Blacklist

by Sara Paretsky

  “America is at war,” the U.S. attorney reiterated. “If you aided a terrorist in escaping, you can be charged with aiding our enemies.”

  I suddenly felt very tired. I spread my hands on the table and studied my fingers while the silence grew.

  “Well,” the U.S. attorney prodded.

  “It’s not well,” I said. “None of it is well. We’re not at war, for one thing. Only Congress can declare war, which they haven’t done-unless it happened while we’ve been sitting here.”

  “You know damn well what he means,” Derek said. “Do you think it’s a joke, what happened in New York, what our troops are doing in Afghanistan or the Persian Gulf?”

  I looked up at him. “I think this is the most serious thing that has happened in my lifetime. Not just the Trade Center, but the fear we’ve unleashed on ourselves since, so we can say that the Bill of Rights doesn’t matter any more. My lover is in Afghanistan. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, I haven’t heard from him in almost a week. If he’s dead, my heart will break, but if the Bill of Rights is dead my life, my faith in America, will break. If I had found a terrorist in the Larchmont mansion, I would have done my best to deliver him to you, Derek-and hoped you’d pay more attention to me than your colleagues in Minnesota or Arizona did to similar warnings. But I didn’t see any signs of a violent criminal. Did you? Were those Arabic books manuals on bombs, or did they contain diagrams of important U.S. targets? I assume you’re finding that out.”

  I turned to the DuPage attorney. “Meanwhile, the net gain for the night was that Schorr’s Arab-hunting tigers shot a local teenager. I had nothing to do with that, and I don’t think my hanging around Larchmont while Schorr figured out what spin to put on that catastrophe would have been at all helpful.”

  No one said anything for a minute or two. I shifted in my chair, stretching my neck and shoulders.

  “We need to reopen the investigation into Whitby’s death. I don’t believe in coincidences, a suspect hiding in a house, a man dead outside the house, those two have to be connected.” Bobby spoke with the authority of his forty years on the force. He looked at the DuPage attorney. “Orville, can you get your pathologist to do a full autopsy, including a tox screen on Marcus Whitby?”

  “We released the body to the family yesterday,” Orville said. “I’ll see if they’ve taken it back to Atlanta.”

  Bobby rubbed his balding temples. “I hope to Christ they haven’t: I don’t want to deal with an exhumation. Or with one more jurisdiction than the three already involved.”

  I didn’t reveal that Bryant Vishnikov had already started a private

  autopsy: I was hoping Bryant could finish and give me the results before the law found out he had the body.

  “We can expedite that if necessary,” the U.S. attorney said. “Meanwhile, what about Warshawski here? We never got an account of how she spent those missing hours. Is she capable of hiding a wanted man?”

  “You searched my home,” I protested. “I’ll be glad to take you to my office if we’re done here. You can look in the trunk of my car.”

  “We had someone at your office this afternoon,” Derek said. “And we’re checking with your friends.”

  I tried to control the rising tide of fury in me. “Did you bastards help yourself to my Rolodex? Did you take files? Where the hell do you get off, harassing a citizen without probable cause.”

  “We don’t need probable cause,” the U.S. attorney snapped. “We have you and a suspect both missing from the same house on the same night. Like the captain said, no coincidences here. You might have thought he was an innocent kid and given him a boost out the window with you. But now that you know he’s a wanted man, we expect you to cooperate.”

  “I am cooperating,” I shouted, leaning across the table. “Vicki, watch yourself,” Bobby warned me.

  I shut my eyes and took a breath, counting backward from ten in Italian as I exhaled. “I am cooperating,” I said in a calmer voice. “Now you guys give some back. What’s he done? How do we know he’s a terrorist? Tell me that and I’ll get more excited about your questions.”

  Derek and the U.S. attorney exchanged glances; the attorney spoke. “He stayed on in this country without a visa, and without a sponsor, after his uncle died. He goes to an Uptown mosque where they preach some pretty radical rhetoric. And he went underground when we tried to bring him in for questioning.”

  I asked him to expand on the radical rhetoric, or what they’d found in the room Benjamin had rented with a Pakistani family after his uncle died, but they refused to provide more detail: they knew what they knew.

  “I see,” I said. Really, though, I didn’t see-anything. It didn’t sound like a catalog of evil, but I didn’t know what “radical rhetoric” covered. Death to Israel? Death to America? Death to abortion providers? Radical or patriotic, depending on your viewpoint. If Benji advocated all three, then I’d have to rethink covering up for him. But I’d wait for Father Lou to finish interrogating him before I turned him over to these guys. My own judgment might be at fault, but I sure didn’t trust any of the people at the table more.

  Bobby said if I would just explain how I’d spent the afternoon, they’d wrap up the meeting.

  “I returned phone calls. I ran errands. I ran my dogs. I ate dinner.” “No one saw you run your dogs,” the Cook County attorney said. “The fact that you staked out my building is sufficiently depressing without you boasting about it. You have a record of my phone calls, too?” The look that Derek and the U.S. attorney exchanged told me all I wanted to know about that. “I was at a TechSurround outlet on Fullerton. You can probably get a record of my transactions by raiding their cash register, or hacking into their computer, or whatever you feel you can do in the name of protecting the country.”

  Schorr wanted to bluster more about what I’d really done last night, but everyone else seemed as worn out as I was. Or maybe I’d embarrassed them into silence, just a little.

  Bobby broke the silence, turning to look at the woman with the recording equipment. “Sissy, we’re done for the night. You can collect your things and go.”

  Sissy? That didn’t seem like a very imposing name for a police officer. Sissy said “Yessir,” switched off the system and labeled her disks.

  The DuPage attorney stood up, saying he had a long drive, but he’d call Bobby as soon as he knew the status of Marcus Whitby’s body. That effectively broke up the meeting. Derek and the U.S. attorney left at once, along with the two county attorneys. Schorr threatened me with grievous bodily harm, or a month in prison, or maybe both if I crossed him again-I wasn’t paying a lot of attention by that point.

  “Can one of your team give me a ride home?” I said to Bobby when the room had cleared. “As you know, I didn’t drive myself down.”

  Bobby nodded. “Finch, go find someone to give Princess Grace here a lift.”

  That was what Bobby called me when he thought I was being a nuisance. It wasn’t exactly a term of endearment-but he would never have used it in front of the DuPage and federal officials.

  When Terry had left to find me a driver, Bobby told me to join him at the head of the table so he wouldn’t have to shout. `Jack Zeelander is a pain in the behind,” he commented. “All the Feds these days are chasing shadows. They’re so upset at missing the obvious last summer that they grab at every straw the wind blows by ‘em, hoping it’ll lead them someplace. I can understand that-we’ve had murder investigations here where the heat was so high we burned ourselves and never caught the perp. But Zeelander wants to be in Washington so bad you can smell the ambition on him and it doesn’t make him a trustable colleague.”

  Bobby’s remarks took me by surprise: he’s never let his hair down in front of me before. “Do you think this is a straw blowing past? The missing kid, I mean?”

  He grunted. “That’s not my call, thank God. What is my call is you. I didn’t lean on you in front of all those people, but don’t lie to me now, Vicki. Do you know where t
hat kid is?”

  The hair-letting-down, that had been the tactic of a skilled interrogator. I felt the twist of guilt I was supposed to. Tony and Gabriella’s good friend, I couldn’t lie to him. I thought of Catherine Bayard crying out to her grandmother not to ask her anything else because she didn’t want to lie to her. I thought of the vast expanses of St. Remigio’s, the gym, the classrooms, the chapel, the kitchen and bedrooms. I had no idea which room Benjamin Sadawi was in right now.

  I slowly shook my head. “I don’t know, Bobby.”

  He narrowed his small gray eyes. “You better not be lying to me, Vicki.” I looked at him solemnly. “I know: Gabriella would hate it.”

  “Yeah, Tony wouldn’t be crazy about it, either, but the two of them would protect you. Me, if I catch you in a whopper on this one, I’ll hang you out to dry. What were you doing since checking out of that motel? After you went to that Tech-whatever place?”

  I drew a circle in the tabletop with my finger. “Morrell has gone underground. I went to see a friend who knows him.”

  “For six hours? Don’t try my patience.”

  “If I tell you my private business, you’ll use it against me.”

  “What the-Oh. Unless you’re about to reveal a criminal act, I’ll keep it to myself.”

  I had played games with the truth about Sadawi; I’d level with him on this. “Your guys staked out the front of my building, but not the alley. I thought the Feds or that ape Schorr might be tailing me, so I went in through the back. I needed a decent meal, I wanted to run the dogs, I wanted some time with my neighbor. I did all those things, then changed my clothes, went out through the alley again and came up the street to the front door.”

  Bobby stared at me, then let out a hoarse sound somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. “No wonder we can’t find a missing Egyptian boy. It’s a wonder we can find our feet to put our shoes on in the morning, when we don’t have the brains to cover both entrances to a building. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  CHAPTER 35

  Among Friends-for a Change

  I slept in the squad car going home. It was only ten, but the two hours at Thirtyfifth and Michigan had worn me out almost more than last night’s physical stresses. When the driver shook me awake, I blinked, momentarily disoriented: I had expected to see the little bungalow on Houston Street where I grew up. I had expected, or wanted, to find my mother waiting for me.

  Instead, Mr. Contreras and the dogs came bustling down the walk to greet me, the old man voluble in relief that I hadn’t been locked up. I lay on his living room floor with my arms around Peppy, running through the highlights, or maybe lowlights, of the evening. When he learned the FBI had also searched my office, and might well be tapping my phone, Mr. Contreras spoke his views on the law colorfully and at length. He might think any and all measures the government had taken in the name of protecting America were justified, no matter whose rights they violated-but when it came down to me, the Feds had crossed an inviolable line. I’d always miss my mother when times were hard, but having my neighbor as a partisan was a pretty good second.

  “But going out the window of that mansion, doll, that musta shook you up bad. I see how you been favoring your shoulder.”

  “It wasn’t the window, it was diving into the pond and then climbing up

  that wretched wall. I saw”-I stopped just before blurting out Father Lou’s name-“a sports trainer on my way home this afternoon. He gave me some salve and told me to tape up the shoulder. I just haven’t had time to stop at a drugstore for firm enough tape-I’ve been using an Ace bandage, which doesn’t hold the muscle quite in place.”

  “Go see the doc tomorrow. Don’t rely on no sports trainer’s half-baked notions.”

  That was a good idea: Lotty dispensed more than medical comforts from her storefront clinic. I lay on the dog’s shoulder, thinking I should get up and go to bed before I fell asleep on the floor, when my cell phone rang. To Peppy’s indignation, I stopped petting her and got up to retrieve the phone from my handbag.

  It was Harriet Whitby, apologizing for calling so late, but she and Amy were at the hotel waiting for me; did I still want to see them?

  I was about to moan that I was too tired to move, but then I remembered that the DuPage state’s attorney was going to ask the Whitbys to return Marcus’s body. I needed to talk to Harriet tonight, so she didn’t learn about it from some functionary. In case the Feds were really monitoring my calls, I didn’t want them to learn that I had already organized a full autopsy. I told Harriet I’d be at the hotel in half an hour.

  When Mr. Contreras realized I was going out again, he tried to argue me out of it: it was late, I was beat, I shouldn’t be driving. I agreed with all of those things, but said I would take a cab. It’s one of the few benefits of living in Chicago’s most congested neighborhood, that taxis cruise the streets at all hours. Mr. Contreras and the dogs walked down to the corner with me and waited until a cab pulled up in front of a new hot spot at Belmont and Sheffield. He ushered me in with the assurance that he would wait up for me.

  The usual Saturday-night eaters and drinkers filled Belmont. Cars honked, crowds spilled across sidewalks into the streets. As we crawled east, I kept looking out the back, wondering if the law was following me, but the SUV immediately behind us made it hard to see anything else. I finally decided it didn’t really matter if the FBI knew I was going downtown and dozed off again until we reached the hotel.

  The Drake’s lobby is at the top of the kind of staircase Audrey Hepburn

  was always climbing in Roman Holiday or How to Steal a Million. A princess could negotiate those stairs in high heels with ease, but a tired detective had trouble lifting one leg after the other. “I could have slept all night,” I sang to myself, “and still have begged for more.”

  Harriet and Amy were on a couch in the small lobby at the top of the stairs. When she spotted me, Harriet sprang up to greet me, clasping both my hands in her own, then exclaiming remorsefully when she saw the purple hollows under my eyes.

  “This is the second time I’ve called you late after you’d been wearing yourself out on my family’s account; I’m so sorry-this could have waited until morning.”

  I smiled in reassurance. “Something came up tonight that you should know about, anyway. Where can we talk quietly? Your room?”

  “Mother keeps coming into my room if I’m there. She and Daddy are thinking of flying home Monday, regardless of what Dr. Vishnikov discovers, and she’s fretting about the travel arrangements.”

  We found a corner table in the Palm Court, which was kept dark in the tradition of the old bars of the fifties. We sank into velvet plush and tried to see each other by the light of little tabletop fixtures. When a waitress materialized out of the gloom and Harriet ordered herbal tea, I started to follow suit, then realized I wanted whisky. Black Label might put me to sleep before we finished talking, but I wanted that glow of warmth to soften the knots between my shoulder blades.

  We talked idly while we waited for our drinks. Amy had spent the afternoon hiking in the dunes southeast of the city; Harriet and her parents had met Aretha Cummings, Marc’s research assistant. Aretha had brought them some of Marc’s private things from the office. A nice young woman, clearly grief-stricken, Mother had wondered if Marc and she had been dating.

  “And me, I spent the day dodging shots from three law enforcement agencies.” The drinks arrived and I took a welcome swallow. “If you heard the news, you may know an Egyptian kid was hiding in the house on the estate where Marcus died. The police and the Feds now are imagining that the kid, his name is Benjamin, killed Marcus. And since that’s the track their minds are running on, they will be looking for a connection between

  the two. They’ll wonder if Marcus was writing about would-be terrorists in Chicago; they’ll wonder if Marcus had a political involvement with a terrorist group.”

  Harriet let out a muffled cry. “Marc with terrorists? No and no and no. If you think that for
even one minute-“

  “I don’t think that. But you need to be prepared for that kind of question from the police tomorrow, or whenever they try to talk to you. And another thing: now that the law has decided to take an interest in your brother’s death, they want to reopen the autopsy. They agree they did a superficial job the first time round.”

  “But-you know Dr. Vishnikov is already doing that. Didn’t you speak to him this afternoon?” Harriet said.

  “Oh, yes. And maybe he’s already done what he needs to do-barring results from the tox screens. But if he hasn’t, it’s up to you, whether you want to give your brother’s body back to the DuPage County ME. If you don’t, keep them away until Vishnikov is done: he’s such an eminent pathologist, even the FBI will accept his findings. Also, since you’re paying Vishnikov, he’ll have to tell you what he discovers. If you send your brother back to DuPage, they’ll do the work for free-free for you, I mean-but they may not share their results with you.”

  Couched in those terms, the decision to keep Vishnikov on the job seemed the only sensible way to go. Of course, I had an agenda, too: I wanted the autopsy results, and no one in DuPage was likely to tell me whether they’d drunk coffee for breakfast, let alone what Marcus Whitby had inside him. Harriet didn’t think she would be verytgood at holding off the DuPage County sheriff’s office; I told her she could refer them to me as her legal representative. “I’m used to them being annoyed with me. It won’t bother me to have them add one more count to their list.”

  “I’ll stay with you tomorrow, Harry,” Amy promised. “Unless there’s something Vic needs me to do?”

  I slumped back against the thick upholstery, my eyes shut. It was hard for me to imagine the next day, but I guessed I’d be starting it at the hospital where Catherine Bayard was recovering from her surgery. With an effort, I remembered what Amy had been working on-was it only yesterday?