“Tortellini, bellissima.” I tweaked one of her pigtails.
“That means ‘beautiful one,’ “ Jasmine told Camilla. “I can speak Italian, can’t I, Vic?”
“Molto bene, cara,” I agreed.
“Grazie, Victoria,” Jasmine piped back, then darted off to share her erudition with her mother.
I turned to Phoebe. “You were starting to explain how this rehab project is being funded. Home Free has to raise the money to pay Lamia? Or do they already have it in hand?”
Phoebe raised sandy brows in a warning twitch. “Century Bank, Vic. They feel bad about not being able to fund the original project, so they’re floating a bridge loan.”
“My, my—a bank with human feelings. Who’s signing? You? Lamia? Home Free?”
“We’ll spread the risk, but Home Free has a good track record as a fund-raiser. I don’t think we’re going to be overextended.” Her mouth tightened in anger as the other women—a carpenter named Agatha and a painter whose name I didn’t know—started looking anxious.
“Why are you trying to get everyone so upset, Vic?” Phoebe demanded.
“Less than two days after you told me City Hall was denying your permit, you get the rehab project. That’s the part I don’t get.”
“Suspicious. This girl is so suspicious for a living, she can’t get it out of her system even at a party!” Camilla said to the group. “I get the sweetest birthday present you can imagine, tied up in a bow, and Vic wants me to send it back because she can’t read the ingredients on the package.”
Clarissa, who worked for an accounting firm, spoke sharply to her sister. “If there’s a problem with the funding, you should find out, Camilla. Otherwise you could get squeezed halfway into the project. You know, if you lay out fifty grand on supplies and suddenly the line of credit dies, not only do you have to declare bankruptcy but your name is mud all over town.”
“My lawyers—Capital Concerns’s lawyers—are going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Phoebe said.
“You can write all kinds of guarantees into the contract, but you still spend months going before arbitrators if something goes wrong,” Agatha, the carpenter, persisted. “If Vic thinks there’s a problem, I want to know about it.”
“It happened too fast, that’s all,” I said. “On Tuesday Lamia was dead, for reasons so politically volatile that my usual City Hall source was scared to talk. Was it just a coincidence that twenty-four hours after I started asking questions Home Free came through for you with this rehab job?”
“Maybe you overestimate the power of your questions,” Phoebe drawled. “There is such a thing as coincidence, you know. Let it alone, Vic. This project is too important—not just for the six women in Lamia, but for all the tradeswomen in Chicago. If we can make it succeed it’ll open so many opportunities for them. They’ll find work they just can’t get access to in the current environment.”
She was right. Why did I want to stir that pot? Between Deirdre’s murder, Darraugh’s son, the mess in my office, the upcoming income tax deadline, I had troubles enough to occupy me for some time to come. I held up my right hand, Girl Scout fashion, and promised to leave Lamia’s affairs in peace.
Jasmine brought Camilla’s presents over and stacked them around her on the floor. I joined in the excitement that gifts always arouse, talked to Tessa about her newest commission, and danced with Jasmine in a small space in the front hall.
At five-thirty Conrad asked if we could leave. “I want to get you home in good time so that I don’t have to race to make roll call.”
When we said our good-byes Mrs. Rawlings was desolate. Nothing Conrad said could persuade her I wasn’t deliberately dragging him away early in order to wound her.
18
Police Review
When Conrad dropped me off I managed to slip inside and up the stairs without rousing my neighbor or the dogs. We’d had a run this morning, the dogs and I; I could leave them overnight with a clean conscience.
I pulled the bottle of Black Label from my small liquor cupboard and poured a drink. My unsettled life made me long for security right now: I took out one of my mother’s red Venetian glasses, usually saved for special occasions, and tried to capture her fiery warmth in its refractions.
Conrad and I had kept the conversation light as he drove me north. The only reference to the disagreement between us came after he kissed me good-bye, when he warned me to take Fabian’s peace bond seriously.
“It would be real stupid of you to get arrested under the new stalking law because you think his kid needs protection from him.”
“She does need protection, Conrad. And—just so you don’t think I’m going behind your back—I’m going to call Terry to ask for it.”
Conrad played with my fingers. “I’ve been dreading this case. Not Deirdre Messenger’s death specifically, but what would happen between you and me if you got involved in a police investigation again. You’re so single-minded when you think you’re right. You can’t seem to compromise, and that makes you hard to live with.”
In my living room now I flushed as his words came back to me. But what kind of compromise? I had agreed to make one for Lamia. Let well enough alone for Emily too? I couldn’t.
Looking into the ruby of the glass I could see my mother’s fierce dark eyes. Gabriella had been like some wild bird, choosing a cage as a storm haven, out of bewilderment, then beating her wings so fiercely she broke herself against the walls. If that was what compromise brought, I didn’t want it.
The red glass was bringing not comfort but agitation. I poured the whisky into a tumbler and sat down to call Terry Finchley. The conversation was not warm, but we didn’t part irreconcilable foes. In fact, before we finished Terry even apologized for sending me messages through Conrad.
“Believe it or not, I didn’t mean to insult you. I thought you’d listen to him where you wouldn’t to me.”
“As a favor to you, I’m going to put the best spin possible on that one.” In turn I apologized if my interview with Fabian had landed Finchley in hot water.
“I guess I owe you some thanks,” he said sourly. “Without you I might never have had a private conversation with the chief of detectives.”
“Out of curiosity, whom did Messenger call?”
“Oh, he went straight to the state’s attorney. And when it’s Fabian Messenger backed up by a U.S. senator, even a Republican one, Clive Landseer talks to him in person. He apparently told Fabian he could swear out a bond on you, Warshawski. Then Landseer called Kajmowicz to make sure I wasn’t harassing an important citizen.”
Finchley gave a bark of bitter laughter. “By the time I talked to Messenger this morning he’d calmed down some, but we had to walk on eggs to get him to let us speak to the daughter. Officer Neely handled the interrogation. Frankly, the girl didn’t seem all there. She had the animation of a robot, just mumbling ‘yes’ every time Neely asked her about her old man.”
“He terrifies her,” I said. “I’ve never seen him hit her, but I did come in on him just after he’d smacked Deirdre. With his daughter watching. Who knows how many times that happened? He didn’t have to beat Emily for her to be afraid he’d treat her the same way he did her mother. And I have seen the ... the psychological warfare he uses against her. He used it on his wife too. That’s why I want to make sure he hasn’t coerced Emily into giving him an alibi.”
“Just watch your step, Vic,” he echoed Conrad. “If you go near the kid and he wants you arrested as a stalker or a molester we’ll have to do it.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Terry. Don’t come the heavy cop at me. If I have to leave Emily alone I want some assurance that you guys won’t.”
He paused at that. “I’ll check up on her at school Monday. Even though I don’t share your belief that she’s got a story to tell.”
“How can she know Fabian was home Friday night?” I asked, trying to sound sweetly reasonable, not aggressively hostile. “She couldn’t possibly have st
ayed awake all night long. Which reminds me: Fabian said Deirdre left a note—‘an insolent note’ was his expression—the night she was killed, saying she was going downtown. Did he tell you about it?”
“A note? No.” Finchley was startled. “This is the first I’ve heard about it. I’ll ask Neely, but ... are you positive, Vic?”
“Yes. I don’t make stuff up just to get the cops to pay attention to my suspicions.”
“Calm down. I’m not throwing that particular accusation at you. But why would Fabian tell you something like that and not me?”
I swallowed some of my whisky. “He doesn’t know I date a cop, or even have occasional friendly talks with other cops. It might not occur to him that I’d have the wherewithal to ask. Speaking of questions, you find the murder weapon when you roared through my office?”
“No. Dr. Vishnikov says it was a blunt instrument, but a finished one. A mallet, a bar, a bat—not a raw piece of wood that left splinters in her brains. It wasn’t done with your computer,” he added in what he thought was a joke.
I tried to take it as such, reminding him that he was supposed to return my machine in the morning. He said he’d get a uniformed man to take it to the Pulteney first thing.
“You do know, Vic, our best bet is to find that homeless woman,” Terry added. “You say Deirdre had positive evidence she’d returned to your building. If that’s the case, I’ll bet anything you like she saw whoever killed Deirdre. Always assuming she didn’t kill Deirdre herself.”
I took a breath to keep from howling into the phone. “Terry, I know you’re under unbelievable pressure on this, with Channel 2 giving the latest garish updates every half hour and Kajmowicz watching you. But you’re an honest cop, an honest man. Don’t let the pressure blind you to evidence.”
“Get me evidence and I will believe it—not reports of notes which may or may not have ever existed. And don’t let your own biases blind you to the reality of street life, Vic. Tamar Hawkings wasn’t too balanced when she ran away from home with her children. I checked up on her today. She started in a shelter, fought with one of the other residents, and had to leave. She’s been on the streets for four months now. Even if she’d started out a model of mental health, that kind of life would rock her. And as you learned yourself she’s not the most stable person in Chicago. She could have dived right off the deep end if she thought Ms. Messenger was from the hospital, coming to snatch her kids.”
“You’re right, Terry. But I know Deirdre was expecting someone to join her Friday night. She was keyed up in a funny kind of way.” I shut my eyes, trying to pull Deirdre back into focus. “She thought she was showing someone up, and I have to assume it was Fabian. I thought she was using the search for Hawkings as a front. I’d appreciate it if you took my opinion as having some value. After all, you never talked to Deirdre Messenger.”
“True, Vic. It sounds like I missed a treat.”
We hung up then, while we could still laugh. I prowled restlessly around my apartment. The amount of food at Camilla’s party had been staggering: platters of fried chicken, five kinds of potato salad, mounds of greens, acres of cakes. Even though I’d eaten sparingly, the thought of more food seemed nauseating. I finished my whisky and stared balefully at the papers piled on the living room table. If I wanted to work at home I’d have to sort through those and put them away.
I wondered what would happen if I tried to talk to Emily Messenger at school. Would Fabian have alerted the staff to have me arrested if I lurked about the Midway looking for her? What other approach would get me a credible account of Fabian’s whereabouts Friday night? I could talk to the neighbors, but on a street where mansions float on outsize lots the mark of neighborliness is to pay no attention to anyone else.
I realized I couldn’t bear an evening at home alone,churning thoughts of Conrad and Deirdre. Before I could second-guess myself I picked up the phone and called Lotty. She greeted me with a friendly concern that acted like a balm.
“I’ve been reading about Deirdre and wondering how you were feeling,” she said. “How’s Conrad taking this?”
When I gave her the thumbnail version of what had happened, I got my first sympathetic hearing of the weekend. She had no trouble believing why I’d left Deirdre alone in my office. She had known Deirdre for years and understood the combination of neediness and arrogance that had made her so frustrating.
Finding her sympathetic, I poured out my worries over Deirdre’s daughter. When I described my meetings with Emily, at the dinner party and last night, Lotty clicked her tongue.
“So Sal Barthele was right about Deirdre. I don’t see what you can do, though, Vic. Unless you want to try to find Deirdre’s mother, see if she’s the kind of person who might come to the girl’s rescue.”
That was good, if wearisome, advice. The Herald-Star’s obituary should include the names of surviving relatives. It shouldn’t be impossible to track down Emily’s grandmother. I thanked Lotty, bleakly, and paused, wondering how to end the conversation.
“Maybe you’d like to drop by this evening,” Lotty suggested, brusquely, as though afraid of rebuff. “Or is Conrad entertaining you?”
“Conrad is on night duty. And yes. I’d like to come over. I’m not enjoying solitude tonight.” As I locked my front door I felt closer to peace than I had for weeks.
19
All My Pretty Chickens
and Their Dam?
I spent Monday cleaning my apartment, preparing it for what I hoped would be a very brief stint as a home office. Weeks’ worth of newspapers and magazines infested every surface of the living room. I bagged and carted them to a recycling stand, along with a collection of cans. Interspersed among the magazines, I found old bills, unanswered letters, paper of every description. Gritting my teeth, I paid the bills, wrote letters, polished wooden surfaces, washed plastic or metal ones, put away sheet music, laundered two baskets of clothes.
Once started I couldn’t seem to stop: I scrubbed the bathroom, even the furry mold between the tub and the floor. On my way home from the recycler I bought lye and cleaned out the stove. When I woke up Tuesday morning, between clean sheets, I frowned at the ceiling, wondering what was amiss. The spider thread was gone, I finally realized. I was so used to seeing the shriveled body on her trail of tattered silk that its absence unsettled me.
I lay in bed awhile, basking in the pleasure of cleanliness. It felt like a return to childhood to lie in my perfectly clean, well-scrubbed nest. Darraugh Graham blasted into my calm a few minutes before eight.
“What progress have you made finding a placement for MacKenzie?” he demanded without preamble.
“None,” I said baldly, startled into telling the truth. “A woman was murdered in my office Friday night. That’s distracted me from providing outpatient therapy for your son.”
“That’s not what I’m asking you to do. Just find a charitable organization that needs some help. It can be anything. I’d be happy to see him scrubbing toilets. But I need to see it happening soon.” He sounded like Mitch barking for attention.
“I’ll do my best.” I was annoyed that his top-executive mind could think only of his own problem: a murdered woman, after all, is a little more obstructive than cramps or a flat tire.
“I’d appreciate that, Vic. When you do your best you generally perform very well. But you have a tendency to be flippant and I’m not in the humor for that this morning.”
“Just a minute there, Darraugh. Don’t you ever read anything besides the financial pages? Deirdre Messenger was bashed to bits in my office Friday night.”
“Oh.” His bark subsided to a muted growl. “Fabian Messenger’s wife? I saw the headlines but didn’t read the story. I’ll send Fabian a note. Not that I know him well, but we’ve met a few times. I’m sure it’s put you off your stride, but try to make MacKenzie a priority. I want him back in college. He’s getting on my nerves.”
He’d get on mine, too, if I had to be around him very long, but Darraug
h had hung up before I could commiserate. My calm destroyed, I got up to make coffee and do my exercises.
After a quick run with the dogs I called Marilyn Lieberman at Arcadia House to see if they had any use for a hacker on probation. She turned me down emphatically. Such expertise in programming as Arcadia required was provided by a board member.
“Frankly, Vic, I don’t want a hacker looking at my system. It would be too easy for him to break into confidential files about our women.”
I protested, but feebly: MacKenzie Graham hadn’t impressed me as an icon of trustworthiness. I did try Lotty, for form’s sake, but she didn’t want the kid for the same reason: she wasn’t going to entrust patient records to a hacker.
I pressed my lips together in frustration—with Darraugh for putting me onto a task better suited for Psyche, with myself for needing the money too badly to be able to tell him to take a hike. Before I left the building the mail arrived, compounding my woes: Lakeview had become such a trendy neighborhood my property taxes were being raised a hundred dollars a month. The bank that held my mortgage wrote in ecstatic terms, knowing how pleased I’d be with my valuable property investment.
Mr. Contreras, living on Social Security and a pension,was as sickened by the news as I was. He met me at the mailbox, talking distractedly of how he’d rather live in a car on underground Wacker than move in with his daughter, but where was he going to get another twelve hundred a year? With a heartiness I was far from feeling I clapped him on the shoulder and told him I’d think of something.
I went downtown to the Pulteney to make a concerted effort to pull my accounting files together. Using cold water from the seventh-floor bathroom I removed as much of Deirdre’s remains as I could from my desk. The greasy fingerprint powder covered so much of my office I didn’t even try brushing it away.
Terry had said they would return my machine yesterday morning. I called over to the station to find out where it was. Terry was out. I spoke with Mary Louise Neely.
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