Shell Game

by Sara Paretsky

  I told them pretty much everything I knew, but slowly, checking each sentence for weaknesses before I said it.

  “You went back there on the chance that your niece’s scarf was part of a squirrel’s nest?” Finchley said. “If I hadn’t known you all these years and learned that you don’t think like most people, I’d throw the book at you for that alone.”

  “I take that as a compliment. Follow the data, not the theory.”

  Finchley said to Abreu, “Illustration of my point. That sentence means nothing to me, but it does to her. Go on, Warshawski.”

  I went on, through the woods, to the shack, to the horror story and back to the road. “I can’t make sense of it, but that shack, it has to be where Lawrence Fausson was murdered. What Reno was doing there I have no idea. They were torturing her—” I broke off, pushing back the image of her legs with the dried blood on them.

  “What did they think she knew?” Sergeant Abreu asked—dry questions to keep me from falling into the dark spaces. “Or what did she have that they wanted?”

  The locket that I’d shoved deep into my jeans pocket. That was one thing I kept back from the cops. There were others—Rasima Kataba, the pamphlet from the Saraqib museum, the money under Fausson’s floorboard.

  “Did you ever search his place?” I asked. “Lawrence Fausson’s, I mean?”

  Finchley said, “Not my district, not my case. What should the Sixteenth have been looking for?”

  I flung my hands up, clueless. “I don’t know. I’d love one piece of data that explained what brought him and my niece to the same place in the woods thirty miles from where either of them lived. Fausson had been an archaeology student, but the University of Chicago cut him loose. He was working as a janitor for one of those big corporate companies. I can’t see anything that puts the two of them together. However, she disappeared right around the time he was killed.”

  I drank the Coke and leaned back in the chair, head against the wall, drifting into sleep.

  Finchley shook my shoulder. “Fausson’s a county case, right? How come you’re involved?”

  I didn’t open my eyes. “Dr. Herschel’s great-nephew—the county keeps thinking he’s involved in Fausson’s death. Which he isn’t. He’s Canadian, so ICE is also harassing him.”

  Sergeant Abreu asked who Dr. Herschel was.

  “Chief of obstetric and perinatal surgery here at Beth Israel,” I said. “My friend, mentor, someone whose welfare is important to me.”

  “And your doctor.” Lotty had swept into the small space. “I just finished a pelvic floor reconstruction and they told me you were here, that you’d found Reno. I went up to ICU before coming to see you. She’s thready but stronger than she was forty minutes ago; you got to her in time. But you are not in any condition to be talking to the police, or anyone else.”

  She nodded at Finchley and Abreu, her force field making Finchley back up.

  “I only have two more questions, Doctor,” he said.

  “Then you’ll be able to remember them easily until tomorrow, Lieutenant,” Lotty said curtly. “Victoria, we have a bed ready for you.”

  “Finch.” I got to my feet, slowly, leaned against the wall to catch my breath. Finchley and Abreu stopped on their way out.

  “Finch, Sergeant Abreu, however you write up your report on coming here today, can you keep Reno’s name out of it? I don’t know what she saw or did or knows that seems like a threat to whoever paid those monstrosities to torture her, but they’re serious. I don’t want them to track her here.”

  Lotty came back in to see what was keeping me. Finchley said, “I’ll come up with something, as long as you remember that only my friends call me ‘Finch.’”

  Lotty snapped, “Enough!” and took me to a waiting wheelchair. I started to argue that I could walk, but every muscle in my body shrieked, No, you can’t. I sat in the chair, let them strap me in, let them wheel me to an upper floor. Lotty oversaw the process of stripping me and bathing me, inspected my bruises, tutted, and ordered a nurse to start me on fluids, more antibiotics, and a round of steroids.

  “Harmony,” I said. “Harmony needs to know we found Reno. And Mr. Contreras—he’ll worry terribly.”

  Lotty nodded; she’d take care of it. I was asleep before the nurse had finished calibrating the drip rate.

  43

  Disturbing the Peace

  It was seven the next morning when I woke again. I felt feather-light, newborn, free from all worries. I sat up and cautiously moved my arms and legs. They seemed pain-free, as if I’d never hoisted a deadweight across my shoulders and marched across rough terrain for an hour.

  A nurse poked her head in, saw I was awake, and marched over to take my vitals. “Dr. Herschel left orders not to disturb you, but we were beginning to wonder when you might wake up—you’ve slept for fourteen hours. You have a visitor, too.”

  She helped me into a hospital robe and let Mr. Contreras into the room.

  He thrust a bunch of daffodils at me. “Dr. Lotty said you was okay, but I had to see with my own eyes. And you found Reno, saved her life.”

  “That was sheer luck. Luck and doggedness, anyway.”

  “Where was she?”

  I gave him a complete history of how I’d discovered Reno, including creeping into the squirrels’ nest, the fight with the mobsters, and how I’d torched the old shack to get us safely away. He pumped his fist in excitement.

  “Vodka as a fire starter. You’re unbelievable, Cookie, I never would’ve come up with that. They gonna let you out soon?”

  “As soon as Lotty sees me,” I said. I offered to drive him home if he waited for my discharge, but he wanted to get back to the dogs.

  “I called that kid who does the walking when you’re out of town, but Peppy, she don’t like to be away from Mitch too long. Kid says she lay down in the middle of the sidewalk and wouldn’t move until he turned around and brought her home.”

  Lotty arrived at nine, after making rounds. She rechecked my vitals, had me get out of bed and walk around for her, do neck stretches, knee bends, and stand on one leg with my eyes shut.

  “You’re doing well, Victoria. I’m going to let you go home, or back on the streets, although I wish you would rest for a few days.”

  I smiled. “Even though I’ve done almost nothing to help Felix?”

  Lotty gave a reluctant smile. “Yes, I would like you to go back to work—but as your doctor, I counsel against it.”

  She told me that Reno’s vital signs were stabilizing, although she still needed a ventilator. “Do you have any idea why the poor young woman was kidnapped and abused like that?”

  “The terrorists who took her are working for someone, I’m sure of that—they’re brutal and remorseless, but they were looking for something very specific that they wouldn’t have thought of themselves. They were speaking a Slavic language. Not Polish—even though I don’t speak it, I know what it sounds like.” I repeated the one sentence I’d made out: “Shto za chort?”

  Lotty shook her head. “I don’t know any languages east of the Danube. What was it they wanted?”

  “A locket. She had dropped it through the floorboards at the shack.”

  “What makes it so valuable?” Lotty asked.

  I dug into my jeans pocket and extracted it. The locket was an oval, about an inch wide and an inch and a half long. When Lotty had cleaned away the dirt, we could see it was embossed with interlocking roses and lilies. The catch was stuck after its week in the ground, but Lotty worked it open—those surgeon’s fingers were used to delicate tissues.

  Inside the front face was a photo of Clarisse and Henry. Facing them was Harmony, grinning over a blue ribbon from a county 4-H plant competition. Lotty used a pair of surgical tweezers to pry up Clarisse and Henry’s photo. Underneath was the engraved message: To our beloved Reno. You always make us proud. Mama Clarisse and Papa Henry.

  When Lotty removed Harmony’s photo, we found a key, just small enough that it fit into
the long oval of the locket. It was wedged in tightly; Lotty eased it free with her tweezers and handed it to me.

  I turned it over in my hand. It was lightweight, not meant for a door, but a box. Safety-deposit, maybe, or U.S. post office.

  “This must be what the trolls were trying to find when they tore her apartment apart.” I took it to the window, where I could see it more clearly. “372” was cut into the bow.

  “What was she hiding that they wanted so badly?” I fretted out loud. “And where on earth is Box 372?”

  Lotty said, “I can’t answer those questions, and I’m not interested in them, for that matter. What I care about is her safety and the safety of the people who work in this hospital. If your horrible men were willing to attack Harmony and you and try to kill Reno to get their hands on this key, you can’t let anyone know that you have it. And don’t tell people that Reno is at Beth Israel. Please!”

  I shook my head. “It may be too late for that. I talked to Jewel while I was driving here and mentioned Reno by name—if someone is monitoring my phone, they’ll know. And Lieutenant Finchley and Sergeant Abreu—I asked them to keep it quiet, but police stations are the world’s busiest gossip markets. Besides, there’s always going to be someone who will provide tip-offs to the press, or interested outsiders, if the price is right. Added to that—Harmony. She has a right to know her sister is safe, but who knows who she’ll talk to.”

  Lotty’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right: I couldn’t reach Harmony, so I told Marilyn Lieberman at Arcadia, who promised to get the word to her.”

  Her phone pinged, a text message. Lotty stood. “I have to go—my resident is in over her head right now. Reno isn’t in any condition to be moved. I don’t want your life at greater risk than it already is, but can you help us with security here?”

  “The Streeter brothers,” I finally produced. “Maybe I can figure out a way to get Richard Yarborough to pay for their help.”

  Lotty kissed my forehead. “I’ll explain it to the ICU charge nurse. Take good care, my dear one.”

  Round-the-clock surveillance isn’t cheap, but at least here the target was stable. I texted Tim and Tom to see if any of the brothers were available. Tom could start today; as long as the ICU ward head let him sleep next to Reno, he could cover her until tomorrow morning, when Tim and Jim could pitch in.

  The clothes I’d worn into the hospital were so soiled I could hardly bear to put them on. I didn’t know how to hide the locket; I finally stuffed it and the key deep into my jeans pocket, where they could rest until I got them to a safer place.

  On my way out of the building I passed the gift shop. They had a display of Chicago sports team sweatshirts in the window. Including, to my surprise, the Sky, Chicago’s WNBA team—women’s teams almost never get shelf space. At the checkout counter they had a row of blue plush pigs under a sign that read for babies born in the year of the pig. The pigs were holding miniature dragons between their front trotters.

  I bought one along with the Sky shirt. After I’d changed into the shirt, stuffing my filthy top and bra into the bag, I went to the intensive care unit. I was going to leave the pig with the charge nurse, but when I told her I was Reno’s aunt, the nurse told me I could visit her for a few minutes.

  When I saw Reno in bed, I couldn’t hold back a gasp: she was so thin it was hard to believe there was any room for blood or tissue around her bones. Someone had clipped her hair, which accentuated her gaunt face. She was moving restlessly in the bed, making strangled cries every now and then, but not waking up.

  I knelt next to her and took one of her hands. “It’s Vic, Reno. Auntie Vic. I’ve brought you a pig to look after you, but you are safe now. No one can hurt you. Your locket is safe.”

  When I said the word “locket,” she scrabbled at the ventilator tube and tried to cry out. I took the locket from my pocket and fastened it around her neck.

  “She can’t have that on,” the nurse said. “She’s moving too wildly; she can choke on it.”

  When she moved past me to undo it, though, Reno began to scream, “No, no, no,” turning even more frantically. The nurse made a face. “Better leave it on; she’s calmer with it. I’ll talk to the doctor, see what he says.”

  “You endured an enormous amount to protect that locket,” I murmured in Reno’s ear. “I have your key safe, but what does it unlock?”

  If she could hear me, she didn’t respond. I stayed on my knees near her head for several more minutes. Her breathing was stertorous, but she lay more calmly.

  When I got home, and greeted the dogs and assured Mr. Contreras that Reno was still alive, I went upstairs to rest. What kind of private eye who’s just spent fourteen hours asleep still needs more rest? Philip Marlowe, Amelia Butterworth, none of them ever lay in the bath for half an hour after burning down their prison doors and escaping with comatose women.

  And nor could I. I had just climbed into the tub with a mask over my eyes when the street-door buzzer screeched through the intercom by the door. I ignored it, but two minutes later, multiple fists pounded on my door. I heard a shout that sounded like “Police!”

  As soon as I paid all the bills I was accumulating working for other people’s families, I would install security cameras in the hall. For now, I climbed from the tub, wrapped myself in towels, and went down the hall to look through the peephole.

  Lieutenant McGivney was there in person, with a deputy, a muscular man who was doing all the pounding. Behind them Mr. Contreras appeared, puffing for air after climbing all three flights, beside himself with indignation.

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I’m dressed,” I called.

  My voice didn’t penetrate their own racket; the deputy kept pounding, McGivney bellowed for admission, and Mr. Contreras continued to expostulate. I didn’t feel like shouting, let alone opening the door covered with nothing but towels. I took my time in my bedroom, putting on clean jeans, a rose sweater I’m fond of, and the sheepskin slippers Jake had sent from Basel as a final Christmas present. I’d thought of throwing them out, but they were the most comfortable footwear I’d ever put on. I checked for my keys and went into the hall, shutting my door behind me.

  McGivney said, “That took you long enough. I knew you were in there. Why didn’t you come to the door?”

  “It was that woman down in One-B,” Mr. Contreras interrupted. “They was ringing all the bells, and when she saw it was cops, she let them in. Just to get at you. I was trying to tell them you just got out of the hospital, you’re entitled to rest and privacy, but they’re like all the cops I ever saw, they don’t care nothing about anybody’s rights. Just swagger around like they own planet Earth.”

  McGivney looked stunned as my neighbor paused for breath, but the deputy was openly resentful. He started haranguing Mr. Contreras for his attitude.

  I cut him off before Mr. Contreras reached for his pipe wrench. “Deputy, this is an Anzio veteran who has limited patience with punks, so cool the attitude lecture. Lieutenant, you are getting exaggerated ideas about your right to barge in on people without calling and without a warrant.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were going through my crime scene before you set fire to it?” McGivney said.

  I leaned against the door and whistled softly. “That’s a mighty large soap bubble. Where was I, how was it identified as your crime scene, and did I set fire to it? Can you answer those three questions?”

  “Were you, or were you not, in Cap Sauers Holding yesterday?”

  “I was.”

  “And did I not tell you to keep away from my crime scene?”

  I shook my head reprovingly. “Are you implying that all of Cap Sauers Holding is a crime scene?”

  “Damn it, Warshawski!”

  Below us the dogs started barking and the woman from 1B began hollering up the stairwell. Mr. Contreras leaned over the banister to yell back at her, but I pulled him away.

  “Don’t go tumbling down the stairwell because of h
er idiocy. Stay here and enjoy the show.”

  “You wanted me looking for the Fausson guy’s keys and I told you it was an active crime scene,” McGivney growled. “Did you go back there hunting his keys?”

  “Nope. I went there to hike through the forest preserve. I saw no signs anywhere posting the land as off-limits to the public, not even at the log where Mr. Fausson’s body was found. Have you been back there? Did you or your deputy find Mr. Fausson’s keys?”

  McGivney ignored that. “Someone reported a fire in the woods, less than half a mile from the scene. It was arson, the fire marshal tells me, and the Palos fire chief says you were leaving the woods just as the engines arrived.”

  I studied my hands in the dim hall light. I had burn blisters between my fingers that I hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “And?” McGivney prodded.

  “And what?” I said.

  “Did you set the fire?”

  “Lieutenant, I think you’re a good cop who’s acting strangely for a good cop. I don’t know the Palos fire chief. I don’t know if he saw me leaving the woods as his engine arrived.” It was one thing to be frank with Terry Finchley, whom I’ve known for years and trust. Quite another to be forthcoming with a county cop whose agenda seemed confrontational, if not downright hostile.

  “One of the firemen photoed your car; we ID’d the plate,” the deputy said.

  “People are very creative these days with Photoshop,” I said. “A suspicious person would think you were trying to pressure me into ending the work I’m doing for Felix Herschel. Is that your agenda here?”

  McGivney made a visible effort to dial back his belligerence. “Did you set fire to a shed in the woods yesterday?”

  I smiled. “Shall I call and ask my lawyer to meet us in Maywood? Or do you want to move on to something else?”

  The woman from 1B started up the stairs, yelling so loudly that Mrs. Soong came out of her second-floor apartment to tell her to be quiet, she was waking the baby.