Blacklist

by Sara Paretsky

  and asked if she’d found anything useful about the Committee for Social Thought and Justice.

  She grinned. “I thought we’d never get around to that. That meeting in Eagle River, the one Olin Taverner was interrogating Bayard about, well, Kylie Ballantine was there-“

  I sat up again. “What? You found it in the Congressional Record?” She shook her head. “The University of Chicago archives.”

  She leaned over to pull a sheaf of papers from her briefcase and laid them on the table. Harriet and I bent over them, trying to read them by the flickering bar lights, but couldn’t make out them out.

  I signaled to the waitress for the check, but Harriet took it from me. “You’ve run yourself ragged for me and my family; the least I can do is buy you a glass of Scotch.”

  She signed the bill to her room and the three of us went out to the lobby, where we looked at the documents Amy had photocopied. One was a photograph, blurry in reproduction, that showed a group of African tribal dancers. You couldn’t tell sex, let alone identity, because of the masks everyone was wearing. But stapled to the picture was a letter on Olin Taverner’s stationery, dated May 1957, to the president of the university.

  This photograph was taken on June 14, 1948. It shows Kylie Ballantine and her Ballet Noir de Chicago performing at a benefit for the Legal Defense Fund of the Committee for Social Thought and Justice. This committee is a major supporter of known Communists in the arts and letters. A number of university trustees are my clients. They are deeply disturbed to find that Ballantine is actually teaching at the university. I don’t know what students are learning in her classes, but if parents saw this photograph, and knew that their children were being taught by someone who not only supports Communism but engages in sexually explicit dancing, I doubt they would want them studying at the university-even one with the University of Chicago’s leftist leanings.

  Handwritten at the bottom of the letter was the phrase, “Get someone to deal with this.”

  “So Taverner got Kylie fired,” Amy said. “That’s probably why Marc went out to see him.”

  “Is there any evidence that Marc saw this letter?” I asked.

  She grinned again. “Yes, because you have to sign into the rare books and archives room-not like the rest of the library, where you go in and out on your ID. Marc had been there about three days before he met Olin Taverner.”

  “But this doesn’t prove anything,” Harriet objected. “You can’t tell where this was taken, or who was in it. How could they fire her just because of that?”

  “America in 1956, baby,” Amy said. “Communist? Black? You only needed to whisper it once.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Bedside Manner

  Catherine, you’re lucky to be alive. The sheriff’s police may have been reckless-we agree they were way out of line, and we’ll take appropriate action-but don’t try to hide behind that with me. I know you’re in pain, but I also know you’re lying.”

  Whoever was speaking had a penetrating baritone; it carried easily through the hospital door, which wasn’t quite shut. The volunteer looked dubiously from a vase of flowers in her hand to the door.

  “I’ll take those in for you,” I offered.

  She smiled gratefully and handed off the flowers. Before the private guard stationed outside the door could object, or ask me to identify myself, I was in the room.

  I had spent the night at the Drake. It wasn’t just that I was too tired to take another step, but the thought of going to bed at home under the watchful eyes of the law made my skin crawl. The hotel had toiletries for forgetful travelers like me; I took a toothbrush, toothpaste and comb from the front desk. I had just enough brain function left to call Mr. Contreras so he wouldn’t rouse Freeman, and fell deeply and totally asleep.

  When I woke the next morning in the pleasant, unfamiliar room, I felt a familiar unpleasant stiffness. I groaned my way out of bed to start stretching, and then lay back down, calling the concierge from bed to arrange for a massage. I’d worry about the bill when my American Express statement came next month.

  Breakfast in bed. An hour in the hotel spa, followed by a massage and a makeup treatment. When I put my jeans and sweater back on, I almost looked as though I belonged on the Gold Coast. More to the point, I could move my arms without feeling like someone was sticking a knife into my back.

  Before checking out, I went into the hotel florist and charged an attractive little bouquet to my room. I added a floppy-eared dog. Adorable. Only another sixty-five dollars on a bill long enough that I shoved it into my pocket witlvbut inspecting the total.

  The Drake is only a few blocks from Northwestern Hospital, where Catherine Bayard had been sent. I walked south to the hospital along the lakeshore, the wind tearing at the paper around the flowers. Whitecaps danced up to the breakwater like daredevils, advancing, retreating. Fists of clouds tumbled across the horizon. The air was sharp. I was happy to be alive and walking.

  At the hospital, I found that the Bayard family was guarding Catherine’s privacy; the clerk at the information desk wouldn’t give out her room number. I didn’t argue, just nodded and handed over the flowers. The clerk put them on a shelf with a bunch of other offerings.

  I retreated to a curtained alcove by the front entrance until a volunteer came by to load flowers onto a cart. After that, it was simply a matter of following the flop-eared dog up elevators and down corridors as the volunteer made deliveries. Catherine’s room turned out to be the last one on the route, at the end of a long hall of private rooms. Most of those we passed had their doors firmly closed, but I could see into some, where the chintz curtains and couches made the rooms look more like the high-end hotel I’d just left, not a hospital.

  The room I entered was charming, with armchairs upholstered in the same gold-flowered brocade as the curtains. Visitors could eat or read at the polished side table. The girl in the hospital bed, her shoulder swathed in bandages, her arm attached to an IV, struck a discordant note. So did the man shouting at her; in this setting, one expected visitors to behave with decorum.

  “That Arab boy worked at your school. Don’t expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that he was hiding out in-” He broke off midsentence, as Catherine, who had looked dopily toward the opening door, recognized me and gave an involuntary gasp.

  The shouter also turned to look. He was a lean, tanned man about my age, in a crewneck sweater and jeans, with a shock of thick dark hair. He ordered me to put the flowers down and leave, but I stood rooted to the floor, water slopping over the flop-eared dog onto my hand.

  “Just who are you?” I demanded.

  “Who am IF’ he yelled. “Who the hell are you, barging in here?”

  He strode over to me, grabbing my arm in an effort to propel me out. I leaned against him, a dead weight that made him stagger.

  “We met in Olin Taverner’s apartment Thursday night,” I said. “Now, tell me who you are, and why you’re in this hospital room.”

  He let go of me so fast that the rest of the water sloshed out of the vase. “I wasn’t-who are-” he stammered.

  “You may not have seen my face, but I saw yours,” I said, my voice a nasty whisper. “My next call is to the cops. Your prints must be all over that desk drawer you jimmied. What was in it?”

  “Father,” Catherine Bayard said from the bed in the thread of a voice. “It’s my father.”

  We both turned toward her, guilty that we’d forgotten her lying there. I should have realized he was Catherine’s father from the snatch of diatribe I’d overheard, but I’d been too amazed at seeing Thursday’s head-butter to think clearly.

  I went over to her side. “How are you feeling?” “Shitty. Like I fell off my horse and he danced on me.”

  I smiled. “That’s a rich girl’s image-when I’m injured, I feel like I’ve been hit by a dump truck. I’m sorry you got caught in the fire from those souped-up cowboys Friday night. I was in Larchmont Hall when they shot you.”

  Behi
nd the morphine, her eyes flickered from me to her father. I smiled reassuringly. “The deputies were pretty pumped; I thought they’d been shooting at a raccoon or deer and when they went out to look, I hightailed it back to Chicago. I hope you weren’t lying out in the grass too long before they got you to an ambulance.”

  Her father burst out, “You were in Larchmont? With that Arab terrorist? Are you responsible for-“

  “No, Mr. Bayard, I’m not responsible for your daughter being shot, and I didn’t see any terrorists Friday night. I was in New Solway on Friday for the same reason I was there on Thursday.”

  “And that was?”

  “Investigating a homicide.” I let the words die away.

  “Homicide?” Edwards Bayard looked at me uncertainly. “Are you with the police?”

  “I’m a detective. You may not have heard about the death of a journalist on the Larchmont grounds last week.”

  “Oh, that. When I heard about it, of course I was worried about whether it was safe for my daughter to be out in New Solway, but Rick Salvi says they think this Arab kid did it. The Arab can’t have gone far, unless the gal who was in the house when they surrounded it-that was you, wasn’t it? Did you help him escape?”

  Catherine’s eyes grew larger in her white face; I took her uninjured hand in a light clasp. “The sheriff and the Feds and even the Chicago police figure they can wrap Marcus Whitby’s death up in a nice tidy package with Benjamin Sadawi’s name on the gift card. But they’re overlooking a lot of evidence in that convenient wrap-up, evidence that makes it clear that Sadawi had nothing to do with Whitby’s death.”

  “Evidence? What kind of evidence?”

  I let go of Catherine’s hand to stand next to Edwards Bayard. I spoke to him in my prison yard undervoice so Catherine couldn’t hear. “The law is starting to think Taverner was killed-instead of the popular theory that he died in his sleep. You showing up in his apartment like that, breaking in through the patio, skulking behind the curtains, well, it makes me wonder where you were last Monday night. And last Sunday night, when Marcus Whitby died, for that matter.”

  “Why, you-how dare you?” His eyes blazed with fury, but he also kept his voice low, glancing at his daughter to see how much of our talk she was following.

  “What do you mean, how dare I? You knocked me down in your haste to flee the dead man’s home. And your rightwing think tank is a major

  beneficiary of Taverner’s estate. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t hand you-not to the old family friend, Rick Salvi-but to the Chicago cops, who aren’t going to be nearly so impressed with you.”

  “Get out of here right now,” Bayard roared. “I will not have you slandering me in front of my daughter!”

  “Daddy, please,” Catherine cried from her bed. “Don’t shout, I can’t stand it. And let me talk to her, I want to talk to her.”

  “Not without me present, you don’t. Don’t you understand, Trina, you are in a lot of trouble right now?”

  “Trina’s in a lot of pain, and Sheriff Salvi is in a lot of trouble. Don’t get hysterical, Eds.” Renee Bayard swept into the room.

  She moved me away from Catherine with an imperious glance and felt her granddaughter’s pulse. Although Renee was dressed casually, in corduroy trousers and a sweater, she still wore her mahjongg tile bracelet, which clacked as she felt Catherine’s wrist. I couldn’t help wondering how long she’d lingered outside the door, waiting for the perfect line for a dramatic entrance.

  “It’s not hysterical to be concerned when your daughter lets herself be sucked into involvement with a runaway terrorist-especially when you’re twelve hundred miles away. What the hell were you doing, letting her roam about Larchmont like that in the middle of the night? I agreed to let her stay with you when I took the position in D.C., but if this is what’s going to happen, then as soon as she’s fit to travel she’s moving out there where she can be properly supervised.”

  “Won’t go.” Catherine tried to speak with her usual fire, but her words came out slowly. “Stay with Grample and Granny. Won’t listen to rightwing bullshit night after-“

  “You see?” Edwards Bayard said to his mother. “She lives with you and she loses all respect for my work.”

  “Eds, she’s terribly weak, she can’t think straight right now. Let’s let her rest and sort this out when she’s stronger. And you,” she turned to me. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but it’s time you left.”

  “Want her to stay,” Catherine whispered. “Talk alone. Please, Granny.” Tears trickled down the sides of Catherine’s pale face.

  Renee gave me a look that seemed to question what her granddaughter

  saw in me, but she moved with her usual decision. “You can have ten minutes. Eds, you and I will get a cup of coffee. And find out why the guard let this woman into the room.”

  When the two had left, I made sure the door was shut all the way, then pulled a chair up next to Catherine’s head, leaning close to her so I could speak softly and keep any eavesdroppers from making out my words. “Ben jamin is safe, but I’m not going to tell you where he is. You’ve been gallant and heroic, standing up for him, but the police will be coming through here in waves. You’re Calvin and Renee Bayard’s granddaughter-the cops won’t abuse you-but they are going to question you. A lot. The less you know, the better for both you and Benjamin.”

  “I rescued him. I… have a right-“

  “This situation isn’t about rights; it’s about keeping Benjamin safe until we find out whether he really does have any terrorist affiliations.”

  Her mouth set in a mulish line. “Benji is not a terrorist. I know him. He’s scared. He’s lonely. He needs me.”

  I shook my head. “You can’t take him back to Larchmont. And even if you had some other place to hide him, you’re wounded. You couldn’t look after him. Besides which, the FBI is looking for him. Because they may be tailing me, I’m not trying to visit him. And as soon as you get out of this bed, they’re going to be questioning you. He’s safe where he is.”

  “On your say-so. I looked after him for three weeks and never breathed a word to anyone.” She sat up in bed, her eyes fierce in her pale face. “You can’t just barge in and take him away and not tell me where he is.”

  I shook my head, tired of the orders of the rich, even the young, ardent rich, but I said, “I will tell you if you promise not to try to see him until I let you know it’s safe. And if you agree to answer my questions.”

  She thought it over for a minute, not wanting to give me anything, but finally agreed. When I told her he was at St. Remigio’s, she objected to my putting a Muslim in a Catholic rectory, but, after I’d described Father Lou, she reluctantly agreed it might work. Mindful of Renee’s timetable, I cut short Catherine’s further questions to ask my own.

  “How did you come to take charge of Benji?”

  The ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “In the cafeteria one day. I’d left my books. Room was empty, ‘cept for him. Saw him trying to read…

  out of one of the third-grade books… helped him. After, he’d stop sometimes during lunch… he bussed tables, you know… he’d ask what a word meant… never intruded… I liked him… didn’t know his story… uncle died here… mom home in Cairo… three little sisters… a brother… sending them money… learned that… later.”

  She stopped, panting. I helped her drink some juice and looked at my watch.

  “Yeah, Granny. Can’t fight her… Day they came for him… Benji hid inside our sports equipment shed… Saw me… when I was putting away… field hockey sticks… begged for help. Hid him in the shed… took the padlock key home… Did like you guessed… down the fire escape… took Gran’s car… picked up Benji at Vina Fields… drove him out to New Solway… He couldn’t stay in the sports shed. I knew Larchmont was empty… only place I could think of… We found all that… old furniture in the attic. Turned off… motion sensors for alarm. Brought food… when I could get there.”

>   “But how did you get into Larchmont?”

  “trample did go once… last year… I saw him leave, two in the morning… Theresa didn’t wake up… I followed him through the wood and saw him… go into the house. Grample did have a key for the door, the alarm… that part was true… I don’t know how… he got it… Got Grample home… He does come with me… even when he won’t go… with Granny… Daddy was at home, so I didn’t say… anything… but I kept… the key.”

  “I thought Theresa had an alarm over her bed so she’d wake up if your grandfather left his room in the night.”

  “She does… But sometimes she… has seizures and stuff… she sleeps through alarm… Granny mustn’t know. It doesn’t happen often… Grample likes her… she’s good with him… don’t tell Granny, please.”

  She was growing paler and shorter of breath. I assured her I wouldn’t rat out Theresa to her grandmother, and told her to lie down and rest, that we’d talk more another time. Edwards and Renee came in as Catherine sank back against the mattress.

  Edwards looked at his daughter, lying with her eyes half shut, her face white, and glared at me. “What have you been doing to her?” He bent over

  his daughter and added with surprising tenderness, “Trina, Trina, it’s okay, baby, Daddy’s here.”

  A nurse had followed the Bayards into the room. She pushed past Edwards and Renee and put her fingers on Catherine’s wrist. “She’s all right, just very fatigued. I’m going to give her something to help her rest better, and, for now, no more conversation with her.”

  Edwards turned to me. “What did you do to her?”

  “I talked to her, Mr. Bayard. Just as I plan to talk to you.” My glance swept from him to his mother. “We have a lot of catching up to do, you and I:” Renee’s attention was arrested. “You and my son know each other?” “Not well.” I smiled tightly. “But I hope to change that. We’ve played soccer against each other. Or was it bullfighting? I get the sports confused.” Renee frowned: she didn’t like the tone I was using, or she didn’t like the secret relationship with her son I was implying. “It’s time for you to leave Catherine’s room, but you may wait outside. I want to talk to you about Friday’s events.”