Tunnel Vision

by Sara Paretsky

  After leaving me on hold for fifteen minutes she came back with more annoying news. “It’s still in the evidence room. I’ll get someone to bring it by later today. You’re not in your office, are you? You know that’s a crime scene: you shouldn’t be disturbing it.”

  “And what are you wonder workers doing with it?” I snapped. “Are you going to pay my IRS penalties if I don’t get my taxes filed on time?”

  I called my accountant, who told me I could get a filing extension—but only if I paid what I owed by the fifteenth. After three hours of sorting papers, trying to figure out what unmarked papers belonged to ninety-one, versus those that stretched back to the Mesozoic, I’d had enough. Too much. I’d hire a temporary accounting clerk to help me finish the mess later in the week.

  Unfortunately, when I started calling agencies I found that everyone else in Chicago had a similar need in tax season: the soonest I could get someone would be next Saturday, and I’d have to pay double overtime. I thought of my property tax bill and decided to come back in the morning to finish the work myself.

  After that I went to the public library to go through the newspapers in an effort to locate Deirdre’s mother. The obituaries, while giving her name—Elizabeth Ragwood—didn’t give her home. She wasn’t listed in the city or suburban directories. I left messages with a couple of newspaper friends, asking for help, but didn’t hear anything before I left for home.

  I stopped at Mr. Contreras’s before going up to my own place. “I’m running with the dogs: I need to clear my mind and straighten out my body. Then I’m going to get something nice for us for dinner—let’s pretend we’re plutocrats who can eat lobster and champagne when we feel like it.”

  “No, don’t go adding any more to your debts, doll. Let’s just have pizza or Chinese takeout or something.”

  I kissed him lightly. “Leave it to me.”

  On my way back from the park I stopped at the high-end grocer near Fullerton for scallops and a bottle of Taittinger. As I drove home I hummed the snatch of an old song of my mother’s, about a fisherman who caught a whale and kept it in a bucket where it cried out of its blue eyes not to be eaten.

  The song died on my lips when I pulled up across from the building. A police car, unmistakable with its bristling array of aerials, was parked in front. Terry Finchley opened the driver’s door. Before he had his feet on the ground Fabian Messenger had bounded from the passenger side. I went on up the walk to the front door. If they had business with me let them come to me.

  “Vic!” Fabian ran after me. “Vic, please—give me back my daughter.”

  His voice was cracking with grief. I stared at him dumbfounded. When Terry caught up with him he gave me a look of controlled fury that astounded me. Officer Neely, standing behind him, looked equally somber.

  “What gives, Detective?” I asked. “Has Fabian here joined the force?”

  Terry didn’t smile. “We talked about this Sunday, that you needed to stay away from Emily Messenger. I thought you promised Conrad—”

  Anger swept over me. Calling the dogs to heel, I wheeled around and stormed into the building. Mitch, less disciplined than his mother, stayed behind to sniff the newcomers. When he saw the door shut on him he gave an outraged yip. He jumped up, his forepaws on the outer door momentarily blocking Finchley and Fabian’s entrance.

  Mr. Contreras bustled into the hallway. Naturally he’d been watching the tableau unfold from his living room window. He hurried down the half-flight of stairs to the lobby door.

  I cut off his “what’s going on, doll” midstream. “I’m going upstairs and locking myself in my apartment. Will you wait until you hear my door shut to get Mitch? If Finchley wants to talk to me he needs a warrant.”

  I was halfway up the first flight by the time I finished speaking. Mr. Contreras followed, fretting with incomprehension, as someone began an energetic tattoo on the inner door. Mitch, furious at his exclusion, let out a thundering roll that drowned out Mr. Contreras’s worried questions.

  “Just give me thirty seconds,” I shouted at the old man, pushing him away from me.

  I ran up the stairs two at a time. Seconds after I’d secured the locks Terry pounded on my front door. I went to the bathroom to sponge off. I would have loved a shower—the dogs and I had run hard—but my sangfroid didn’t extend to standing naked in the bath while cops surrounded me.

  My front door has a steel panel in it. Terry would have to shoot out the locks to get in. He wasn’t that kind of cop, but I still wanted to be fully dressed as soon as possible.

  In jeans and a sweater, with a jacket in case I got hustled downtown too fast to grab a coat, I opened the door the length of the chain—the steel plate made it impossible to speak through it shut. The chain admitted a crack of air about a quarter inch wide, too narrow for a gun muzzle, say, but allowing conversation.

  “What is it, Terry?”

  “Open the door, Warshawski. You’ve pushed this past the joke stage. Way past. I have a warrant for your arrest, for violating the peace bond forbidding you from having any contact with Fabian Messenger’s daughter.”

  “What happened? Did she intercept my thoughts?”

  “I told you this has gone five miles beyond funny. If you think Conrad will protect you—”

  “I haven’t asked a man to protect me since my daddy walked me home past the thugs in seventh grade. If you can’t tell me in a simple, civil way what the problem is, and ask me what I know about it, I guarantee I will make you a laughingstock in this town before the ten o’clock news goes on the air. And you can see what the chief of detectives will do about your career after that.”

  I couldn’t see Fabian, but I could hear him pleading, almost in tears, for news of Emily. Terry turned his head from the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir; I know you’re upset, but can you be quiet for a moment?” When Fabian subsided, Finchley put his face back to the crack. “Don’t make this uglier than it already is, Vic. I have a warrant for your arrest. If I have to break into your apartment to execute it, I will.”

  “Then you’ll have to break in. I’m going to shut the door now. While you’re shooting out the locks I’ll be on the phone to the networks and my lawyer.”

  Through the crack I could make out the outline of Terry’s tightened lips. I thought we had reached an unavoidable showdown when Mary Louise Neely stretched a hand past Fabian to tap Finchley’s arm. The two retreated from my line of sight, to be replaced by Fabian. He started to offer me a bargain, voiding the warrant in exchange for Emily’s immediate release, but the bulk of his plea disappeared under the bellowing of the dogs.

  Great. Mr. Contreras had decided it was time to come to my rescue. I was tempted to walk out the back door and disappear. Not just from my neighborhood, but the city, my job, the whole stupid mess of my adult life. Instead I opened the door and let the raging horde stream in.

  When I’d quieted the dogs I turned to Finchley. “Before you cuff me will you tell me what the hell this is about?”

  His black eyes were hot coals. “Emily Messenger, Vic. Where is she?”

  “I’m not clairvoyant, Terry. Get yourself a medium if you want someone who can answer a question like that out of the blue.”

  “She’s been missing since yesterday afternoon. Messenger here says you know where she is.”

  “Messenger here is pretty damned stupid.” I was too furious to try to help Terry out.

  Officer Neely cleared her throat. “When did you last see—talk to—Emily?”

  “We could have started there and saved a lot of aggravation. I have had no contact with Emily Messenger since Saturday night. I have not spoken to her, seen her, telephoned her, written, faxed, telegraphed, or ... or have I left something out? If Fabian has misplaced her he needs to generate some new ideas about where to find her.”

  “Vic, please!” Fabian cried. “Don’t torture me. And don’t lie. You came to my house Saturday night and tried to make Emily leave with you. Do you deny
that?”

  “No.” I folded my arms across my chest. “And do you remember why I did that? Because I’d seen you hit Deirdre and verbally torment Emily. I thought she would be—”

  “Oh!” An anguished howl burst from Fabian. “Detective, please—do I have to listen to this slander? My daughter’s gone, and all Warshawski can do is make up lies about her.”

  His voice was filled with genuine tragedy. Finchley frowned at me, demanding an answer. Mr. Contreras looked at me sternly. Even the dogs whimpered.

  “Come on, guys,” I protested. “Turn the melodrama down a notch. I have zero idea what’s happened to Emily.”

  Fabian’s throat worked convulsively. “She started crying in school yesterday. When they asked her what the problem was she wouldn’t talk. The only thing she did was ask to speak to you.”

  I folded my arms and stared at him. “So far I haven’t heard about a crime being committed.”

  “The girl went home from school about two o’clock yesterday and hasn’t been seen since,” Finchley said tersely.

  I sat limply in the armchair. “She’s been gone twenty-four hours and you’re wasting time howling at me? Get a grip on yourselves. Talk to her girlfriends, her teachers, search the parks, the lakefront—”

  A pulse began to move in Finchley’s forehead. “Don’t goad me, Vic. She’s a lonely girl. She doesn’t do after-school activities. We spoke to the teacher in whose class she started crying. She says they went to a private room to talk things over, but all the girl would say was that she wanted to see you. But Mr. Messenger had already given the principal a call warning him—at any rate asking him—”

  “You’re damned right I did,” Fabian cut in. “For all the good it did me.”

  “So the staff knew they shouldn’t call me. And they didn’t. Then what? They sent her home?”

  “When she broke down in earnest they tried to find Mr. Messenger and couldn’t. They asked her whom else they could call; she would only give your name. They didn’t have a record of other relatives besides the parents. There’s a housekeeper at the Messengers’, but she doesn’t speak English. The nurse escorted Emily home and left her with the housekeeper.”

  Finchley pulled out a notebook to check where the story went from there. “Oh, yes. We got a Polish translator for the housekeeper. She says the girl went up to her room without speaking. The toddler—Nathan—heard her and demanded to go in with her. When the older boy came home half an hour later, Emily put them in their winter coats and took them out. She didn’t say anything to the housekeeper, who assumed they were walking over to the park where Emily often takes them.”

  I shut my eyes. “I assume you’ve been to the park and asked the housekeeper for the names of any girls who ever came to see Emily.”

  “Of course,” Finchley snapped. “We checked with the neighbors. We called her grandmother. We located two girls who sometimes worked on team projects with her. So we wondered if she’d come to you.”

  I opened my eyes and gave him a sardonic smile. “And naturally you swore out a warrant before talking to the neighbors: the new procedure when hunting a missing person. You check my office? The Pulteney’s address is on the business card I left with her. If she was enterprising enough to start hunting for me that’s where she’d go.” I couldn’t picture Emily being that definite, but I’d never seen her at her best.

  Finchley made a gesture of annoyance. “We started there. And found you’d broken the seal on the door. That’s a felony, in case you don’t remember.”

  That didn’t seem like an important enough issue to debate just now. “What do Emily’s brothers say?”

  “They’re gone too,” Fabian said. “You must know—”

  “All your children have disappeared and you’re wasting time screaming at me? You should be terrified. This is a big city. It’s no place for three children to roam around on their own, especially if they have zero street skills. ... Look, Terry. I’m just about mad enough to sue you for harassment, but we both need to put all this passion to one side and concentrate on the kids. I don’t know where they are. If you decide to arrest me to keep Clive Landseer happy, not only will you regret it, but you’ll be wasting precious time. Call in and get someone to void the damned warrant, and then go find the girl.”

  “I agree, sir,” Neely said, so softly I almost didn’t hear her.

  “We’ll search the premises,” Finchley announced. “Yours and the old man’s. If we find any trace ... ”

  He let the threat trail away. I didn’t take him up: he was losing enough face as it was. He called Lieutenant Mallory, explained the situation, and asked if they’d send over a forensic crew to search both apartments.

  “The lieutenant wants to speak to you,” Terry said stiffly, after a few minutes of saying “No, sir” to Bobby.

  “Hello, Vic. You screwing up my tac unit again?”

  “Hi, Bobby. Good to talk to you too.”

  “So you don’t know where Emily Messenger is.”

  “No, Bobby, I don’t.”

  “You really don’t know where she is? This isn’t jesuitical hairsplitting, where you’ve parked her at Dr. Herschel’s but don’t know at this precise moment whether she’s in the can or in front of the tube.”

  I had to laugh at that but said seriously, “Bobby, I swear by Gabriella’s memory that Emily’s disappearance from home comes as a complete shock to me. I knew nothing about it until Terry showed up just now with her demented father.”

  Bobby was willing to accept that. “I don’t think we need to send a forensic unit over. I’ll tell the Finch that, and I’ll see to voiding the warrant. I didn’t know Messenger had gotten them to issue one. Enterprising citizen, but we’ll overlook it in a man worried about his kids.”

  Or a man able to summon the state’s attorney to his side, I thought sourly, giving the phone back to Terry. Fabian insisted on talking to Bobby himself. He kept repeating his pleas that I be made to understand his grief. Finally, as a sop to his parental feelings, Finchley agreed to search my building.

  I gave Neely my keys to the basement and asked Mr. Contreras if he’d let them go through his apartment as well. While they wasted time poking through closets and under furniture I stayed in my armchair, my anger dying into a shiver of fear for Emily. The world must have seemed a terrifying place when she woke up yesterday. Responsibility for little brothers left solely in her fourteen-year-old hands. No mother, however imperfect, to help deflect the father’s rage. She was a lonely child indeed if I was the only person she thought could help her.

  When Terry finally returned my keys his face was tight with mingled worry and anger. “The lieutenant assures me you’re not lying—that you haven’t given the girl to one of your friends to look after.”

  “That’s correct. I’m not lying, Terry—I wouldn’t put someone through this for my own vanity. What’s the name of the girl’s teacher—the one in whose classroom she broke down yesterday?”

  “She doesn’t know anything.”

  I gave the ghost of a smile. “None of us knows anything. I have to start somewhere.”

  “Alice Cottingham. Sophomore English at University High.” The words came out on a whip end as he hurried out the door.

  Mr. Contreras, overwhelmed by the emotions of the evening, didn’t protest my extravagance in buying Taittinger’s. He finished two helpings of pasta with broccoli and scallops, drained the bottle, had a grappa, and left me with the optimistic news that we’d find the girl and pay our taxes. Not that we had either money or ideas where to look, mind you, but champagne can create the illusion of prosperity and good luck.

  20

  A Bat Out of Hell

  The cold corridors of the high school seemed like a place remembered in a dream. Not that I’d attended this private hothouse: I’d gone to the public school a few blocks from my home. But the bright posters on drab walls, the high ceilings, the planters and bird feeders I spied through doorways provided the artificial cheer of
all large institutions. I felt no rush of nostalgia, only a faint puzzlement that such a place had ever seemed familiar, let alone welcoming.

  Ms. Cottingham’s classroom, which I found after several false turns, looked out on a bleak courtyard. In the summer it might be pretty, but the ground now was a mass of churned mud, littered with the cigarette butts of the school’s unregenerate smokers.

  The room itself held tables and chairs, not the prim one-seat desks of my youth. While I waited for Ms. Cottingham I studied the slogans on the walls, which also contrasted with the conventional proverbs I remembered. “Our visions begin with our desires” (Audre Lorde); “Respect the beauty of singularity, the value of solitude” (Josephine Johnson); and, less earnestly, an unattributed “Elvis Lives.”

  Alice Cottingham swept in as I was flipping through a copy of the Norton Anthology of Poetry left behind on a tabletop. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to her head; fine lines around her mouth and eyes gave an impression of latent humor.

  “V. I. Warshawski? I wanted to meet you, despite Fabian Messenger’s warnings, because I wondered what you’d done to inspire such trust in Emily.”

  I shook her hand. “I’ve only met her twice. Maybe the simple fact that I stood outside her family. Or perhaps my telling her she didn’t have to stay to be abused. You know she’s disappeared—I’m concerned about her. And I feel some responsibility. Perhaps she wouldn’t have run off if I hadn’t told her on Saturday that there were places of refuge for girls like her.”

  Cottingham raised her brows, sandy question marks in her narrow face. “Girls like her in what way?”

  I repeated what I’d observed of Emily in the context of her family—her role as nursemaid, and Fabian’s volatile temper.

  Cottingham shook her head. “News to me. She’s a very intense girl, withdrawn in some ways, more ... I won’t say idealistic—many of the kids here are idealistic—but more intense than most. She’s creative; noticeably so, even in this school where we get a lot of bright adolescents. Her father has always seemed to me, oh, overprotective, not wanting her to take part in normal activities, but not cruel. And in this day and age who can blame a parent for being overly concerned?”