Killing Orders (22 page)

He held the bottle up to his desk lamp. “Enough for two more.” He divided it between us and tossed the bottle into a leather wastebasket at his feet.

“I know she blamed you for Agnes’s—life-style. I need to know. Was she so angry with you that she’d try to get someone to shoot you?”

It had taken him a quarter bottle of good brandy to get that out. “No,” I said. “Not that simple, I’m afraid. I have some evidence showing that Corpus Christi is trying to take over a local insurance company. Mrs. Paciorek is most anxious that that information not become public. I’m afraid I had reasons for thinking someone might be waiting for me out front, so I broke in through a window in your conservatory. The police didn’t search the back of the house or they would never have left.”

“I see.” He looked suddenly old and shrunken in his tailored navy suit. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to have to let the FBI and the SEC know about Corpus Christi’s involvement. I don’t plan to tell them about tonight’s ambush, if that’s any consolation.” Nor could I bring myself to tell him about Agnes’s note. If she’d been killed because of her investigation into the Ajax takeover, then in some way or other, her mother bore responsibility for her death. Dr. Paciorek didn’t need to hear that tonight.

He stared bitterly at the desk top for a long time. When he looked up, he was almost surprised to see me sitting there.

Wherever he’d been was a long way away. “Thanks, Victoria. You’ve been more generous than I had a right to expect.”

I finished my own brandy, embarrassed. “Don’t thank me. However this ends, it’s going to be bad for you and your children. While I’m really most interested in Xavier O’Faolin, your wife is heavily involved in Corpus Christi. Their money is being used in an attempt to take over Ajax insurance. When the facts come out, she’s going to be right up front on the firing line.”

“But wouldn’t it be possible to show she was just O’Faolin’s dupe?” He smiled bitterly. “Which she has been, since she first met him in Panama.”

I looked at him with genuine pity. “Dr. Paciorek, let me tell you the situation as I understand it. The Banco Ambrosiano is missing over a billion dollars, which disappeared into unknown Panamanian companies. Based on a letter from a Panamanian named Figueredo to Archbishop O’Faolin, it looks as though O’Faolin knows where that money is. He’s in sort of a bind. As long as he doesn’t use it, no one will know where it is. Once he starts to move it, the game is up.

“O’Faolin’s no dummy. If he can get some large financial institution, like an insurance company, under his control, he can launder the money and use it however he wants. Michael Sindona tried that on behalf of the mob with the Franklin National Bank, only he was stupid enough to strip the bank’s assets. So he’s languishing now in a federal prison.

“Corpus Christi in Chicago has a huge endowment, thanks to Mrs. Paciorek. O’Faolin is a member and recruited your wife. Very well. Let them put together a dummy corporation, call it Wood-Sage, and use that to acquire Ajax stock. Once the connection comes out between Corpus Christi and the Ajax takeover—and it will; the SEC is investigating like crazy—your wife’s involvement will be front-page news. Especially here in Chicago.”

“But that’s not criminal,” the doctor pointed out.

I frowned unhappily. At last I said, “Look. I didn’t want to tell you this. Particularly not tonight, when you’ve had such a shock. But there’s Agnes’s death, you see.”

“Yes?” His voice was harsh.

“She was looking into the takeover for one of the Ajax officers, . . She found out about the Corpus Christi involvement. She was killed that night while waiting to meet with someone to discuss it.”

His white, stricken face was like an open wound in the room. I could think of nothing to say to ease that pain. At last he looked up and gave a ghastly smile. “Yes. I can see. Even if Xavier is the main culprit, Catherine can’t avoid her own responsibility for her daughter’s death. No wonder she’s been so…”  His voice trailed off.

I got up. “I wish I could think of some comfort for you. I can’t. But if you want my help, please call me. My answering service takes messages twenty-four hours a day.” I put my card on the desk in front of him and left.

I was bone-weary and stiff. I’d have gladly lain down in front of the family-room fire and passed out, but I willed my aching body down the front stairs to the street. Going by road, it was only a five-minute walk to my car instead of the half hour it had taken me cross-country.

My watch said three when I moved the stiff Toyota back onto the tollway. I found a motel at the first southbound exit, checked in, and fell asleep without bothering to undress.

Chapter 24 - Baiting the Trap

IT WAS PAST noon when I woke again. Every muscle ached. I’d remembered to put the Smith & Wesson aside before going to sleep, but not the holster. My left side was sore from where the leather had pressed into my breast all night. My clothes stank. I’d fought Walter Novick in this shirt, put in a heavy stint of cross-country hiking, and slept in it. The smell bore acute witness to these activities.

I longed for a bath, but not if it meant redonning my repellent apparel. I picked up the Toyota and maneuvered its clumsy steering down the expressway to the Bellerophon. Mrs. Climzak gave me a darkling glance from behind the counter but forebore any criticism, so I gathered no one had tried burglarizing my apartment in the night.

It was only after a long soak in the stained porcelain tub that

Wherever he’d been was a long way away. “Thanks, Victoria. You’ve been more generous than I had a right to expect.”

I finished my own brandy, embarrassed. “Don’t thank me. However this ends, it’s going to be bad for you and your children. While I’m really most interested in Xavier O’Faolin, your wife is heavily involved in Corpus Christi. Their money is being used in an attempt to take over Ajax insurance. When the facts come out, she’s going to be right up front on the firing line.”

“But wouldn’t it be possible to show she was just O’Faolin’s dupe?”  He smiled bitterly. “Which she has been, since she first met him in Panama.”

I looked at him with genuine pity. “Dr. Paciorek, let me tell you the situation as I understand it. The Banco Ambrosiano is missing over a billion dollars, which disappeared into unknown Panamanian companies. Based on a letter from a Panamanian named Figueredo to Archbishop O’Faolin, it looks as though O’Faolin knows where that money is. He’s in sort of a bind. As long as he doesn’t use it, no one will know where it is. Once he starts to move it, the game is up.

“O’Faolin’s no dummy. If he can get some large financial institution, like an insurance company, under his control, he can launder the money and use it however he wants. Michael Sindona tried that on behalf of the mob with the Franklin National Bank, only he was stupid enough to strip the bank’s assets. So he’s languishing now in a federal prison.

“Corpus Christi in Chicago has a huge endowment, thanks to Mrs. Paciorek. O’Faolin is a member and recruited your wife. Very well. Let them put together a dummy corporation, call it Wood-Sage, and use that to acquire Ajax stock. Once the connection comes out between Corpus Christi and the Ajax takeover—and it will; the SEC is investigating like crazy—your wife’s involvement will be front-page news. Especially here in Chicago.”

“But that’s not criminal,” the doctor pointed out.

I frowned unhappily. At last I said, “Look. I didn’t want to tell you this. Particularly not tonight, when you’ve had such a shock. But there’s Agnes’s death, you see.”

“Yes?” His voice was harsh.

“She was looking into the takeover for one of the Ajax officers, . . She found out about the Corpus Christi involvement. She was killed that night while waiting to meet with someone to discuss it.”

His white, stricken face was like an open wound in the room. I could think of nothing to say to ease that pain. At last he looked up and gave a ghastly smile. “Yes. I can see. Even if Xavier is the main culprit, Catherine can’t avoid her own responsibility for her daughter’s death. No wonder she’s been so…”  His voice trailed off.

I got up. “I wish I could think of some comfort for you. I can’t. But if you want my help, please call me. My answering service takes messages twenty-four hours a day.” I put my card on the desk in front of him and left.

I was bone-weary and stiff. I’d have gladly lain down in front of the family-room fire and passed out, but I willed my aching body down the front stairs to the street. Going by road, it was only a five-minute walk to my car instead of the half hour it had taken me cross-country.

My watch said three when I moved the stiff Toyota back onto the tollway. I found a motel at the first southbound exit, checked in, and fell asleep without bothering to undress.

Chapter 24 - Baiting the Trap

IT WAS PAST noon when I woke again. Every muscle ached. I’d remembered to put the Smith & Wesson aside before going to sleep, but not the holster. My left side was sore from where the leather had pressed into my breast all night. My clothes stank. I’d fought Walter Novick in this shirt, put in a heavy stint of cross-country hiking, and slept in it. The smell bore acute witness to these activities.

I longed for a bath, but not if it meant redonning my repellent apparel. I picked up the Toyota and maneuvered its clumsy steering down the expressway to the Bellerophon. Mrs. Climzak gave me a darkling glance from behind the counter but forebore any criticism, so I gathered no one had tried burglarizing my apartment in the night.

It was only after a long soak in the stained porcelain tub that

I realized how hungry I was. Dry, reclothed, I stiffly descended the four flights of stairs.

What would the don’s reaction be to losing Novick? Would he be gunning for me, or would he realize Novick wasn’t salvageable and cut his losses? Only the Shadow knew. Just in case Pasquale was pissed, I braved Mrs. Climzak’s breathy protests and went past the front desk to explore the Bellerophon’s nether regions. The lobby’s back entrance led to a hallway where her apartment was situated. Her mules flopping, she scampered behind me like an angry hen. “Miss Warshawski! Miss Warshawski! What are you doing back here? Get out. Get out before I call my husband. Before I call the police!”

Her apartment door opened and the fabled Mr. Climzak appeared, in a T-shirt and baggy trousers. A day’s growth of beard helped hide his drink-reddened cheeks. He didn’t look as though he could throw me out, but he might be alert enough to call the police.

“Just looking for the back door,” I told him brightly, continuing down the passage.

As I undid the dead bolt, Mrs. Climzak hissed, “This is the last straw. You will have to find other lodgings.”

I looked at her before going outside. “I hope so, Mrs. Climzak. I certainly hope so.”

No hail of machine-gun bullets strafed me in the alley. Nor were any suspicious-looking cars hovering on the street. I found a Polish restaurant and ate heartily, if not healthily, of cabbage soup, chicken, dumplings, and apple tart.

I felt decidedly more human. Over a second cup of coffee, an idea began glimmering at the back of my brain. Preposterous. It would need Murray’s cooperation. And Uncle Stefan’s.

Illinois Bell, poverty-stricken by the AT&T dismemberment, had raised the price of pay phone calls to a quarter. After fishing for change, I reached Murray at the desk of the
Herald Star.
I’II gave him a big, huge story would he sit on it until it came to an end?

“Ain’t you dead yet, Warshawski? What am I supposed to do in exchange for this big huge story?”

“Run a couple of lines on the front page of the evening and morning editions.”

“I’m not the editor—I don’t control what goes on the front page. Or even page sixty-two of the middle section.”

“Murray! I’m shocked. You told me you were an important newspaperman. Can it be you lied? Can it be I have to go to the
Tribune
and talk to Lipinski?”

Grumbling, he agreed to meet me at the Golden Glow around five P.M. The schoolroom clock over the counter said two-thirty. Time to check things out with Uncle Stefan.

Another quarter to my answering service reminded me I hadn’t told Phyllis I wouldn’t be back to her place last night. Or Roger that I’d miss his board meeting. And Bobby wanted to see me to talk about Walter Novick. “Not your jurisdiction,” I muttered.

“What was that?” the operator said.

“Nothing. Any other calls?”

Dr. Paciorek wanted to talk to me. He’d left his paging number at the hospital for me. Frowning, I put another quarter in the machine. Twenty-five cents gets you three tries. Clicked from operator to operator at the hospital, I finally connected with Dr. Paciorek.

“Victoria! I was afraid you wouldn’t get my message.” His normally controlled voice was rough and human. “Could you come back to the house tonight? I know it’s a lot to ask. O’Faolin’s coming out—I’m going to settle this matter.”

I rubbed my eyes with my free hand. Would this upset my other plans? Dr. Paciorek breathed anxiously in my ear while I considered. Maybe I could put a little advance pressure on the archbishop. “I guess so. Can’t make it before eight, though.”

“Fine. Fine. Thanks very much, Victoria.”

“Don’t thank me for anything, Dr. Paciorek. This story is not going to have a happy ending.”

A long silence, then “I realize that” and he hung up.

Jim Streeter met me at Uncle Stefan’s door. “The doctors say the old man can be release4~tomorrow. He’s been trying to reach his niece. I guess she’s planning on taking him home with her. What do you want us to do?”

Of course he would be going home with Lotty, I thought in irritation. “I’d better talk to him.”

Uncle Stefan was delighted to see me, delighted to be going home. “And why are you frowning, my little niece? Aren’t you pleased for me?”

“Oh, certainly. Yes, I’m very pleased. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Chipper. Yes, chipper.” He beamed proudly at producing this colloquial word. “Every day I go for physical therapy and every day I am stronger, walk farther. All I need now is chocolate.”

I grinned and sat on the bed. “I have a favor to ask of you. Please say no if you don’t want to do it, because there’s some danger involved. Not a lot, but some.”

He cocked a lively eye at me and demanded details. “Instead of going to Lotty’s, would you come home with me? I need you to pretend you’re dead for twenty-four hours, then arise from the grave with a flourish.”

“Lotty will be
wutend.”
He beamed.

“No doubt, if that means what I think it does. Console yourself with the thought that it’s me she wants to murder.”

He patted my hand comfortingly. “Lotty is a headstrong girl. Don’t worry about her.”

“You didn’t see a second man in your apartment the day you were stabbed, did you?”

He shook his head. “Just the—the thug.”

“Would you be willing to say that you saw him? He was there, you see. Just hovering outside until your thug had stabbed you.”

“If you say he was there, my dear niece, I believe you.”