Fire Sale

by Sara Paretsky

  Of course I’d seen him before: he’d been in Fly the Flag last Tuesday morning. “A punk one sees around, taking from jobsites, or even doing little jobs,” Andrés had said.

  Someone had hired him to vandalize Fly the Flag. Was it Andrés, or Zamar, or someone Andrés knew? It was four in the morning. I wasn’t going to go all the way down to South Chicago to see if the chavo was trying for a repeat attack against Fly the Flag. But the thought stayed with me through the rest of my uneasy sleep. All day Tuesday, when I had a heavy schedule at my agency, I kept wondering about this chavo and the flag factory, about the cartons they’d been taking out of the plant that they hadn’t wanted me to see the last time I was there.

  In the evening, when I’d finished my real work, I couldn’t resist going back down to Fly the Flag to see for myself what was going on. And while I was creeping around the plant in the dark, I watched it blow up.

  16 Command Performance

  That was the tale I told Conrad, mostly warts, mostly all.

  When I finished talking, it was late afternoon. The anesthesia in my system kept pulling me under, and I drifted off to sleep from time to time. Once when I woke up, Conrad was stretched out asleep on the floor. Mr. Contreras had been compassionate enough to put a pillow under his head, I saw with some amusement; my neighbor had left while we were both asleep, but came back half an hour or so later with a big bowl of spaghetti.

  At first, Conrad kept challenging me; interviewing me had him off balance, and he was jumpy, aggressive, interrupting every few sentences. I was too tired and too sore to fight. Whenever he broke in, I would only wait for him to finish, and then just start the previous sentence again from the beginning. Finally, he settled down, not even barking at me when I took phone calls-although my long conversation with Morrell made him leave the room. Of course, Conrad had calls of his own, from the medical examiner’s office, from his secretary, from the Tenth Ward alderman, and a couple of newspaper and TV stations.

  While he was dealing with the media, I bathed and put on clean clothes, a tough job with the pain stabbing from my shoulder down my left arm. I risked wetting the dressing by washing my hair, which stank of smoke, and felt better for getting all the grime off my body.

  I talked until I was hoarse. Not that I told Conrad every detail; he didn’t need to know about my private life, or my complicated reaction to Marcena Love. He didn’t need to know my ancient history with Bron Czernin and Sandy Zoltak, and I didn’t hand him Billy the Kid or Pastor Andrés on a platter. Still, I covered all the essentials, including a lot more detail than he wanted on the Bertha Palmer basketball program-especially when I suggested that the Fourth Police District might adopt the team as part of their community outreach.

  I didn’t hide anything that I’d learned at Fly the Flag, not even my own break-in at the premises the week before, or the chavo banda I’d intercepted or Frank Zamar’s refusal to let me call the cops then. I told Conrad how Rose Dorrado had brought me into the flag factory to begin with, and then ordered me to stay away. And I told him that Andrés knew this chavo by sight.

  “And that’s the whole truth, Ms. W., so help you God?” Rawlings said when I’d finished.

  “Too many people doing weird things in God’s name these days,” I grumbled. “Let’s just say I’ve given you an honest factual narrative.”

  “Where does this Marcena Love fit into the picture?”

  “Don’t think she does,” I said. “I’ve never seen her near the factory, for one thing, and there’s nothing connecting Czernin to it, either. She might have heard something, roaming around the South Side, that’s all. I’m guessing a look at Zamar’s books will tell you what you need to know.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I’m wondering if the guy was in a hole and was being squeezed. Rose Dorrado said he’d bought a fancy new machine he was having trouble paying for. Say Zamar didn’t, or couldn’t, respond when his creditors put dead rats in his ventilator shaft. This annoyed them enough that they made the biggest statement possible, took out his factory and him at the same time.”

  Conrad nodded and switched off his recorder. “It’s a good theory. It might even be right-it’s worth looking into. But I want you to do me a favor. No, take that back: I want a promise out of you.”

  My brows jumped up to my hairline. “And that would be?”

  “Not to do any more investigating on my turf. I’ll get our forensics accountants to check into Zamar’s finances, and I don’t want to find that you’ve been there ahead of them, helping yourself to his files.”

  “I promise you that I will not help myself to any of Zamar’s files. Which, I have a feeling, are charcoal now, anyway.”

  “I want more than that, Vic. I don’t want you investigating crimes in my district, period.”

  “If someone in South Chicago hires me, Conrad, I will investigate to the best of my ability.” Despite the spurt of anger I felt, I almost laughed-I hadn’t wanted to be sucked back into South Chicago, but as soon as someone told me to stay away my hackles went up and I dug in my heels.

  “That’s right, cookie,” Mr. Contreras put in. “You can’t be letting people tell you what you can and can’t do for a living.”

  Conrad glared at the old man but spoke to me. “Your investigations are like Sherman ’s march through Georgia: you get where you’re going, but God help anyone within five miles of your path. South Chicago has enough death and destruction without you adding your investigative skills to my war zone.”

  “That badge and gun don’t make you owner of the South Side,” I began, my eyes hot. “It’s just that you cannot bear the memory-”

  The doorbell rang before I could finish my own offensive retort. Peppy and Mitch began a deafening barking, whirling around me in circles to let me know someone was approaching. Mr. Contreras, in his element when I’m on the disabled list, bustled out, the dogs clattering behind him.

  The interruption gave me time to take a breath. “Conrad, you’re too good a cop to be threatened by anything I do. I know you’re not afraid I’ll steal glory you have coming to you if I turn up something that helps you solve a case. And you’re a generous coworker with women. So your reaction is totally about you and me. Do you think I-”

  I broke off as I heard the expedition to the third floor making its way up the stairs: the dogs racing up and down as Mr. Contreras slowly puffed his way upward, and the hollow thump of a cane against the hard stairwell carpet.

  Morrell was coming to visit me. It was his first time moving this far from his own place since he’d come home, and I was touched, and delighted-so why was I feeling embarrassed? Surely not because Morrell would see me with Conrad-and absolutely not because Conrad would see me with Morrell. Which meant I was blushing for no good reason.

  Then, over the sound of the cane and Mr. Contreras’s heavy tread, I heard Marcena’s light, high voice and my embarrassment receded into annoyance. Why was she raining on my parade once again? Didn’t she have to get back to England, or Fallujah?

  I turned my back on the door and doggedly continued my speech to Conrad. “If you’ve been holding a grudge against me for four years, that makes me feel sad. But, even so, you’re asking something that you have no right to, under law, something you must know I wouldn’t agree to, even if it would end your bitter feelings against me.”

  Conrad looked at me, lips compressed, trying to make up his mind how to answer. The dogs raced in before he decided, dancing around me with their tails waving like banners: they’d brought me company, and they wanted petting and cheers for being so clever.

  Behind them, I could hear Marcena saying to Mr. Contreras, “I adore horse racing; I had no idea you could see it in Chicago. Before I go home, you must take me to the track. Are you a lucky punter? No? No more am I, but I never can resist.”

  So now she was charming the socks off my neighbor, too. I got to my feet again as she and Mr. Contreras came through my little vestibule.

  “Marcen
a! What a pleasure. And horse racing, of course, another passion of yours that I never knew about, like World War Two fighter planes! Come meet Commander Rawlings, and tell him how much you adore model trains, and how your Uncle Julian-or was it your Uncle Sacheverel?-used to let you play with his H.O. layout at Christmas.” Conrad had an unexpected passion for model railroads; his living room held an intricate setup that he turned to when he needed to unwind, and he had a small shop in his garage where he built houses and molded miniature scenery.

  Conrad shook his head several times, just a reflex, startled by my sudden chirpy outburst, while Marcena looked at me through narrowed eyes. I introduced them, and went out to the landing to find Morrell. He had reached the top of the stairs, but was getting his breath back before coming in to face a crowd. Peppy came out to see what we were doing, but Mitch had also fallen for Marcena and was staying close to her.

  “So you’ve been back in the wars, my mighty Amazon?” Morrell pulled me close and kissed me. “I thought the house rule was only one of us could be injured at a time.”

  “Just a flesh wound,” I said gruffly. “It hurts horribly right now, but it’s not serious. Thanks for coming. I’m just finishing with the cops; Commander Rawlings wanted complete chapter and verse.”

  “I would have been here sooner, but Marcena didn’t get in until noon, and she needed to rest before setting out again. Sorry to bring her, darling, but I don’t trust myself driving in city traffic yet.”

  One of the bullets had nicked Morrell’s right hip where the sciatic nerve comes out. The nerve had been damaged, and it wasn’t clear how completely it would recover. His occupational therapist had urged him to learn to use hand controls to drive, but he was resisting, not wanting to acknowledge that he might not regain full use of his leg. I put my arm around him, and we went back into my apartment, where Marcena was petting Mitch and asking Conrad about his work.

  Conrad was answering her tersely. His jaw was rigid, and when he saw me come in with Morrell he broke off midsentence. I introduced the two men before sitting heavily down again-all this commotion was wearing me out.

  “You been shot, huh?” Conrad said to Morrell. “Not running in front of a bullet meant for Vic, were you?”

  “No, these were all meant for me,” Morrell said. “Or, at least, for anyone trying to get into Mazar-e-Sharif that day. Or that’s what the army told me-I don’t remember it myself.”

  “Sorry, man, tough. I took a few at Hill 882.”

  Conrad was embarrassed at letting his feelings about me goad him into plain bald rudeness. For several minutes, he and Morrell and Mr. Contreras traded war stories-my neighbor had somehow survived one of World War II’s bloodiest battles without being hurt, but he had seen plenty of other dead and wounded men. Marcena had her own store of war zone anecdotes to contribute. South Side street fighter that I am, I’ve seen my share of ugly fights, but these were small and personal, so I kept them to myself.

  “‘War is sweet to those who never saw one,’” Morrell said, adding to me, “Erasmus, I think-you’ll have to ask Coach McFarlane how he said it in Latin.”

  His words broke the chain of reminiscences; Conrad turned to Marcena. “Vic was telling me you’ve been riding around the South Side, Ms. Love. Have you been on your own?”

  Marcena looked at me reproachfully; I hadn’t been a good chum, telling on her to the cops.

  “You’ve spent a lot of time down there lately, you’ve seen a lot of the community, and people talk to you frankly,” I said. “I told Commander Rawlings, because you might have seen or heard something that would be useful to him.”

  “I can ask my own questions, Vic, thanks, and don’t go tipping off witnesses again, okay? Maybe Ms. Love and I will go out for coffee and let you two be alone.”

  “Absolutely,” Marcena said. “Morrell, when you’re ready for me to drive you back to Evanston, ring me on my mobile. This will be great, Commander: I’ve needed to talk to someone in the police to round out my picture of South Chicago. So much of it seems to be under permanent surveillance.”

  Conrad ignored her to stand over me. “Vic, I meant what I said about you messing up my turf. Take care of the basketball program. Deal with the financial crooks on La Salle Street. Leave the Fourth District to me.”

  17 A Frog in My Jeans

  “What’d you do to get a police commander so annoyed with you, Pepperpot?” Morrell asked.

  “Nothing he won’t get over in another decade or two.” I leaned against him and shut my eyes.

  “He thinks Cookie here got him shot four years ago,” Mr. Contreras put in, “when it was his own darn fault for not listening to her to begin with. Good thing, if you ask me, ’cause it made him-”

  “It’s never a good thing to get shot.” I couldn’t bear to hear Mr. Contreras celebrate Conrad’s and my breakup, especially not in front of Morrell. “And maybe I should have had that bullet instead of him. Anyway, Marcena will charm him out of his bad mood.”

  “Probably will,” my Job’s comforter agreed. “She’s perky enough for a whole squad of cheerleaders.”

  Morrell laughed. “She’s a prizewinning journalist-I don’t think she’d appreciate being compared to a cheerleader.”

  “But she is full of zip,” I murmured, “and she knows how to home in on everyone’s wavelength.”

  “Except yours,” Morrell said.

  “But I’m a pepperpot, not a cheerleader.”

  He pulled me closer. “I like pepper better than cheers, okay?”

  “Yeah, but, cookie, you could learn something from her,” Mr. Contreras said, his brown eyes full of concern. “Look how she got Conrad Rawlings eating out of her hand, after he’d been threatening you.”

  I stiffened but didn’t say anything; the old man had been so supportive all day it would be mean to turn on him, and, anyway, it would just prove his point. I looked up to see Morrell grinning at me, as if reading my mind. I punched him in the ribs, but settled back against his shoulder.

  Finally, after fidgeting around the living room for several minutes, my neighbor announced he was taking the dogs out. “You two ain’t fit for anything but sleep right now,” he said, then turned brick red at the innuendo.

  “Don’t worry; sleep is all I’m fit for.” I thanked him for all his help during the day. “Especially the spaghetti-a real corpse reviver.”

  “Clara’s old meatball recipe,” he beamed.

  It took another ten minutes for him to finish his strictures on Conrad, his advice for my recovery, his promise to intercept Marcena so she wouldn’t wake us when she came back.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You two figure out a strategy for the Arlington track that’ll set you up for the rest of your life. Morrell and I will design a strategy for healing our torn-up bodies.”

  We did pretty well sleep the clock around, at least in shifts. I got up briefly to talk to Marcena, who came up the stairs, despite Mr. Contreras’s efforts to hold her at bay, so she could fetch Morrell. Morrell hobbled out in his jeans to say he’d stay with me until I could drive him home myself.

  Marcena lingered in the doorway to report on the super time she’d had with Conrad; he’d promised her a ride-along next week to round out her picture of the South Side-she’d get a Kevlar vest and everything, just like being back in Kosovo.

  I felt as though my skin might ignite from the force of the energy she was putting out, or maybe from my jealousy. “You able to tell him anything useful out of your nocturnal junkets?”

  She grinned. “My eyes haven’t been scanning the streets that closely, Vic, but I did want to thank you for not ratting out Bron to him-if word gets back to By-Smart about him having me in his truck, it could cost him his job.”

  I felt a sudden jolt: I couldn’t believe I had forgotten about April Czernin so completely. “When did you last talk to Bron? Since yesterday? Does he know about April?”

  “Oh, his daughter, right, Morrell told me. He can’t take personal calls on his c
ell phone: it belongs to the company, and they monitor every call he makes and gets, so I didn’t try to reach him. Anyway, he was headed for home, so I’m sure his wife told him.”

  “You didn’t try to reach him yourself?” I couldn’t keep the scorn out of my voice. “Even when you found out his kid was close to dying?”

  “I don’t think it would have been helpful for him to hear it fourth-hand from the hospital via you to Morrell to me. Or for his wife to talk to me if I reached her.” She sounded disdainful, like the headmistress annoyed with the poor work of an unpromising student, but at least she’d stopped bubbling over like the La Brea tar pits.

  “No wonder Sandra Czernin thinks my name is mud down there. I’m the person who introduced him to the woman he’s been seeing the sights with.”

  I shut the door on her, but had to open it a second later-Peppy and Mitch had followed Marcena upstairs, and while Mitch, like every other male I knew, was clinging to Marcena, Peppy wanted to be let in with me. I glared at Mitch’s retreating tail and stumped over to the phone.

  Once again I got Sandra’s stilted voice on her answering machine; I figured she, at least, was at the hospital-who knew where Bron was. I left a message, explaining that I’d been hit in the explosion at Fly the Flag, and asking Sandra to call me with news about April.

  I was still groggy from anesthesia and my long day with Conrad, but Morrell said he’d slept enough for the time being. He settled himself on the couch with Peppy and his new laptop. He was working on the book he’d been researching when he got shot. His original laptop had been stolen while he lay bleeding on a mud track in Afghanistan; he’d backed up most of his files onto a portable key, but there was material he was trying to reconstruct, notes he’d been taking shortly before he was hit that he hadn’t had time to organize or copy.