Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  Audrey gave a sharp nod of agreement; Officer Galway, who’d been mute through the interchange, suppressed a smile and made a note. All women have known guys who treat us like so many interchangeable parts.

  “Anyone else on your case these days?” Rawlings asked.

  I gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, my ex. He’s peeved at me, but then that’s a chronic state with him.”

  After all, Dick had been laying down the law with an iron fist this afternoon. He’d even told me to mind my own business, the same words the thugs used to Lotty. For an evil minute I was tempted to present a damning case against him to Rawlings, just for the inconvenience of having the cops rooting around his life for a few days. But really, I didn’t hate him—it wasn’t worth the energy to be so spiteful.

  “You know what they teach us at the academy, Ms. W.—stay out of domestic quarrels unless you absolutely can’t avoid ’em. You never told me what you were doing to get this Chamfers so agitated.”

  “Oh—that was Mr. Contreras.” I explained about him and Mitch. “Terry Finchley’s handling the case for Area One. I haven’t talked to him for a few days. Maybe he’s found someone who saw Mitch go into the canal.”

  “If the Finch is on it, don’t you think you could leave it in his hands?” Rawlings asked dryly. “He’s quite capable, you know.”

  Finchley and Rawlings were active together in an African-American police fraternity. Each took a D’Artagnan-Athos view of slights toward the other.

  “Your turn to give me a break, Sergeant. I know Finchley’s a good detective, but I do wonder how much time he has to investigate a drunk rolling. And that seems to be how the department has tabbed it.”

  “And you don’t?” Rawlings asked sharply.

  “I don’t have any evidence, Sergeant, of any kind, about anything.”

  But I had a lot of nagging questions, with the attack on Lotty heading the list. I was desperate to find some lever for prying Chamfers’s mouth open. Someone down there had seen Mitch, someone knew what he was mumbling on about. Something they didn’t want me to find out bad enough that they’d hire thugs to beat me up? Something so potent they knocked Mitch on the head and rolled him into the canal?

  I looked up to see Rawlings staring at me narrowly. “You’d better not be concealing something I want to know.”

  “I know you well enough to like you, Sergeant, but not nearly well enough to figure out what kinds of things you want to know.”

  “Yeah, bat your baby blues at me. I think I’ll just check in with the Finch, see what he’s dug up on Kruger.”

  He busied himself with his lapel mike; a couple of minutes later Lotty’s phone rang. Max, on his way back from the bedroom, reached to answer it. His face registered annoyance when Rawlings snatched the receiver from him, but he moved over to Audrey without saying anything.

  Max and Audrey kept up a low-pitched conversation while Rawlings told Finchley about the attack on Lotty. Officer Galway got up to look at Lotty’s books. With Rawlings’s attention on his phone conversation much of her stiffness left her; she seemed young and rather frail for the weight of her equipment belt.

  I moved restlessly to the bedroom to look at Lotty myself. She was breathing evenly, if deeply; her skin felt a little hot to my touch. When I came back to the living room Rawlings was still on the phone.

  “So you want to check on this guy, this Simon, whose last name Warshawski doesn’t know? What’ve you dug up down there?”

  The next few minutes were a series of grunts. Before he hung up I tapped him on the arm.

  “Mind if I ask a question, Rawlings?”

  He covered the receiver with one large palm. “I’ll be glad to pass it along, Ms. W.”

  Even good cops like to play power games. I curled my nose and turned away. “It’ll keep until morning. Tell him I said ‘hi.’ ”

  Rawlings tapped my arm. “Don’t get on your high horse, Ms. W. Enough bad will around here tonight already.… Terry? Vic Warshawski wants a word with you.”

  “Hi, Terry. How’s it going? Did you locate Mitch Kruger’s son?”

  “You feeling good tonight, Vic? I did ask—beg—you to leave the investigation to me. Now that Dr. Herschel’s been hurt, can’t you understand why?”

  I stiffened, but kept the anger out of my voice. “I didn’t authorize the attack on her, Terry. You change your mind about Mitch? He didn’t fall drunk into the canal after all?”

  “I told Rawlings what progress we’d made on our investigation. If he wants to pass it along to you that’s his decision.”

  “A citizen gets attacked and you guys turn ugly on me. I guess there’s a connection, but it’s not especially attractive. Before you hang up all hot and bothered, did you ever locate Kruger’s son?”

  Finchley breathed heavily. “He’s been gone thirty-five years. I didn’t think we needed to invest resources into tracking him down. Are you working on a theory that he came back to Chicago and killed his old man in a fit of rage over some hurt that happened all those years ago?”

  I couldn’t help laughing a little at the idea. “Gosh, I don’t know. It’s neat—I like it. If it was Ross Macdonald I’d even believe it. Just wondering. You want to talk to your buddy again before I hang up?”

  Rawlings snatched the phone back from me. After a few more grunts he finished with, “You’re the boss, Finch,” and hung up.

  “So what have the police found out about Mitch Kruger?” I asked.

  “They’re following some leads, Ms. W. Give them time.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Rawlings. I’m not the local news. They haven’t done anything, for the simple reason that his death doesn’t seem important. Why can’t you spit it out for a change? Have they even canvassed the neighborhood?”

  His brown eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

  I smiled. “A week of my pay against a week of yours that they haven’t talked to the neighbors.”

  His face loosened into a reluctant smile. “Don’t tempt me. Terry talked to your boy Chamfers. Chamfers acknowledges that Mitch had been around trying to cadge some odd jobs, but said he’d never seen him himself—just heard from the foreman. Even if they were hiring, he says he wouldn’t take on a guy as old as Kruger and a drunk in the bargain. The Finch is going to follow up on this dockhand who got so pissed at you, but he doesn’t see a tie-in between the attack on the doc here and the plant.”

  “So why did he chew me out over it?” I demanded.

  “Maybe he doesn’t like you riding his tail. None of us enjoys it too much.”

  “Well, there’s just one of me and ten thousand of you, so I think you guys can hold your own.”

  A quiet snort behind us from Officer Galway made Rawlings turn around. “You want something, Officer?”

  She shook her head, her small oval face so devoid of expression that I thought I’d imagined the snicker.

  Audrey patted Max’s hand and came over to me. “And I think all of you can look after yourselves too. Vic, will you bring Lotty over to Beth Israel in the morning for X rays and stuff?”

  “She okay? She felt feverish to me.”

  “She probably is a little. If she seems to get really hot or terribly restless in the night, give me a call. Otherwise I’ll see you in the morning. Say around ten?”

  I agreed and saw her to the door. Max decided to escort her to her car—Lotty’s street isn’t the most savory place to be alone in the dark.

  I watched from the window with unseeing eyes, wondering who had gone to Mrs. Polter’s posing as Mitch Kruger’s son. Even if Finchley hadn’t tried locating him the son might still have heard about Mitch’s death some other way. Maybe through Jake Sokolowski. Since Jake and Mitch had lived together recently, Jake might have known how to get in touch with Mitch’s old family. Even so, the son would have had to work some travel miracles to get to Mrs. Polter’s so fast.

  “What’s on your mind, Ms. W.?” Rawlings said sharply.

  I shook my head. �
�Not much. I’d like to get some sleep, tell you the truth.”

  He snorted. “Tell it for a change. I’ve been around you long enough to tell when you’ve suddenly felt a rabbit wriggling around in your hat. You can’t wait to be by yourself so’s you can pull it out and take a look at it. If you decide to share your little magic trick, call me in the morning. Galway—let’s pack it in.”

  After he and the officer left I felt suddenly exhausted. Max helped me drag the mattress from the daybed into Lotty’s room.

  “You’ll wake me if something goes wrong?” he demanded.

  “Of course, Max,” I said gently. It was only worry driving him, after all.

  He smoothed her forehead with one square hand and went to the spare room.

  23

  Stiffed by Technology

  Lotty made it safely through the night. She woke up around eight in a lot of pain, prepared to be grumpy. I moved the mattress back to the living room and helped her get dressed. Max brought her coffee and toast. She rejected the first for being too weak and the latter as too black.

  Max kissed her on the side of the neck. “I didn’t sleep last night, Lottchen, too worried about you. But if you’re this rude I know you must be all right.”

  She gave a twisted smile and put out a hand. I didn’t think I was necessary, either for the rest of that scene or for transporting Lotty to the hospital—that was clearly a duty Max was longing to take over. Telling Lotty I’d check in with her later I retrieved my car keys from her handbag and left.

  I didn’t have the patience today to save money by riding the CTA—I flagged a cab on Irving Park and headed for home. I hadn’t had much sleep—every hour or two I’d imagine that Lotty had cried out and would sit up on my mattress, wide awake. After brushing my teeth and showering I was tempted to climb into my own bed for a real nap, but there was just too much to do.

  I called Luke Edwards, who looks after my car for me. He’s a terrific mechanic who has the outlook of a mortician. I cut off his gloomy prognostication on my Trans Am before he could turn it into a funeral oration and told him I’d have the car over in an hour. “I’ll need a loaner. Can you give me one?”

  “I don’t know. Not if you drove the Trans Am into a tree, I can’t.”

  “Yeah, well, someone else was driving and the person who smashed into it did it on purpose. Do you have something I can borrow?”

  “I suppose. Got an old Impala. It’ll seem like a boat to you after driving that little Pontiac, but I’ll bet you anything the engine runs better.”

  “I’m sure it will,” I agreed hastily. “See you in an hour.”

  Next I explained my tale of woe to my insurance agent. She told me that before they could authorize any repairs their own inspector would have to look at the car. Not wanting to waste time arguing the point I gave her Luke’s address and hung up.

  Lack of sleep and the number of things I needed to do were making me frenzied. I kept buzzing from task to task, starting things that I couldn’t finish. I looked up Eddie Mohr, the guy whose stolen car had rammed the Trans Am. Before calling him I remembered I wanted to get in touch with Freeman, and dropped the city directory to hunt for my address book. In the midst of my search I wondered if I should go see Mr. Contreras, get him to check on whether Jake Sokolowski had rousted out Mitch Kruger’s son in Arizona.

  And what about my gun? If someone was peeved enough with me to go ramming my car and assaulting the driver, I ought not go out unarmed. I went to the safe I’d built into my bedroom closet and took out the Smith & Wesson. It’s the one thing in the house I always keep clean: an automatic that jams causes a lot more grief to the shooter than the shootee. Just to be sure I took it apart and started working a rag through the barrel. The methodical work helped steady my frenzied brain.

  I was reassembling the gun when my phone rang. I carefully slipped the magazine in and reached across the bed for the phone.

  “Vic! Freeman here. I left a message with your answering service. Didn’t you get it?”

  “Sorry, Freeman. I haven’t checked with them.” Before he could expostulate on my untidy business habits I explained about the accident to Lotty. “You must be a mind reader—calling you was my next to-do. Where are you?”

  “Minding my own business in Northbrook. What the hell do you want with Diamond Head’s directors?”

  I’d been sprawled across the bed since reaching the phone, but at the vehemence in his voice I sat up straight. “Material to an investigation I’m undertaking. Why do you care?”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to spin me around without telling me the rules of the game you’re playing, would you?”

  “No games here, but it sounds pretty playful at your end. I went to your office without knowing your pals had locked the door after you. When I saw Catherine, she offered to do a search for me. Tell me how that spins you around.”

  “It’s time you got your own computer, Warshawski. I’m not going to do that kind of errand for you. We may not have parted in the way I’d like best, but I’m not going to sign onto a vendetta against my partners. Former partners.”

  I clutched my hair, trying to steady the wobble in my head. “Why is it a vendetta for me to look something up on Lexis—to ask you to look it up, I mean.”

  “I wish I could see your face, V.I. I just can’t be sure.…”

  “About what?”

  “About the purity of your heart. You’re not always as frank with your own counsel as a lawyer could wish. Get your own computer,” he repeated. “That’s my best advice for you today.”

  He hung up while I was still fishing around for a response. I stared at the phone, too astounded even to feel angry. Dick must have called him to read him the riot act, but why would that make him treat me to such a tirade? Nothing Dick had ever said or done in the past had had that kind of effect on him. The parting from Crawford, Mead must have been exceedingly painful.

  I wondered what would take longer—driving the four hundred miles to Springfield and back to look at the paper copy of the corporation files, or buying my own machine and figuring out how to dial up Lexis. I phoned Murray at the Herald-Star.

  “You know Lotty Herschel got beat up last night?” I said without preamble.

  “Christ, Vic. I’m fine, thanks—how are you? Glad to see you’re not bearing a grudge from the other day.”

  “I should be—you ate my sandwich, trough-hound. You care about Lotty?”

  “Lots. How is she? How did she get beaten up? Where did it happen?” He sounded as though he was choking down a doughnut as he spoke.

  “I’ll tell you the whole story when you’re through with your current snack. Only I need to come down and look at something on Lexis.”

  “You never call just to say hi, Warshawski. It’s always because you want something.”

  The buzzing in my brain was starting to concentrate into a throb over my right temple. “Maybe if you hadn’t been drooling at my bedside every time I had a close call the last few years I’d feel more like a friend and less like a piece of meat at a barbecue when we talk.”

  He paused a second, trying to decide whether that was a justifiable complaint. “Tell me what you want to know and I’ll dial it up for you.”

  “N-o, no. You wouldn’t give me the time of day over Pichea and Mrs. Frizell. I’ll tell you what happened to Lotty, but the rest of my business is my business.”

  “I can get one of my gofers to find the story on Lotty.”

  “True,” I said, “but they wouldn’t have any of the inside details. Like how she happened to be driving my car. Stuff like that.”

  “Oh, screw you, Warshawski. Lotty’s important to you, but she’s not big news in this town. And I know neither of you will let me in with a camera. But come on down here. Let’s get it over with.”

  “Thank you, Murray,” I said meekly. “See you in two hours, okay?”

  He grunted. “I won’t be here, which maybe is just as well. But I’ll fix you up with Lydia C
ooper. Just ask for her when you get to the second floor.”

  It’s hard to have a professional relationship that turns personal, although maybe the other way round is worse. When Murray and I first met a decade or so ago we’d felt a mutual attraction and had become lovers for a time. But our competition over the financial crime we both cover soured our private life. And now the memory of our love life gave a sour tinge to our professional dealings. Maybe I needed to invite him out for dinner and talk it through. That would certainly be the mature thing to do, but I was still a year from forty; I didn’t have to be mature yet.

  I stuck the gun in my shoulder holster and went down to Mr. Contreras’s place. He was dismayed by the news about Lotty. I went through the details with him several times; on the third recital he suddenly realized I might be in danger.

  “And you’re just going to romp around the streets with no one looking after you.”

  “No one can look after me,” I said. “Even a bodyguard can’t protect you if someone is determined to get you. Look at whatsisname—the mobster who was gunned down in Lincolnwood.”

  “Alan Dorfman,” he supplied. “But even so, doll—”

  “Even so, I don’t see the point of you coming along and getting hurt too. You’ve taken a bad hit on the head and a bullet in the shoulder from getting too close to my problems. The next time someone assaults you I’m going to have to hand in my license and find a new career.”

  “I just hate sitting on the sidelines,” he muttered.

  I put a sympathetic arm around him—I sure knew that feeling. “There is something you could do.” I told him about the guy who’d come by Mrs. Polter’s claiming to be Mitch’s son. “Can you talk to Jake about that?”

  He brightened somewhat. It wasn’t as good as the possibility of slugging someone with a pipe wrench, but at least it was action. I told him I’d be out all day, but I’d check in around five.

  “Mind you do, doll. Maybe you could call me around one or something—I don’t want to spend the whole day wondering if someone took after you with a bulldozer.”