Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (30 page)

Her
voice trailed away. She flushed and bit her lip, embarrassed at betraying
herself. She didn’t say anything further, but escorted us to the State Street
exit at a clip that left Ken panting under the load of the computer.

Corn
off the Cob

The
drive to Morris exhausted me. The suburbs west of town seem to replicate
endlessly, here pushing up enormous fingers of pylons for new tollways, there
churning out giant malls or new townships, all the while devouring farmland
like an engorging dragon. Passing through this scarred landscape I felt like an
antipioneer, traversing endless miles of concrete to find open country.

I was
so mesmerized by the road that I almost missed the turnoff to Morris. I pulled
into the gas station at the corner of the junction to feed my steed and get
directions to Gant-Ag’s headquarters. The attendant, a middle-aged man with
stringy arms, interrupted a conversation with another man in overalls to direct
me south along the highway.

“You
can’t miss ’em, ma’am. You go about fifteen miles and you’ll see all the
signs—they own most of the land down there.”

“And
up here,” the man in overalls added. “The Lord knows they own me, that’s for
sure.”

The
two laughed together, more in shared misery than humor, ignoring my parting
thanks. I climbed back into the Trans Am and turned south. Even though the
highway was a secondary road it had four lanes, the concrete surface spanking
new with its lane markers freshly painted. It was Gantner’s town—the U.S.
Highway Commission was happy to help out. “Build me a senator and the roads
will follow,” I muttered.

I
shared my drive with dozens of semis, many sporting the Gant-Ag logo—a tasseled
ear of corn with the legend: CORN FOR AMERICA’S FUTURE. The Trans Am felt like
a tiny tug rocking in the wake of giant steamships.

Behind
well-tended fences new crops covered the fields with a faint green glaze. Every
so often I’d see a small metal sign fixed to the fencing. Finally I pulled onto
the shoulder and climbed across the drainage ditch to read one. It was scarcely
worth the bother—beneath the logo lay an announcement that this was a Gant-Ag
experimental cornfield. I bent down to look at the lacy plants. To my city eyes
they didn’t look very different from any other corn. As a matter of fact to my
city eyes they could just as well have been wheat or barley.

As I
started back to my car a helicopter appeared on the horizon. I stood, one hand
on the door, and watched. It sailed purposefully over the field toward me,
hovered above the Trans Am for a moment, and then receded. I waved and smiled
in a parody of tourist friendliness, but the episode startled me.

Somewhere
along the roadside a camera was watching me. I looked around but couldn’t see
it. I had nothing to hide but I still didn’t like it.

When
I got back on the road I deliberately moved into the slipstream of a giant
truck. The cameras were probably built into the fence posts, where they could
see me from the side, but the semi gave me the illusion of cover. I followed it
to a turnoff sign posted by the familiar corn tassel.

A
quarter mile down the road we came to a security booth with crossing rails
lowered in front of it. The semi driver leaned out and spoke to the guard, who
raised the rail for him to pass. It came down smartly in front of me. The guard
demanded my business by mike, staying inside his cage—no doubt the windows were
lined with bullet-proof glass.

“I’m
here to see Alec Gantner. Gantohol Alec, not Senator Alec,” I yelled back.

“What’s
your name?” the tinny voice asked.

“Come,
come,” I called. “Your helicopter scouted me: you’ve had time to run my license
plate through the DMV. Just see if the guy’ll talk to me.”

He
wasn’t amused. After a further exchange I blinked first, pulling a business
card from my wallet and handing it up. I half expected a metal arm to snatch it
from me so the guard wouldn’t risk exposing his flesh to the air, but he slid
back a glass panel and took it himself.

After
a few minutes on the phone he grunted at me to go in. “Follow the right-hand
fork to the office block and park in one of the visitor slots.

Someone
will meet you at the entrance.”

Six
or seven trucks had lined up behind me by the time we finished these
formalities. Figuring the guard would be busy for a few minutes I took the
left-hand fork when the road divided. It led me past warehouses where trucks
were busy and ended at a small but active airstrip: two helicopters, some crop
dusters, and a baby jet were parked on the tarmac. As I watched, another
helicopter landed—perhaps the guys who’d been spying on me. Just in case I
waved at them before turning around and heading back to the right-hand fork in
the road.

The
office block was a no-frills modern building with a short front. Smoked windows
were the only concession to design—although they were probably utilitarian
given the glare of the prairie sun. Carved into concrete around the portal was
the ubiquitous CORN FOR AMERICA’S FUTURE. Crossing the threshold I felt as
though I were entering a concentration camp—the Nazis went in for those cheery,
chatty slogans too.

A
young man in shirtsleeves and suspenders was waiting just inside the door.

He
gave me a firm handshake but wanted to know what had taken me so long. He had
the nasal twang of the prairies, an accent that always makes the speaker seem
ingenuous, unlikely to engage in skulduggery. When I said I’d gone the wrong
way he eyed me narrowly but didn’t challenge me, turning instead to lead me
down a corridor on the north end of the building. The place was bigger than it
seemed on the outside: the short front had long wings tucked behind it.

“You
don’t mind stairs, do you?” my guide asked at the end of the corridor.

“It’s
only two flights and it’s faster than waiting on the elevator.”

I
responded amiably and trotted up after him. At the top we came to a suite of
rooms behind a door whose lettering proclaimed GANTOHOL—FOR AMERICA’S FUTURE.

Come
to think of it, that had been Alec senior’s political slogan—Gantner for
America’s Future. Or maybe it had just been Illinois’s.

The
young man left me in an antechamber with a stack ofFortune s andBusiness Week s
and a twangy “Just a minute now,” and disappeared behind a closed redwood door.
Before I had time to read an impassioned defense of the North American Free
Trade Agreement my guide reappeared and led me inside.

Like
the building itself, the office suite was bigger on the inside than I expected.
Behind the redwood door lay a short hall with offices stacked on either side. A
woman fielded calls at a console at the head of the corridor; inside the rooms
people sat two at a desk working on computers or telephones.

My
guide took me to a corner room overlooking the airstrip. Young Alec got up from
behind a cluttered desk to shake my hand.

“Thanks,
Bart. Welcome to Gant-Ag, Ms. Warshawski. We didn’t really get a chance to chat
last week at Fabian’s. Sad news about Deirdre. I understand they think his
daughter may have had a brainstorm and then run away. What can I do for you?”

His
pleasant bass moved quickly between pleasure, muted condolence, and brisk
business with the skill of a Samuel Ramey. I shook his well-groomed hand,
conscious of the rough skin on my fingers: I did too much heavy work without
using hand lotion. Gantner sat back in the leather swivel chair behind his desk
and gestured me to an upholstered wing chair facing it.

“It
was good of you to see me without an appointment. Did Jasper tell you I might
be calling?”

Gantner
gave an easy, boyish laugh that showed his perfect teeth. “Suppose you tell me
what you want—then we won’t have to be second-guessing each other.”

I
leaned back, the woman at ease. “My concerns are the same as yours: Deirdre
Messenger’s death and her daughter’s disappearance. But I’m looking at the two
events a little differently. The police would certainly like to find Emily
Messenger. Chicago’s streets are no place for a teenager, let alone one who’s
got young children with her. But the cops have by no means made up their minds
that she’s a murder suspect. There are a lot of unanswered questions about the
night Deirdre was murdered.”

“Such
as?” Gantner laced his fingertips together.

Even
with the smoky windows the setting sun behind him made it difficult to see his
face. I moved the wing chair to the side of his desk. He raised his brows, then
nodded appreciatively at my initiative.

“Such
as who she was meeting in my office the night she was murdered. We know she had
an appointment with someone—that’s who I’m trying to track down.”

He
nodded again, this time frowning a bit. “We hadn’t heard that. But if it’s
true, surely the police are better equipped than you to find out?”

I
ignored his question. “Is ‘we’ you and Jasper, you and Donald, or you and your
dad?”

For
the first time his practiced mannerisms slipped and he spoke sharply.

“All
of us are concerned about Fabian Messenger. Which means all of us are following
his wife’s murder investigation. Does that matter?”

“Since
the four of you, or at least you and Donald Blakely, can get the state’s
attorney to pay serious attention to your questions, maybe even your
directives, your interest matters more than that of ordinary concerned
citizens.”

“And
are you one of those? My information is that Fabian does not relish your
involvement in his affairs.”

His
tone was of one closing off argument, but I shook my head. “Deirdre’s death
isn’t his private business. Even at the rate Americans are falling in action
these days, murder is still a crime, not something he or even your
distinguished father can declare private business.

“I’m
trying to get a lead on who Deirdre met with the night she died. That person
may have seen her murderer—without knowing it was someone committing murder, of
course. So I’m talking to people in the organizations where she volunteered.
Home Free and Arcadia House. Since you sit on the Home Free board I’m hoping
you can give me names of people who worked closely with her.”

He
was sitting straight up in his chair now. “Absolutely not. That’s Jasper’s
decision, and if I’m not mistaken he chose not to expose our board to harassment.”

“You
play a major role in Jasper’s decisions, though.” I kept my tone conciliatory.
“I’m sure you could persuade him to change his mind.”

“When
he asks for my input I give it to him—that’s all a responsible board member can
do.”

“Such
as whether to offer Lamia a shot at rehabbing a Home Free project. What was
your view of that?” The words popped out from nowhere, surprising me as much as
him.

“You’ll
have to forgive me, Ms. Warshawski: I’m not as good a director as I try to be.
I have to confess I can’t remember which specific rehab project you’re
discussing.”

“Even
though Phoebe Quirk explained it to you at your meeting yesterday morning?”

He
smiled. “If Phoebe told you that was what we were discussing it was probably
because she was too polite to tell you to mind your own business.”

I
laughed. “You don’t know Phoebe very well if you think she’s that restrained.”

He
looked ostentatiously at his desk clock. “Well, neither am I. How Home Free
selects contractors has nothing to do with you. Not only that, I fail to see
what your questions have to do with Deirdre Messenger’s murder. Assuming that a
police investigation is your business, which I doubt.”

“I’m
trying to figure out why you let me come in on you uninvited. Is it because of
Deirdre, or because of Home Free? Or could it even be because of JAD

Holdings?”
I had picked the question carefully, hoping that if he knew who the holding
company was I might surprise him into a revelation.

He
was too practiced a poker player; he responded smoothly, without missing a
beat. “I know about Home Free, of course, and about Deirdre Messenger. But I’m
ignorant about ... what was the third name?”

“So
your papa keeps some things secret from you? I’ve seen the letter he wrote
Fabian about the Boland Amendment. In a file marked JAD holdings.”

His
reaction showed that he knew, all right: he spun around in his chair to face
the smoky glass. The neon lights gave him a ghostly reflection, turning his
square good looks into a lantern jaw, his mouth a knife gash across it. In the
window I could see the gash move sideways, a giant splayed wound, as he spoke.

“You
take an extraordinary interest in affairs that don’t concern you, Ms.

Warshawski—even
our experimental fields. I have to question your true motives in coming out here.”

I
laughed again. “You think I’m really a spy for Pioneer or one of the other big
agricultural outfits? You must have some mighty powerful DNA in those fields to
photograph anyone who stops to look at them.”

“Even
so, I think I’d like my security force to search your pockets before you go.
Just in case.”