Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  “What care?” I interrupted. “The first thing you two beacons of light did was kill her dogs, the only thing in the world Mrs. Frizell loved. Everything you’ve done since last Friday may be legal, but I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. You stink, Pichea, worse than any heap of dogshit Mrs. Frizell may have left lying around.”

  “That’s enough!” he shouted. “You think your moral superiority gives you the right to break the law? I have papers that prove my right to control who enters this place, and any judge in the city will agree.”

  I laughed. “You have papers? You sound like a pedigreed dog. Speaking of documents, though, where’s Mrs. Frizell’s title? And where’s her passbook at U.S. Met?”

  “How do you know—” Chrissie began, but Todd cut her off.

  “You have two minutes to leave, Warshawski. Two minutes before I call the cops.”

  “So you do have her bank book,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with a wealth of meaning. Privately wondering what possible difference it could make, I sauntered out the front door.

  25

  Sticking to the Ribs

  Mr. Contreras had evidently been on the lookout for me: he was outside his apartment by the time I had the lobby door open.

  “Where you been, doll? You look like the short end of a mud-wrestling match.”

  I patted my sweaty curls self-consciously. “I could ask you the same thing. I thought we were supposed to talk at one to make sure no one had attacked me.”

  “Yeah, I thought it wouldn’t hurt you to get a dose of your own medicine. Not at the time, I mean, but later, when it occurred to me to go see him in person. I thought, well, Vic’ll be worried when she calls—if she calls—and don’t get an answer. But I didn’t have any way of reaching you and I thought, all the times you’ve kept me hanging without word one, it won’t hurt you none to be in a bit of a stew.”

  “Well, I’m glad you had a good time.” I was too tired to fight. “By the way, how long were you gone? Peppy seemed pretty eager to get outside when I stopped by at one.”

  That was a low blow; I was sorry as soon as the words left my mouth. One of Mr. Contreras’s jealously guarded prerogatives is having the dog live with him on the grounds that I’m gone too much of the time to be a fit owner.

  His brown eyes clouded with hurt. “That ain’t fair, doll, when you know I’m here day and night for the princess. I wouldn’t go off for days at a time without a thought for her needs the way—well, anyway, I wouldn’t leave her in the lurch.”

  He, too, was pulling his punches—cutting himself short instead of launching a full-scale attack on my periodic absences. I patted him on the shoulder and turned to go upstairs.

  “Don’t you even want to know what I found out?” he demanded.

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure I do. Just let me wash up first.”

  “I’m barbecuing some ribs,” he called after me. “Want me to save some for you?”

  News about cholesterol and colon cancer had no effect on Mr. Contreras’s diet. In fact, maybe years of spare ribs had made him the hale, fit man he was today. They certainly sounded more comforting after my dreary afternoon than the low-cal, high-nutrition dinner I’d been planning. I thanked him, but warned him it would be a good hour before I’d be ready.

  The bath turned black as soon as I stepped into the tub. I couldn’t soak in such filth. Submerging for a few seconds to rinse the sweat from my hair, I climbed out and emptied the tub, wiping the grimy ring away as the water receded. I turned on the shower, but I’d drained the heater filling the tub and cleaning it.

  Snarling under my breath, I wrapped myself in a towel and went to phone Lotty while I waited for the hot water heater to fill again. When I didn’t get an answer I tried Max’s number. It turned out she had gone up to Evanston to stay with him for a few days. She was doing well, or as well as could be expected, but there was a strain between us—guilt on my part, fear on hers. I tried to patch it as best I could, but we didn’t part in our usual harmony.

  I was shivering by the time we hung up, and was glad to find the water hot again. I stood under it until the shower began running cool, long after the final traces of Mrs. Frizell’s dirt had gone from my hair. Had Todd and Chrissie bested me in yet another encounter, or was I on to something? It’s true U.S. Met wasn’t a great bank, but Mrs. Frizell had moved her account four months ago, long before Todd and Chrissie entered her life.

  Maybe Chrissie worked there—I pictured her going around to all the old people in the neighborhood, getting them to transfer their money to the Met’s noninterest-bearing accounts. I realized I didn’t know if Chrissie worked outside the home. As to the missing title to Mrs. Frizell’s house, maybe that was in a safe-deposit box someplace. Or up by her bed. Since she’d slept with the dogs, maybe she figured her bedroom was the safest place to keep valuables.

  I toweled my hair dry and lay down for a short rest. I still had a third stop to make on my day of burglary, and I wouldn’t be able to manage it in my present shape. The phone woke me at nine-thirty: Mr. Contreras, wanting to know if I was angry and punishing him by hiding out upstairs.

  I sat up groggily. “I fell asleep.” I cut off his apologies. “I’m glad you called—I need to get up. Be down in five minutes.”

  I pulled on jeans and a white cotton shirt with long sleeves—I was still feeling chilly despite the warm summer evening. I looked at the clock again and decided to leave straight from Mr. Contreras’s. Strapping my shoulder holster on, I pushed driver’s license, money, and keys into various pockets. The picklocks dug into my thigh; I took them out and stuck them in the pocket of a denim jacket, which I put on to conceal the shoulder holster. Now I felt hot, but that couldn’t be helped.

  When I got downstairs Mr. Contreras had his door open for me. “You didn’t eat, did you, doll? I’m heating your ribs in my toaster oven right now.”

  He waved a bottle of Valpolicella at me, but I declined. I couldn’t afford to drink anything this late at night if I wanted to be able to move fast. He bustled off to the kitchen.

  I went over to the maternity ward—I hadn’t taken time to coo over the puppies earlier. Their eyes had opened and they were making tentative sorties from Peppy’s side. She watched me closely when I picked them up to stroke them, but it didn’t upset her the way it had when they were first born.

  Mr. Contreras came back with a plate of ribs, some garlic bread, and—in deference to my eating habits—a plate of iceberg lettuce. He unfolded a TV table for me and sat down with the wine. As soon as I saw the ribs I realized how hungry I was.

  “Tell me about your day. You went to see Jake Sokolowski?” I asked through a mouthful of food.

  “No. I just phoned him at Tonia Coriolano’s place. I didn’t figure he’d know anything about Mitch’s kid—none of us did. Mitch didn’t care enough to keep up with the boy and Rosie when they up and left thirty-five years ago.” He swallowed some wine reflectively. “Or maybe he was just too ashamed at not being able to look after them the way a man ought to do—and don’t go telling me women can look after themselves. You marry a woman and get her a baby, you’re obligated to look after them.”

  After glaring at me a minute to see if I would respond to the challenge in his voice, he went on. “No, who I went to see was Eddie Mohr.”

  “Eddie Mohr?” I echoed.

  “The guy whose car was stolen. The one that the guys used for beating up the doc.”

  “I didn’t know you knew him.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure I did, until after I checked with Jake. I mean, it’s not a common name, but there could be more than one.”

  I put down my ribs, controlling an impulse to shout at him. When Mr. Contreras has hot news, he tells it in pieces and usually backward.

  “I’ll bite: Who is Eddie Mohr? Besides owning the death car, of course.”

  “Guy used to be president of our local. He’s a few years younger’n Jake and me, maybe only just turned seventy, so he started after us and
wasn’t in our particular crowd. But of course I knew him, so I went to see him. Got a nice little house on Fortieth, east of Kedzie, lives with his wife, keeps a nice Buick. Besides the Olds that got stolen, I mean. The Buick is his wife’s car, see—the other one, the Olds, that’s his.” Mr. Contreras beamed in satisfaction at being able to report important news.

  “I think I understand. What did he have to say?”

  “Oh, he was real shocked. I just wanted to make sure, you know, that he really didn’t have anything to do with following your car, beating up the doc, that kind of stuff.”

  I had wanted to know those things too. I would have liked to ask Eddie Mohr those questions myself. One reason for doing my own legwork is that the people’s reactions tell you more than their actual words. Of course, I could go see him myself tomorrow. I’d only be the third person to interrogate him, behind the cops and Mr. Contreras. He should have his answers totally memorized by then.

  I started to ask about where Mohr parked the cars—street or garage? And did it make logistical sense that it was the Olds the hot-wirers took? And didn’t it seem like a strange coincidence that the president of the Diamond Head local was involved, however tangentially, in trying to run Lotty over when I was trying to investigate the death of an old Diamond Head employee? But Mr. Contreras wouldn’t be able to answer these questions, and it would only puncture his balloon if I asked them.

  “Was he surprised to see you?” I said instead.

  “Well, naturally, me turning up out of the blue after twelve years, of course he was surprised.”

  “Disconcerted, do you think?”

  He snorted. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at. You mean, did he act like he had a guilty conscience, yes he did—he felt guilty as all get-out when I told him who the doc was and how bad she’d been hurt. But of course he couldn’t know his car would be stolen, let alone it would be stolen to attack her with.”

  “How come he owns two cars and you take the bus?”

  He opened his eyes in astonishment. “You trying to suggest he’s got more money than he should? I could own a car if I wanted to—I sure don’t need two—but what do I need it for? Waste of money, the taxes, the gas, the insurance, worrying about parking it, whether hot-rodders’ll steal it. You think just because a guy gives his life to the union he can’t afford to own a car?”

  I shook my head, abashed. “Of course not. Just grabbing at straws.”

  I picked at the iceberg lettuce. “You know, Terry Finchley didn’t try to find Mitch’s son. And Jake didn’t. But someone claiming to be young Kruger did go to Mrs. Polter’s and ransack Mitch’s room only a day after his body was found. Either the guy did come to town unbeknownst to anyone but Mitch, or someone wanted something out of Mitch’s things bad enough to pretend to be him. I mean, either way, the person knew where he lived. Which meant Mitch had to tell them, because you and he—and Jake—were the only ones who knew.”

  Mr. Contreras cocked an intelligent eye. “You want me to ask Jake did someone call trying to find Mitch’s new address?”

  I hunched a shoulder impatiently. “I suppose. I’d like to come up with some photos, show ’em on the street. You know, we don’t know whether Mitch’s son stayed in Arizona. Hell, he’d be my age—older. He could be anywhere. You remember his name?”

  “Mitch, Junior,” Mr. Contreras said promptly. “I always remember resenting the fact that he had a Junior and I only had Ruthie. Stupid kind of thing. It doesn’t mean nothing, I can see that now, but at the time … oh, well, you don’t want to hear about that.”

  I wiped my fingers on the wet paper towel he had provided. Mounting a search for a person who could be anywhere was way outside my resources—it meant going into state motor-vehicle departments, writing the Pentagon, all kinds of activities I didn’t have time or money to undertake. Still, a picture of Mitch, Jr. would be very helpful.

  “You want to bankroll some ads, since you don’t waste your money on a car? We could run some in all the Arizona papers, and ones around here. You know, if Mitch Kruger, once of Chicago, writes a certain address, he’ll hear something to his advantage.”

  Mr. Contreras rubbed his hands together. “Just like out of Sherlock Holmes. Good idea, doll. Good idea. Want me to take care of it?”

  I graciously gave my consent and stood up. “I’m going downtown and I’d like to go out the back way. In case the boys who took your pal’s car are waiting with another one out front. Can you let me out through your kitchen?”

  “Downtown?” His eyes flicked to my left armpit. “What’re you doing downtown?”

  I smiled. “A little office work.”

  “That why you need the gun? To shoot holes in a letter and hope it’ll go away?”

  I laughed. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I am not going off for a violent confrontation. I’m hoping I won’t see a single soul. But you know my methods, Watson: guys start taking shots at me, or my friends, I don’t walk the mean streets without a little protection.”

  He wasn’t happy; he wasn’t even sure he believed me. But he undid the dead bolts on his back door and walked me to the alley. “I’m gonna fix you up with one of those things the cops carry, so if you get in trouble you can give me a signal.”

  The thought of a twenty-four-hour umbilical cord to the old man made me gulp. I went down the alley as fast as I could, as if to get away from the very air that had carried the suggestion.

  26

  Bad Girls Stay Out Late

  The South Loop is a ghost town at night. Its bars close with the evening rush hour. Although the Auditorium and a movie theater are on its eastern edge and Dearborn Park has sprung up on the south, little night life has spread north of the Congress Expressway. A lot of that is of such dubious quality that you’d rather encounter an actual ghost.

  The address for Jonas Carver—the man Lexis showed as Diamond Head’s registered agent—proved to be just north of Van Buren. I parked the Impala a discreet distance away, waited for a drunk—or perhaps dopehead—to drift across the street, and went into the lobby.

  It was an old building that had been given a superficial rehab—just enough paint to justify a rent increase commensurate with the new construction in Dearborn Park. One of the cosmetic features was a heavy glass door with a double lock: you had to have working keys in both of them at the same time for the door to open. This would be a good test of the range of my picklocks. They had set me back seven hundred dollars, but were supposed to be up to this kind of job.

  I also noted bitterly that the tenant addresses—listed next to a phone outside the outer door—were coded. Doubtless useful for private residents, but if you wanted to see a business, like Jonas Carver’s, how were you supposed to know what floor to go to? Fortunately the building was only eleven stories high—that would cut my exploration time down significantly.

  Just to be on the safe side I dialed Carver’s code number. No one answered. Why would anyone be here at midnight, anyway?

  Looking around to make sure no one was watching me, I set to work on the locks. After half an hour I began to wonder if I should bunk down in the Impala and go in on the coattails of the first person to arrive in the morning. I was also tempted just to pull out the Smith & Wesson and blow the door down. I didn’t think the noise would rouse anyone.

  It was almost one when my delicate probers finally released the spring in the upper lock, enabling me to work the bottom one fairly quickly. The small of my back ached from bending so long. I rubbed it and stretched against the wall, trying to ease out the cramping.

  A small night-light gave just enough of a glow to see the elevator buttons. The lobby was minuscule, about big enough for four people to wait together. I pulled out a quarter and flipped it: heads I would ride to the top and make my way down to Carver; tails I’d start on two and go up. In the dim light I could just make out Washington’s profile. I summoned the elevator.

  The door opened at once. This meant the last person to use it had bee
n heading down, a good sign even though I didn’t seriously expect to encounter anyone. As the door closed on me I saw an address board on the facing wall. I stuck a foot out, got the door open, and leaned out to get Jonas Carver’s suite number. He was on the sixth floor. Whether I had started at the bottom or the top it would have made no difference. Maybe my luck was turning a bit.

  The lock on Carver’s office was much easier to negotiate than the lobby had been. A good thing, since my back protested when I leaned over to play with it. I knelt, trying to find a comfortable working angle, and managed to slide the dead bolt back in about five minutes.

  Carver’s office faced the air-shaft side of the building. No streetlamps bent their rays up here. The only light in the room came from a cursor blinking importunately in the middle distance. I groped my way toward it, found the desk it was sitting on, and fumbled around until I found a lamp switch. I don’t know why I hadn’t brought a flashlight with me.

  The room, which had seemed immense in the dark, showed up small and austere under the lamplight. Besides the metal desk with the computer, it held two filing cabinets and a small table with an electric coffeemaker. A door at the far end led to a second room, presumably Mr. Carver’s personal headquarters. The desk here was veneered in fake wood; an imitation Chinese rug covered part of the floor. Carver, too, had a computer ready for action.

  Information on the companies Carver managed was no doubt waiting behind the blinking cursor and would be revealed at the right command. My computer skills were not my strong suit; figuring out the right command would be a chore. I tried instead to find some hard copy in the filing cabinets, but they seemed devoted to tax laws and government guidelines on how to run closely held corporations. I also found manuals for using the computer. Gritting my teeth I opened the binder and began to read.

  Around half an hour later I figured I knew enough at least to get started. I bowed politely to the computer and asked it for a directory. The machine obliged with a speed and thoroughness that left me thoroughly confused. A line at the bottom asked what I wanted to do—browse, create, edit, save, exit—and blinked impertinently when I hesitated.