Warshawski 01 - Indemnity Only (15 page)

“Carlson? I don’t know him. Who’s he work for?”

“Captain Vespucci,” Mallory said shortly.

I raised my eyebrows. “Vespucci?” I was beginning to sound like a parrot. Vespucci had been a colleague my father was ashamed to talk about. He’d been implicated in a number of departmental scandals over the years, most of them having to do with police bought off by the mob, or turning the other cheek to mob activities in their territory. There’d never been enough evidence to justify throwing him off the force—but that, too, the rumors said, was because he had the kind of connections that made you keep quiet.

“Carlson and Vespucci pretty close?” I asked.

“Yes,” Bobby bit off.

I thought for a minute. “Did someone—like Earl, say—bring pressure on Vespucci to make an arrest? Is Donald Mackenzie another poor slob caught in a trap because he was wandering around the wrong part of town? Did he leave any prints in the apartment? Can you find the gun? Has he made a confession?”

“No, but he can’t account for his time on Monday. And we’re pretty sure he’s been involved in some Hyde Park burglaries.”

“ But you don’t agree that he’s the killer?”

“As far as the department is concerned, the case is closed. I talked to Mackenzie myself this morning.”

“And?”

“And nothing. My captain says it’s a defensible arrest.”

“Your captain owe anything to Vespucci?” I asked.

Mallory made a violent motion with his torso. “Don’t talk like that to me, Vicki. We’ve got seventy-three unsolved homicides right now. If we wrap one up in a week, the captain has every right to be happy.”

“All right, Bobby.” I sighed. “Sorry. Lieutenant Carlson arrested Mackenzie, and Vespucci told your captain, who told you to lay off, the case was closed…. But you want to know why Earl beat me up.” Mallory turned red again. “You can’t have it both ways. If Mackenzie is the killer, why would Smeissen care about me and Peter Thayer? If he beat me up—and I mean
if—it
could have been for lots of reasons. He might’ve made a heavy pass I turned down. Earl doesn’t like ladies who turn him down, you know—he’s beaten a couple before. First time I
ever saw Earl was when I was a starry-eyed rookie attorney on the Public Defender’s roster. I was appearing for a lady whom Earl beat up. Nice young prostitute who didn’t want to work for him. Sorry, I just committed slander: she alleged that Earl beat her up, but we couldn’t make it stick.”

“You’re not going to ask for charges, then,” Mallory said. “Figures. Now tell me about your apartment. I haven’t seen it, but take it as read that it was torn apart—McGonnigal gave me a brief description. Someone was looking for something. What?”

I shook my head. “Beats me. None of my clients has ever given me the secret to the neutron bomb or even a new brand of toothpaste. I just don’t deal with that kind of stuff. And anytime I do have volatile evidence, I leave it in a safe in my office …” My voice trailed off. Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner? If someone had torn the apartment apart looking for something, they were probably down in my office now.

“Give me the address,” Bobby said, I gave it to him and he got on the car radio and ordered a patrol car to go up and check. “Now, Vicki, I want you to be honest with me. This is off the record—no witnesses, no tapes. Tell me what you took out of that apartment that someone, call him Smeissen, wants back so badly.” He looked at me in a kindly, worried, fatherly way. What did I have to lose by telling him about the picture and the pay stub?

“Bobby,” I said earnestly, “I did look around the apartment, but I didn’t see anything that smacked remotely of Earl or any other person in particular. Not
only that, the place didn’t look as though anyone else had searched it.”

Sergeant McGonnigal came up to the car. “Hi, Lieutenant—Finchley said you wanted me.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Who came in and out of the building while you were watching it?”

“Just one of the residents, sir.”

“You sure of that?”

“Yes, sir. She lives in the second-floor apartment. I was just talking to her—Mrs. Alvarez—said she heard a lot of noise about three this morning, but didn’t pay any attention to it—says Miss Warshawski often has strange guests and wouldn’t thank her—Mrs. Alvarez—for interfering.”

Thanks, Mrs. Alvarez, I thought. The city needs more neighbors like you. Glad I wasn’t home at the time. But what, I wondered, was whoever ransacked my place looking for so desperately? That pay stub linked Peter Thayer to Ajax, but that was no secret. And the picture of Anita? Even if the police hadn’t connected her to Andrew McGraw, the picture didn’t do that, either. I had put them both in my inner safe at my office, a small bomb- and fireproof box built into the wall at the back of the main safe. I had kept current case papers in there ever since the chairman of Transicon had hired someone to retrieve evidence from my safe two years ago. But I just didn’t think that was it.

Bobby and I discussed the break-in for another half hour, touching occasionally on my battle wounds. Finally
I said, “Now you tell me something, Bobby: Why don’t you believe it was Mackenzie?”

Mallory stated through the windshield. “I’m not doubting it. I believe it. I’d be happier if we had a gun or a fingerprint, but I believe it.” I didn’t say anything. Bobby continued to look forward with unseeing eyes. “I just wish I’d found him,” he said at last. “My captain got a call from Commissioner Sullivan Friday afternoon saying he thought I was overworked and he was asking Vespucci to assign Carlson to help me out. I went home under orders—to get some sleep. Not off the case. Just to sleep. And next morning there was an arrest.” He turned to look at me. “You didn’t hear that,” he said.

I nodded agreement, and Bobby asked me a few more questions about the missing evidence, but his heart wasn’t in it. At last he gave up. “If you won’t talk, you won’t. Just remember, Vicki: Earl Smeissen is a heavy. You know yourself the courts can’t nail him. Don’t try to play hardball with him—you’re just not up to his weight at all.”

I nodded solemnly. “Thanks, Bobby. I’ll keep it in mind.” I opened the door.

“By the way,” Bobby said casually, “we got a call last night from Riley’s Gun Shop down in Hazelcrest. Said a V. I. Warshawski had bought a small handgun down there and he was worried—she looked rather wild. That wouldn’t be anyone you’d know, would it, Vicki?”

I got out of the car, shut the door, and looked in
through the open window. “I’m the only one by that name in my family, Bobby—but there are some other Warshawskis in the city.”

For once Bobby didn’t lose his temper. He looked at me very seriously. “No one ever stopped you when you had your mind set on something, Vicki. But if you’re planning on using that gun, get your ass down to City Hall first thing tomorrow morning and register it. Now tell Sergeant McGonnigal where you’re going to be until your place is fixed up again.”

While I was giving McGonnigal my address, a squawk came in on Mallory’s radio about my office: the place had been ransacked. I wondered if my business-interruption insurance would cover this. “Remember, Vicki, you’re playing hardball with a pro,” Bobby warned. “Get in, McGonnigal.” They drove off.

When I got to Lotty’s it was afternoon. I had stopped on the way to call my answering service—a Mr. McGraw and a Mr. Devereux had both phoned, and left numbers. I copied them into my pocket phone book but decided not to call until I got to Lotty’s. She greeted me with a worried head shake. “Not content with beating you, they beat your apartment. You run with a wild crowd, Vic.” But no censure, no horror—one of the things I liked in Lotty.

She examined my face and my eye with her ophthalmoscope. “Coming along nicely. Much less swelling already. Headache? A bit? To be expected. Have you eaten? An empty stomach makes it worse. Come, a little boiled chicken—nice Eastern European Sunday dinner.” She had eaten, but drank coffee while I finished the chicken. I was surprised at how hungry I was.

“How long can I stay?” I asked. “I’m expecting no one this month. As long as you like until August tenth.”

“I shouldn’t be more than a week—probably less. But I’d like to ask the answering service to switch my home calls here.”

Lotty shrugged. “In that case, I won’t switch off the phone by the guest bed—mine rings at all hours—women having babies, boys being shot—they don’t keep nine-to-five schedules. So you run the risk of answering my calls and if any come for you, I’ll let you know.” She got up. “Now I must leave you. My medical advice is for you to stay in, have a drink, relax—you’re not in good shape and you’ve had a bad shock. But if you choose to disregard my professional advice, well, I’m not liable in a malpractice suit”—she chuckled slightly—”and keys are in the basket by the sink. I have an answering machine by my bedroom phone—turn it on if you decide to go out.” She kissed the air near my face and left.

I wandered restlessly around the apartment for a few minutes. I knew I should go down to my office and assess the damage. I should call a guy I knew who ran a cleaning service to come and restore my apartment. I should call my answering service and get my calls transferred to Lotty’s. And I needed to get back to Peter Thayer’s apartment to see if there was something there that my apartment smashers believed I had.

Lotty was right: I was not in prime condition. The destruction of my apartment had been shocking. I was consumed with anger, the anger one has when victimized and unable to fight back. I opened my suitcase and got out the box with the gun in it. I unwrapped it
and pulled out the Smith & Wesson. While I loaded it, I had a fantasy of planting some kind of hint that would draw Smeissen—or whomever—back to my apartment while I stood in the hallway and pumped them full of bullets. The fantasy was very vivid and I played it through several times. The effect was cathartic—a lot of my anger drained away and I felt able to call my answering service. They took Lotty’s number and agreed to transfer my calls.

Finally I sat down and called McGraw. “Good afternoon, Mr. McGraw,” I said when he answered. “I hear you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

“Yes, about my daughter.” He sounded a little ill-at-ease.

“I haven’t forgotten her, Mr. McGraw. In fact, I have a lead—not on her directly, but on some people who may know where she’s gone.”

“How far have you gone with them—these people?” he demanded sharply.

“As far as I could in the time I had. I don’t drag cases on just to keep my expense bill mounting.”

“Yeah, no one’s accusing you of that. I just don’t want you to go any further.”

“What?” I said incredulously. “You started this whole chain of events and now you don’t want me to find Anita? Or did she turn up?”

“No, she hasn’t turned up. But I think I flew off the handle a bit when she left her apartment. I thought she might be wrapped up in young Thayer’s murder somehow. Now the police have arrested this drug addict, I see the two weren’t connected.”

Some of my anger returned. “You do? By divine inspiration, maybe? There were no signs of robbery in that apartment, and no sign that Mackenzie had been there. I don’t believe he did it.”

“Look here, Warshawski, who are you to go around questioning the police? The goddamn punk has been held for two days now. If he hadn’t done it, he’d have been let go by now. Now where the hell do you get off saying ‘I don’t believe it’?” he mimicked me savagely.

“Since you and I last talked, McGraw, I have been beaten and my apartment and office decimated by Earl Smeissen in an effort to get me off the case. If Mackenzie is the murderer, why does Smeissen care so much?”

“What Earl does has no bearing on anything I do,” McGraw answered. “I’m telling you to stop looking for my daughter. I hired you and I can fire you. Send me a bill for your expenses—throw in your apartment if you want to. But quit.”

“This is quite a change. You were worried sick about your daughter on Friday. What’s happened since then?”

“Just get off the case, Warshawski,” McGraw bellowed. “I’ve said I’ll pay you—now stop fighting over it.”

“Very well,” I said in cold anger. “I’m off the payroll. I’ll send you a bill. But you’re wrong about one thing, McGraw—and you can tell Earl from me—you can fire me, but you can’t get rid of me.”

I hung up. Beautiful, Vic: beautiful rhetoric. It had
just been possible that Smeissen believed he’d cowed me into quitting. So why be so full of femalechismo and yell challenges into the phone? I ought to write, “Think before acting” a hundred times on the blackboard.

At least McGraw had agreed to knowing Earl, or at least to knowing who he was. That had been a shot—not totally in the dark, however, since the Knifegrinders knew most of the hoods in Chicago. The fact that he knew Earl didn’t mean he’d sikked him onto my apartment—or onto killing Peter Thayer—but it was sure a better connection than anything else I had.

I dialed Ralph’s number. He wasn’t home. I paced some more, but decided the time for action had arrived. I wasn’t going to get any further thinking about the case, or worrying about intercepting a bullet from Tony’s gun. I changed out of the green slacks into jeans and running shoes. I got out my collection of skeleton keys and put them in one pocket, car keys, driver’s license, private investigator license, and fifty dollars in the other. I fastened the shoulder holster over a loose, man-tailored shirt and practiced drawing the gun until it came out quickly and naturally.