I turned on the lights and checked in with my answering service. Robin had called, as had Darrough Graham, wanting to know where in hell his report was. I called Graham first, since he was a promptly paying customer, told him I’d been away for a few days and that I’d get the job done tomorrow. He wasn’t happy but we’ve been working together a long time-he wasn’t going to break up over this. Still, I could not continue ignoring my good clients.
While I waited for the receptionist to hunt down Robin-he’d asked to be interrupted for my call-I pulled a pad of newsprint out from behind my filing cabinet. Using a thick Magic Marker, I drew up a list, with time lines, of all my current assignments. Still propping the receiver under my ear, I took the sheet and taped it to the wall facing my desk.
“That’s your work,” I lectured myself sternly. “Do not do anything else until all those tasks are accomplished.”
“Vic?” Robin’s voice cut into my lecture. “Are you there?”
“Oh, hi, Robin. Just thinking aloud. When you work by yourself you can’t tell the difference between speech and thought.”
“Oh. I wonder if isolation is too big a price for working alone.” We chatted for a few minutes, about that, and about whether I’d like some company for dinner. When I agreed he switched to business.
“Your report came in today-your two reports. I went over them with my boss-we decided we want you to do some more checking. I’m not questioning your assessment of the old man’s character, but somebody got that night watchman out of the way. It was clearly someone who knew his habits, so it had to be either a resident or a person in the Seligman operation.”
“Or an outside party who was watching him,” I put in.
“Yeah, I suppose. The trouble is, the only person who really benefits from the fire is the old man-or his children if he dies. Before we pay the claim I want to make sure Seligman didn’t send the guy money for the track. Can you give us another week?”
I looked at my time lines. If I did Graham’s project tomorrow morning, I could stretch the rest of my work around the Ajax job and still get it all done by the end of Friday-as long as I didn’t take any more time to worry about Roz, about why my call to Velma had prompted her to sic Ralph MacDonald on me, and all the rest of it.
“You still there, Vic?”
“Yup. Yeah, I guess I can give you guys another week. Are you going to pay my current bill or do you want me to give you a new one with all my hours after I finish this next stint?”
“We’ve already sent that one through for payment- you’ll get a check in ten days or so… You say Seligman’s not losing money but he’s not making much, either.”
I drew a circle on the newsprint with my Magic Marker. “I don’t think he cares that much. I can try to find his old books, see how profits compare with fifteen or twenty years ago, but he just doesn’t strike me as a guy pining over his lost billions.”
“Well, do some more hunting, see what you can find. I know you won’t let your bias for the guy cloud the way you look at the evidence… See you at seven-thirty, right?”
“Right.” It was couched as a compliment, but it was really a warning. Impetuosity is the detective’s worst enemy.
I added eyes and a nose to the circle and gave it some whiskers. Despite Robin’s warning, I couldn’t believe in the old man’s guilt, not unless he had some personality aberration that hadn’t come through the two times I’d spoken with him. Robin was right, though, Seligman had the glaring financial motive. Of course his children would inherit the estate and maybe they were savvy enough to torch the building now so that they wouldn’t come under suspicion when he died.
I gave the face a floppy suit and a hand held out asking for money. Someone at the Indiana Arms might have seen something she was too circumspect to come forward with-when you live in the margins you learn not to make yourself conspicuous. If I could locate any of these former residents, maybe I could persuade them to talk to me. Maybe I should get photos of the younger Seligmans from the old man and show those-although of course they could easily have hired someone to do the legwork. It didn’t matter that the daughter had been in Brazil-she still could have engineered the fire.
The problem with this plan was that even if Rita Donnelly would give names of any of the old inhabitants, it would take an army to find out where they’d moved after the fire. Of course I had two residents-Zerlina Ramsay and my aunt. I didn’t know where either of them was, but that was a trifling problem for an intelligent investigator.
It dawned on me that I might find Zerlina through the morgue. If she had collected Cerise’s body, they would have a record of her address. What I needed was someone who could get that for me. A police officer could do it, but I could hardly call Furey for help and then deny him the chance to spend personal time with me. Bobby would rather see me dead than help me with an investigation. At least he’d rather see me in jail. John McGonnigal was acting kind of aloof to me these days.
There was someone on Bobby’s staff who didn’t feel particularly hostile toward me. Terry Finchley. I wouldn’t say we were friends, but all our interactions in the past had been pleasant. And once a few years ago he’d told me he liked the way I stood up for my friends. It was worth a try.
By a miracle Finchley was at the station. He expressed cautious pleasure at hearing from me. “I need a favor,” I said abruptly.
“I know that, Miss Warshawski. You wouldn’t have called otherwise. It’s not about Furey, is it?” He had a light pleasant tenor with a hint of humor in it.
“No, no,” I assured him. Of course everyone in Bobby’s unit would be aware of the ups and downs of Michael’s and my relationship. I told him about Cerise and my wanting to find Zerlina.
When he answered again his voice was cold as he said he didn’t think that was an appropriate use of his time.
“It probably isn’t. But I think they’d respond to a query from you where they wouldn’t from me.”
“Ask Furey. Or McGonnigal.” He spoke with finality.
“Detective,” I said quickly, before he could hang up, “I called you because I didn’t feel able to call them. I know I know them better than you, that we don’t know each other that well, but I thought you wouldn’t mind. It’s not a-a menial task, it’s one the police can do and I can’t. I need to find Mrs. Ramsay to see if she saw anything…” When he didn’t respond my voice trailed away in a tangle of hopeless syntax. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you another time.”
“You say you didn’t feel able to call Furey or McGonnigal. Why?”
I was starting to get annoyed myself, “It’s not really your business, Detective. It’s totally personal and I know personal business is a happy topic for public discussion in the squad room.”
“I see.” He was silent for a minute, thinking, then he said abruptly, “It’s not because I’m black?”
“Oh,” I felt my cheeks flame, “Because Mrs. Ramsay is? No. I wasn’t thinking about that. I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me it would look that way.”
“I forgive you,” he said with a return to his easier tone. “This time, anyway. Next time look before you leap. And go easy on Furey-he’s not a bad guy, just rough around the edges. What’s your number?”
I gave it to him and he hung up. I went to the window and watched the L cart commuters past. I couldn’t make up my mind whether I’d been out of line or whether Finchley overreacted. The problem was, he probably got so many slights so many hours of the week that it didn’t matter what my intentions were-they came out sounding like the crap he was used to hearing.
I looked at the pigeons checking each other for lice regardless of the color of their plumage. On the surface the animal kingdom looked healthier than us humanoids. But one day last summer when a gull had joined them on the ledge the pigeons had pecked and squawked at it until it left, its neck bloody.
I went back to my desk and read the junk mail that had come in the last few days. Seminars on how to manage my office better,
seminars on improving surveillance techniques, special offers on weapons and bullets. I swept it all into the garbage impatiently. Finally, irritated with myself for neglecting my business too much the last few weeks, I went through my file of potential customers and started typing query letters.
I’d done three when the phone rang. It wasn’t Finchley but someone from the morgue-he’d asked her to call me directly. Cerise’s body had been released to Otis Armbruster at an address on Christiana.
I thanked the woman and pulled out my city map. Sixteen hundred south Christiana is not in the happiest part of town. It’s not a great place for any woman to be alone at night, especially a white one. I considered putting it off until the morning, then my discomfort over my talk with Finchley returned. If Cerise or Zerlina navigated those streets, I could too.
Just as I was turning out the lights Furey called. I tensed at first, thinking Finchley might have been discussing our conversation with him, but he was calling about Elena.
“You haven’t heard from her, have you?” he asked. “Because we got another soliciting complaint last night- from a bar in Uptown that’s trying to cater to yuppies- and it sounded like it might have been her.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to ease out some of the stiffness. “I haven’t heard from her, but I’m leaving now to see a woman she knew pretty well at the Indiana Arms. I’ll see if Elena’s checked in with her.”
“You want me to come along.?” He tried unsuccessfully to cloak his eagerness.
“No, thanks. She’s not going to be real eager to talk to me to begin with. The sight of a police officer will cause a total shutdown.”
“Give me a call later, okay? Let me know if you learn anything?”
“Sure.” I stood up again. “I’ve got to go. Bye.”
I hung up before he could ask anything more, like Zerlina’s name and address, and left quickly to avoid any more calls. I took the stairs down two at a time-when going on an unpleasant errand do it as fast as possible.
The Chevy had a parking ticket stuck under the wipers. Crime does not pay in Chicago, especially for Loop parking offenders.
I went down Van Buren, took a look at the slow line of cars on the Congress, and elected to go by side streets. Wabash to Twenty-second Street was a good run. Once I was clear of the expressway interchanges the westbound traffic also moved well. It was only a few minutes after six when I turned north onto Christiana.
At this point I was about seven miles southwest of the Rapelec complex on Navy Pier. If Cerise had been living here, why had she gone all that way to find a quiet place to shoot up? I couldn’t make sense of it.
Vacant lots interspersed with gray stone three-flats made up the street. Their broken or boarded windows showed the buildings tottering on the edge of collapse. During the day it looked like Beirut. Now the purple twilight softened the worst outcroppings of rubble in the lots, muting the abandoned cars into soft dark shapes.
The only businesses seemed to be the taverns sprinkled liberally on every corner. There were few cars out. Someone rode on my tail from Cermak to Seventeenth, making me rather nervous, but when I finally slowed and moved to the right, he darted around me with a great blaring of horn. It was a ghost town, seemingly uninhabited except for the occasional knot of young men arguing or joking in front of the bars.
I pulled up across from the Armbruster apartment. It was another stone three-flat. Lights shone yellow through the sheets covering the first-and second-story windows. The third floor was boarded up. As I walked up the crumbled sidewalk I could hear a radio blaring loudly.
Inside the entryway a strong scent of Pine-Sol showed someone making an effort to overcome the urine. It was almost successful, but the stench still lingered underneath, turning my stomach. Presumably the same hand had screwed a grate over the sprung mailboxes. The postman could get letters through, but you had to unlock the grate to get them out.
The Armbrusters were on the second floor. No stairwell lights existed. I picked my way slowly in the dark, testing each stair before putting weight on it. Twice a major portion of the tread was missing and my heart lurched as nothing but air met my foot.
At the second-floor door an infant’s howling mixed in with the radio. I pounded on the door with the side of my closed fist. On the second try a deep-voiced woman demanded to know who was there.
“It’s V. I. Warshawski,” I yelled. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Ramsay.”
The door held a peephole; I positioned myself so that my clean honest face would be visible from the other side. For a while nothing happened. Then the radio and the baby stopped almost simultaneously; I could hear someone undoing a series of locks.
When the door opened a thin middle-aged woman faced me holding a baby. The child’s soft cheeks were still wet with tears. She turned her head away when she saw me watching her and buried her chubby hands in the thin woman’s tight bun. Something about the immovable tidiness of the woman’s hair and the severe ironing of her dress made me think she was responsible for the Pine-Sol in the lobby.
Zerlina stood behind her, overshadowing her both in girth and in the rich blackness of her skin. I presumed the other woman was Maisie and that she held Katterina.
“How did you find me?” Zerlina demanded.
“The morgue gave me the address of the person who took Cerise’s body. It was just a guess that you’d be here, but you’d talked about Otis and about Katterina’s other grandmother, so I thought you might all be together.”
All the light was behind them. I had to squint to see their faces, but I thought it would be better if I waited to be invited in. No one seemed in a hurry to do so.
“You can’t come around hounding people in the privacy of their homes,” Maisie growled, jiggling the baby to let her know the anger wasn’t for her.
I rubbed my face tiredly. “Someone burned down a big hotel two weeks ago. No one died but a lot of people were hurt, including Mrs. Ramsay. She’s the only person I know who might be able to give me some help in finding out who did it.”
“I’m not the only person you know, little white girl, as you’re well aware,” Zerlina said. “Ask that precious aunt of yours.”
“The last time I talked to Elena I told her about Cerise. That scared her so much she ran away from home. She’s been hiding on the streets ever since. I figure you’re made of sterner stuff.”
Her strong face set into stubborn lines. “You figure what you want to. Between the two of you, that aunt of yours and you got my daughter dead. I don’t have nothing more to say to you.”
Before Maisie could slam the door in my face I pulled out a card and gave it to Zerlina. “If you change your mind, you can call me at that number. Someone takes messages twenty-four hours a day.”
Before she’d bolted the first lock the radio started again. The insistent beat of the rap music followed me down the stairs and into the night.
24
Asleep in a Basement Room
I spent the night at Robin’s. He was a sweet and thoughtful lover, but he couldn’t wipe the decay of north Lawndale from my mind. Falling into a fitful sleep around one, I was jerked awaked by a dream in which I was walking up Christiana while a car trailed me. I woke up just before it ran over me.
I fumbled around on the night table for my watch. Squinting in the dark, I could just make out the hands: four-ten. I lay down again and tried to go back to sleep. In a strange bed, though, with the memory of a bad dream lingering, I couldn’t relax. Finally, a little after five, I gave it up and tiptoed into the bathroom with my clothes.
In the kitchen I found a spiral notebook next to the phone. I tore out a page and scribbled a note to Robin, explaining why I was taking off, and slipped out quietly.
At five-thirty the city was barely coming to life. Lights burned in a number of apartment windows-this was a neighborhood of hard workers who started the day early- but I was alone on the road until I hit a main artery.
When I got to my own place I felt
tired enough to go back to bed. This time I managed to sleep until eight. When I got up again I felt groggy and disoriented. I pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of underpants and sat in the kitchen reading the paper and drinking coffee until past nine when Furey called.
“I thought you were going to phone me last night, Vic.”
I didn’t like the angry impatience in his tone. “I thought so, too, Michael, but it slipped my mind. If I’d had anything to report, I might have remembered, but the woman wouldn’t even let me in the front door.”
“Why don’t you give me her name and I’ll give it a try?” He dropped the anger for indulgent coaxing.
“Why don’t you give it a rest, Furey? Elena isn’t doing anyone any harm out there. You must have a godzillian murders and rapes and stuff to keep you happy. She’ll turn up in due course, drunk and repentant, and in the meantime I don’t think she needs all this city money lavished on her.”
“The only reason we’re doing it is because Uncle Bobby wanted to save you the embarrassment of bailing her out of women’s court,” he said stiffly. “If I had any say in the matter, I wouldn’t be wasting time looking for her.”
“Then I’ll call Bobby and tell him I don’t care.” I caught sight of the clock and suddenly remembered my time lines. Damn it all. I should have been at Daley Center twenty minutes ago to get a jump on Darrough Graham’s project.
“Sorry, Michael-I’ve got to run.”
“Wait, Vic,” he said urgently. “Don’t tell the lieutenant. He’d take a stripe off my butt if he knew I’d been complaining to you.”
“Okay,” I agreed, irritated, “but in that case, stop riding me. The second I see her or hear from her I’ll let you know. Good-bye.”
I slammed down the receiver and ran into my bedroom. As I was zipping my jeans the phone rang again. I let it go at first, thinking it was probably Furey, then gave in to the pressure of the bell.
“I want Victoria Warshawski.” The accented voice belonged to the man I’d spoken to yesterday at Alma Mejicana.
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