn’t check with my answering service until the next morning. They told me then that Roger had called several times, and Murray Ryerson had also left a message. I tried Murray first.

“I think I found your friend Walter. A man calling himself Wallace Smith was treated last Thursday at St Vincent’s for a broken jaw. He paid cash for the visit, which astounded the staff because he was there overnight and the bill came to more than a thousand dollars. Still, you know what they say—the best medical care today costs no more than the cheapest nuclear submarine.”

“His address a fake?”

“I’m afraid so. Turned out to be a vacant lot in New Town. But we got a good description from the night nurse in the emergency room. Big surly guy with black curly hair, bald in front. No beard. I gave it to my gofer at the police. He said it sounded like Walter Novick. He’s a stevedore and usually uses a knife. Might explain why he didn’t do so well with acid.”

I didn’t say anything and Murray added penitently, “Sorry. Not funny, I guess. Anyway, he’s a free lance, but he’s done a lot of work for Annunzio Pasquale.”

I felt an unaccustomed surge of fear. Annunzio Pasquale. Local mob figure. Murder, torture, you name it: yours for the asking. What could I possibly have done to arouse the interest of such a man?

“You there, Vic?”

“Yes. For a few more hours, anyway. Send irises to my funeral; I’ve never cared much for lilies.”

“Sure, kid. You be careful who you open doors to. Look both ways before you cross Halsted . . . Maybe I’ll run a little story on this—might make the mean streets a bit safer for you.,’

“Thanks, Murray,” I said mechanically, and hung up. Pasquale. It had to be the forgeries. Had to be. If you wanted to create money and push it into circulation, who’s the first person you’d hire? A Mafia man. Ditto for securities.

I don’t frighten easily. But I’m not the Avenger—I can’t take on organized crime with my own bare hands. If Pasquale really was involved with the forgeries I’d graciously concede the round. Except for one thing. My life had been threatened gratuitously. Not just my life—my eyesight, my livelihood. If I gave in to that, I’d never have a moment’s peace with myself again.

I frowned at a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. There might be a way. If I could talk to Pasquale. Explain where our interests diverged. Explain that the matter of the securities would blow up in his face and just to leave that alone. I’d turn the other cheek if he would withdraw his protection from Novick.

I wondered how I could best get this message to the don. An ad in the
Herald-Star
would do the trick, but might bring the law down on me hard and heavy, too. Hatfield would love to be able to hold me on an obstructing federal justice charge.

I called a woman I know in the D.A.’s office. “Maggie— V. I. Warshawski. I need a favor.”

“I’m on my way to court, V.1. Can it wait?”

“This won’t take long—I just want to know some of Don Pasquale’s fronts—restaurants, laundries, anyplace I might be able to get discreetly in touch with him.”

A long silence at the other end. “You’re not so hard up you’d work for him, are you?”

“No way, Maggie—I don’t think I could stand up in court to an interrogation by you.”

Another pause, then she said, “I guess I’m happier not knowing why you want to know. I’ll call you when I’m free-maybe about three this afternoon.”

I wandered restlessly around the apartment. I was sure it wasn’t Pasquale who’d been on the phone to me. I’d seen him in the Federal Building once or twice, heard him speak in a thick Italian accent. Besides, say Pasquale was ultimately responsible for the forged stocks, responsible for creating them, he couldn’t be the one who got them into the priory safe. Maybe he lived in Melrose Park, maybe he went to church at the priory. Even so, he’d have to have bought off a lot of people there to get at the safe. Boniface Carroll or Augustine Pelly as front men for the Mafia? Ludicrous.

Of course, there was always Rosa. I snorted with laughter at the image of Rosa as a Mafia moll. She’d keep Annunzio in line good and proper—yes, no pasta for you tonight, Annunzio, unless you burn my niece with acid.

I suddenly thought of my cousin Albert. I hadn’t even included him in the picture before; he was so much in Rosa’s shadow. But. . . he was a CPA and the mob could always use good CPAs. And here he was, fat, forty, unmarried, dominated by this truly awful mother. Maybe that would rouse some antisocial spirit in him—it would in me. What if Rosa had called me without his knowing it? Then afterward he talked her into sending me away. For some bizarre reason he had stolen St. Albert’s stocks and replaced them with counterfeits, but when the investigation heated up he replaced them. He could have gotten the combination to the safe at any time from Rosa.

I continued to work up a case against Albert while cooking curried eggs with peas and tomatoes for lunch. I didn’t know my cousin very well. Almost anything could go on behind that bloated, amorphous exterior.

Roger Ferrant called again while I was halfway through the curried eggs. I greeted him cheerfully.

“Vic. You’re sounding more like yourself again. I want to talk to you.”

“Sure. Have you learned something new about your Ajax takeover?”

“No, but there’s something else I want to discuss with you. Can we have dinner tonight?”

On an impulse, still preoccupied with Albert, I not only agreed but even offered to cook. After hanging up I cursed myself—that meant cleaning up the damned kitchen.

Feeling slightly aggrieved, I scrubbed out a collection of stale pots and plates. Made the bed. Trudged through unshoveled sidewalks to the grocery, where I bought a pot roast and cooked it like beef Bourguignon, with onions, mushrooms, salt pork, and of course, Burgundy. To show Roger I didn’t suspect him anymore—or at least not at the moment—I decided to serve dinner wine in the red Venetian glasses my mother had brought from Italy. She had originally carried out eight, carefully wrapped in her underwear, but one of them broke several years ago when my apartment was ransacked. I now keep them in a locked cupboard in the back of my clothes closet.

When Maggie called at four-thirty, I realized one side benefit of heavy housework—it definitely keeps your mind off your troubles. I’d been too busy to think about Don Pasquale all afternoon.

Her voice on the phone brought the clutch of fear back to my stomach.

“I just took a brief glance through his files. One of his favorite meeting places is Torfino’s in Elmwood Park.”

I thanked her with as much heartiness as I could muster.

“Don’t,” she said soberly. “I don’t think I’m doing you any favor telling you this. All I’m doing is speeding you on your way. I know you’d find it out for yourself—one of your newspaper pals would be glad to send you to your funeral just to generate a snappy story.” She hesitated. “You were always a maverick when you were on the public defender’s roster—I hated appearing against you because I never knew what outrageous defense you might rig up. I know you’re a good investigator, and I know you have a lot of pride. If you’re onto something that leads to Pasquale, call the police, call the FBI. They’ve got the resources to handle the Mob, and even they’re fighting a losing battle.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” I said weakly. “I appreciate the advice. I really do. I’ll think about it.”

I got the number of Torfino’s restaurant. When I called and asked for Don Pasquale, the voice at the other end said brusquely he’d never heard of such a man and hung up.

I dialed again. When the same voice answered, I said, “Don’t hang up. If you should ever happen to meet Don Pasquale, I’d like to give him a message.”

“Yes?” Grudgingly.

“This is V. I. Warshawski. I’d like a chance to talk to him.” I spelled my last name slowly, giving him my phone number, and hung up.

By now my stomach was jumping in earnest. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle either Roger or dinner, let alone a combination of the two. To relax, I went into the living room and picked out scales on my mother’s old piano. Deep diaphragm breaths. Now, scales on a descending “Ah.” I worked vigorously for forty-five minutes, starting to feel some resonance in my head as I loosened up. I really should practice regularly. Along with the red glasses, my voice was my legacy from Gabriella.

I felt better. When Roger arrived at seven with a bottle of Taittinger’s and a bunch of white spider mums, I was able to greet him cheerfully and return his polite kiss. He followed me to the kitchen while I finished cooking. I wished now I hadn’t cleaned up this morning. The place was such a mess I’d have to wash up again tomorrow.

“I lost track of you at Agnes’s funeral,” I told him. “You missed a good old scene with some of her relatives.”

“Just as well. I’m not much of a scene person.”

I dressed a salad and handed it to him and pulled the roast from the oven. We went into the dining room. Roger uncorked the champagne while I dished out the dinner. We ate without talking for a while, Roger staring at his place. At last I said, “You said there was something you wanted to discuss—not anything very pleasant, I take it.”

He looked up at that. “I told you I’m not interested in scenes. And I’m afraid what I want to discuss has the makings of a row.”

I set down my wineglass. “I hope you’re not going to try to talk me into laying off my investigation. That would lead to a first-class fight.”

“No. I can’t say I’m crazy about it. It’s the way you do it, that’s all. You’ve closed me out of any discussion about that— or anything you’re doing. I know we haven’t spent that much time together so maybe I don’t have the right to have expectations about you, but you’ve been damned cold and unfriendly the last few days. Since Agnes was shot, in fact, you’ve been really bitchy.”

“I see ... I seem to have stirred up some people who are a lot bigger than me. I’m afraid, and I don’t like that. I don’t know who I can trust, and that makes it hard to be open and friendly with people, even good friends.”

His face twitched angrily. “What the hell have I done to deserve that?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. But I don’t know you that well, Roger, and I don’t know who you talk to. Listen. I guess I am being bitchy—I don’t blame you for getting mad. I got involved in a problem that was puzzling but didn’t seem too dangerous— my aunt’s thing with the fake stock shares—and the next thing I knew someone tried pouring acid in my eyes.” He looked shocked. “Yes. Right on this very landing. Someone who wants me away from the priory.

“I don’t really think that’s you. But I don’t know where it’s coming from, and that makes me draw away from people. I know it’s bitchy, or I’m bitchy, but I can’t help it. And then Agnes’s being shot . . . I do feel kind of responsible, because she was working on your problem, and I sent you to her. Even if her being shot doesn’t have anything to do with Ajax, which maybe it doesn’t, I still feel responsible. She was working late, and probably meeting someone involved in the takeover. I know that’s not very clear, but do you understand?”

He rubbed a hand through his long forelock. “But, Vic, why couldn’t you say any of this to me? Why did you just draw back?”

“I don’t know. It’s how I operate. I can’t explain it. It’s why I’m a private eye, not a cop or a fed.”

“Well, could you at least tell me about the acid?”

“You were here the night I got the first threatening phone call. Well, they tried making good on it last week. I anticipated the attack and broke the guy’s jaw and took the acid on my neck instead of my face. Still, it was very—well, shocking. I thought I heard the man who made the phone call talking at Agnes’s funeral. But when I tried to find him, I couldn’t.” I described the voice and asked Roger if he remembered meeting anyone like that.

“His voice ... it was like someone who didn’t grow up speaking English and is disguising an accent. Or someone whose natural accent would be a strong drawl or something regional that he’s trying to cover.”

Roger shook his head. “I can’t differentiate American accents too well, anyway . . . But, Vic, why couldn’t you tell me this? You didn’t really think I was responsible for it, did you?”

“No. Not really, of course. I just have to solve my own problems. I don’t plan to turn into a clinging female who runs to a man every time something doesn’t work out right.”

“Do you think you could find some middle way between those two extremes? Like maybe talking your problems over with someone and still solving them yourself?”

I grinned at him. “Nominating yourself, Roger?”

“It’s a possibility, yes.”

“I’ll think about it.” I drank some more champagne. He asked me what I was doing about Ajax. I didn’t think I should spread my midnight adventure at Tilford & Sutton too far—a story like that is very repeatable. So I just said I’d done a little digging. “I came across the name of a holding company, Wood-Sage. I don’t know that they’re involved in your problem, but the context was a bit unusual. Do you think you could talk to your specialist and see if he’s heard of them? Or to some of your corporate investment staff?”

Roger half bowed across the table. “Oh, wow! Legman for V. I. Warshawski. What’s the male equivalent of a gangster’s moll?”

I laughed. “I don’t know. I’ll get you fitted out with a machine gun so you can do it in the best Chicago style.”

Roger reached a long arm across the table and squeezed my free hand. “I’d like that. Something to tell them about in the box at Lloyd’s . . . Just don’t shut me out, V.1. Or at least tell me why you’re doing it. Otherwise I start imagining I’m being rejected and get complexes and other Freudian things.”

“Fair enough.” I disengaged my hand and moved around the table to his chair. I don’t blame men for loving long hair on women; there was something erotic and soothing about running my fingers through the long mop that kept falling into Ferrant’s eyes.

Over the years I’ve noticed that men hate secrets or ambiguities. Sometimes I even feel like pampering them about it. I kissed Roger and loosened his tie, and after a few minutes’ uncomfortable squirming on the chair, led him into the bedroom.