Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  41

  A New Breed of Banker

  I stared at the bonds for a long while, trying to will them to reveal something more than their face value. Or face valuelessness. In February Mrs. Frizell had closed her account at Lake View, transferred her funds to U.S. Met, and bought thirty thousand dollars of Diamond Head paper. Since her letter to Lake View explained that she was going to receive 17 percent interest at U.S. Met, it seemed like a fair bet that the bank had sold her the bonds. And that meant … something so ugly I hoped it wasn’t true.

  Mrs. Frizell’s private papers had been safe at the bottom of the lacquered box for some weeks, but I hesitated to leave them there. Since Mrs. Hellstrom thought Todd and Chrissie were sweet, helpful neighbors, she would surely show them the cache, too, if it dawned on them to ask her. I tucked the title and the bonds into my bag, arranged all the canine glory in its proper order, and carefully fit the lid back into its grooves. Just to add to my own reputation for sweet helpfulness, I rinsed the iced tea glasses and left them on the drainboard.

  Mrs. Hellstrom was weeding on her hands and knees when I came back out of the kitchen. “You go through all that stuff, hon?”

  “Yeah. No wonder her son feels so bitter: all her mementos are about her dogs. She didn’t even keep his kindergarten picture. I didn’t know she used to train dogs for show, though.”

  “Oh my, yes.” She sat back on her heels and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I guess that’s why they didn’t bother me as much as some of the other folks around here. I can remember when that yard was spick-and-span and she had seven or eight Labs out there, all perfectly behaved. It’s only been the last few years that she stopped being able to manage them like she used to. Maia Tertz could tell you about it. She used to buy dogs from Hattie, for her family. All her kids have Labs, descended from some of Hattie’s old Labs, my goodness, yes, and I suppose her grandchildren too. I don’t expect young folks like Chrissie to appreciate that.”

  “Chrissie seems to like to help people in other ways,” I ventured. “I hear she has quite a lot of financial expertise.”

  “Maybe, honey, maybe, but Mr. Hellstrom and I, we prefer to make our own investment decisions. We don’t have that much to lose, so we can’t afford to listen to sales pitches.”

  “I took one of the pictures of her dogs. I thought maybe it would perk her up to have it next to her bed.”

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that? That’s a wonderful idea. Just wonderful. And I always figured you for such a snob—sorry, honey, that just slipped out.” She smiled in embarrassment and got back on her hands and knees to continue plucking invisible weeds from around her rosebushes.

  As I walked up Racine to Belmont I felt as though I had a big red X on my bag indicating the location of the bonds. I kept a nervous lookout for anyone who seemed to be dogging me too close. A bus was arriving just as I got to the corner. I climbed on to ride the half mile to the Bank of Lake View, just to be on the safe side.

  Back in its cool, musty recesses I rented a safe-deposit box. Alma let me use her Xerox machine to copy the bonds and the title. I made two sets of copies. One I folded and tucked in the inside of my jacket; the other I placed in an envelope in my handbag. After putting the originals in the safe-deposit box I went back to Alma’s desk. She finished a phone call and looked at me inquiringly. Her warm smile seemed to be wearing a bit thin where I was concerned.

  “You know how Lake View brags about being a full-service bank? I wonder if you’d keep this for me.” I held out the key to the box.

  She shook her head, not even bothering with a smile. “I can’t do that, Vic. It’s completely against bank policy.”

  I tapped my teeth with a knuckle, trying to think. “Could you mail it to me?”

  She made a face. “I suppose. If you address the envelope and seal it yourself.”

  She pulled an envelope from a drawer. I helped myself to a handful of scented tissues from the corner of her desk and wrapped the key in them. I addressed the envelope to myself in care of the owner of a bar I frequent downtown, the Golden Glow, and handed it to her.

  “Now you have to admit that we are a full-service bank. Tell all your friends.” She laughed merrily and put the envelope in a tray marked for outgoing mail.

  “Will do, Alma; you got my vote.”

  I’d seen a pay phone next to the ladies’ room in the basement this morning on my earlier visit. I went downstairs to call Dorothy Fletcher, a broker I know.

  “What can you tell me about Diamond Head bonds?” I asked after we’d exchanged pleasantries.

  “Nothing. Want me to look them up and give you a call?”

  “I’m not real reachable today. Could I hold while you check?”

  She warned me I might have a long wait, but agreed to do it. I ended up watching the walls for nearly a quarter of an hour. Sylvia Wolfe came down to the ladies’ room and we exchanged waves. Nothing else disturbed the basement’s sepulchral air. As the minutes stretched by I regretted not carrying a book with me. Even a chair would have been welcome.

  Dorothy came back on the line as I was counting the number of burned-out bulbs in the basement chandelier. “I hope you’re not thinking of buying these, Vic. They’re trading at nineteen—off a face value of a hundred, of course. That may sound like a bargain, but they didn’t meet their April interest payment and no one here believes they’ll be able to do it in October, either. On top of that they’re unsecured.”

  “I see. Thanks, Dorothy—I’ll resist the impulse.”

  I hung up and massaged my calves, sore from standing so long in one place. U.S. Met had persuaded Mrs. Frizell to put her money into a load of junk. Maybe it was time to pay them a visit.

  The Bank of Lake View stood just across the street from the el. Rather than hike back home for the Impala, I climbed the rickety stairs and rode downtown. The train was one of the old green models, with windows opened wide to bathe the riders in gusts of hot air. These old-fashioned cars make me nostalgic for my childhood, for trips downtown with Gabriella on the old Illinois Central, her in gloves and a pillbox navy hat with a small veil, me on my knees next to the open window, excitedly reporting on the passing scene. The scrub around the tracks used to house pheasants and rabbits; once I saw a raccoon.

  Today there was nothing but pigeons and broken bottles on the rooftops. The only wildlife I spotted was a man with a three-day growth lying next to one of the chimneys. I hoped he was still alive.

  I got off at Chicago and walked west to U.S. Met’s headquarters. They’d always been a maverick, outside the mainstream of Chicago finance—their location a mile north of the Loop was just a physical manifestation of it. They had built themselves a modern building about ten years ago, though, and it rivaled any of the West Loop architecture for gleaming glory. Only ten stories high, it still had all the green stone, smoky curved windows, and brass inlays of the bigger modern towers to the south.

  The owners had been shrewd gamblers on where the city’s growth would take place when they put up the new offices—or their politically connected directors had nudged them in the right direction. A decade ago this area had bordered Skid Row. Now it was home to a high-end retail area that abutted the new gallery district. Judging by the lights at the windows, all ten floors were rented out.

  I presented myself to an information officer in the corner of the chrome and green lobby. “I have an appointment with one of your bankers, Vinnie Buttone.”

  She ran a long magenta nail down a phone list. “Your name?”

  I let out a tiny breath of relief. I’d been ninety-eight percent sure Vinnie was here, but it was nice to be proved right. “Chrissie Pichea.” I spelled it out for her.

  She tapped out Vinnie’s extension. “Someone’s here for Mr. Buttone. Chrissie Pichea.” She stumbled over the last name. I was glad I hadn’t tried “Warshawski” on her.

  She sat silent, perhaps on hold while Vinnie’s secretary found out where he was and whether he would want t
o see Chrissie. He could be anywhere—looking at loan applicants out on a building site, or given U.S. Met’s clientele, a juice operation. Fortunately for me he turned out to be in the building and willing to see his sweet, helpful neighbor.

  The receptionist directed me to a row of elevators artfully hidden behind some columns. I rode to the fourth floor, checked with the receptionist there, and was sent into the inner recesses of the bank.

  The green-and-gold splendor of the lobby was carried out in muted tones in the building’s upper reaches: green plush—with a thin pile as befit the junior level of management that trod it,—and walls covered in a gold fabric-board. A few bright prints on the walls drew the eye and made the long corridor seem lighter.

  Most of the office doors stood open, revealing a phalanx of sincere young men in shirtsleeves and ties talking on the phone. Vinnie’s office, near the end of the hall, was shut. I knocked below the prim black label identifying him as an assistant vice president of commercial lending.

  “Chrissie, hi. Come on over here … I thought we’d be more comfortable—” I turned at the sound of Vinnie’s voice, coming from an open conference room catty-corner to his office. When he recognized me his round face looked glassy with surprise, then shattered into anger.

  “You! What are you doing here? I ought to call security—”

  “I came to see you, Vinnie. Being as how we’re neighbors and we all want to do the neighborly thing for each other on North Racine.” I shut the door behind me and helped myself to one of the fake wicker chairs.

  “I want that door open. I’m expecting someone, and anyway, I don’t want you in the bank.”

  “You’re expecting Chrissie Pichea, but you’re getting me.” I smiled. “I gave them her name downstairs—it seemed like the easiest way to get up here. You and I have so much to talk about I just didn’t think I could wait until tonight.”

  He looked from me to the door, then at a phone in the corner of the small room. “I’ll give you five minutes, then I’m calling the bank security people and you can explain yourself to the Chicago cops. If you haven’t bought off all of them.” He took his heavy gold watch from his wrist and laid it ostentatiously on the table in front of him.

  I dug in my bag for the envelope I’d prepared at Lake View and set it down in front of him, parallel to the watchband. “Even though you were hoping for Chrissie and got me, I think you’ll be pleased to see this stuff. I believe the two of you have been looking for it. This will save you the trouble of trying to arrange another break-in.”

  He shot me a venomous look, but opened the envelope. When he’d unfolded the copies of the title and the bonds his face turned glassy again and the color seeped away from behind the skin. He studied them far longer than the four pieces of paper merited.

  “The test will be tomorrow,” I said brightly. “Got them memorized yet?”

  “I don’t know why you think I’d be interested in these things,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

  “Oh, I expect because you, or someone you know, came busting into my place Friday night looking for them. Come to think of it, it must have been you—you’d know when I was away. Talk about police—I ought to bring them over here. I couldn’t figure out what you might want, but when I found these I had to believe I’d hit the jackpot.”

  He suddenly picked up the papers and ripped them across.

  “Not very bright, Vinnie: you must be able to see those are only copies. And now you’ve proved they’re important to you.” I watched his lips move wordlessly. “Let’s talk about the Diamond Head bonds. Did you sell them to Mrs. Frizell?”

  He shook his head, still without speaking.

  “Did you get Chrissie to sell them to Mrs. Frizell? … Am I getting warm?”

  “I didn’t get anyone to sell them to her. I don’t know anything about them. I don’t even know they’re hers: bonds don’t have their owners’ names on them.” His voice gained strength as he spoke; he sounded positively pompous on the last sentence.

  “You don’t find the fact that they’re with her house title suggestive? Or the fact that I discovered them nestled together in Mrs. Frizell’s box of most treasured possessions?”

  “Yeah, I know you: you’d say anything. Like accusing me of breaking into your apartment just now. But the Picheas are the old lady’s legal guardians. If these things had been in her house they would have found them.”

  I smiled. “They weren’t in her house though.”

  “Where—” he started to blurt out, then stopped before completely betraying himself.

  “Where were they? Ah, that’s why it pays to get a professional investigator when you’re after this kind of treasure. You have to know where to look.

  “Let’s talk about the investment advice you and Chrissie have been spreading around the neighborhood. Mrs. Tertz, Mrs. Olsen, Mrs. Hellstrom, they all agree you’ve been coming around filled with helpful hints—how they can beat their CD rates by ten points. I have an ugly feeling that if they’d taken you up on it they’d have some Diamond Head paper too. Was this your own idea, or did the bank send you out to do it?”

  He picked up his watch. “You’ve had your five minutes. Now I’m going to call security. And I’ll be meeting with a lawyer to talk about you slandering me.”

  I grinned derisively. “Just don’t make it Dick Yarborough or Todd Pichea. They’ve got enough to do these days. Now, if you call security, I’ll ring up the feds. They’re very interested in your kind of sales help. And they can subpoena bank files, which I can’t.”

  He looked longingly at the phone, but couldn’t quite make up his mind to dial. “What do you want, anyway?”

  “Information, Vinnie. Just information. I’ve figured out a fair amount, you know: you peddling Diamond Head’s junk, Todd and Chrissie taking over Mrs. Frizell’s assets.… So they could get rid of the bonds before anyone saw them? Or just mortgage her house and then sell it off so she can’t spoil Yuppieville anymore? And I figure Todd’s law firm did the legal work when Jason Felitti debt-financed Diamond Head. And since Jason sits on the board here at U.S. Met, he must have got the bank to take on some of the junk. So he gets eager young bankers like you to sell it in your spare time. I see you guys going door to door, kind of like the Girl Scouts.”

  And where was Dick in this scenario? Surely not asking Todd Pichea to sell Diamond Head bonds to the little old ladies in his neighborhood. I surely couldn’t have been in love once with someone who would carry on like that.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you. It’s time for you to leave.” Vinnie’s voice came out in a hiss.

  He didn’t try to phone the bank’s cops, but he wouldn’t talk, either. I kept at him for half an hour, alternately cajoling and painting a picture of his probable future in the federal pen, but he didn’t budge. When I finally got up to leave he was still staring ahead, glassy-eyed.

  42

  Needling the Fourth Estate

  Back in the muggy sunshine, exhaustion overwhelmed me. It was only twelve-thirty, but a fight with Dick and hard work at two banks made me want to go back to bed. I still needed to canvass some of my neighbors and try to talk to Murray Ryerson this afternoon before Mr. Contreras and I went off to meet Eddie Mohr. And I wanted to get hold of Max Loewenthal. My body couldn’t be allowed the luxury of wearing out so early.

  I hiked back to State Street and started down the stairs to the el. The thought of the long trek home from Sheffield seemed too much. I turned around and waved down a cab. The driver, who swayed and pounded the steering wheel in tune to the beat booming from his stereo, had a serene disregard for any other traffic. On the short stretch from LaSalle to Fullerton he managed to get up to seventy. His anger at my request to slow down was so menacing that I slid out when he stopped at the light on Diversey, tossing the amount of the meter onto the seat next to him. His screaming, mixed with the booming of his radio, followed me as I crossed the street to board the Diversey bus.

  The p
onderous journey west let me slump comatose in a corner. The chance to pull back from the world around me, even for a quarter of an hour, was unexpectedly refreshing. When I climbed off at Racine I wasn’t ready to leap tall buildings at a single bound, but I thought I might be able to manage an afternoon of work.

  Back at my place I expected Mr. Contreras to come out, either to talk to me about the work in my apartment or remonstrate some more against going to see the old local president this evening. It seemed like a lucky break when he stayed inside his own apartment, but it did make me wonder if he was too upset to want to talk to me. When I saw he wasn’t out back fiddling with his garden, I even got a little worried. He’d been looking after himself for a lot of years, though. I had to assume he could do it for one more afternoon.

  The workmen for my apartment had come and gone. They’d put electronic fingerprints on all the doors and windows. A note by my front entrance explained how to activate the system. Mr. Contreras had paid the bills for me. That was another thousand dollars I’d have to scramble together in a hurry. I hadn’t realized they had to be paid on the spot.

  Following the instructions in the manual they’d left, I programmed the little control box next to my front door. If anyone tried to climb in on me now, Chicago’s finest should be with me in minutes.

  My morning frenzy had left me sweaty and wrinkled, even a little smelly. I took an extra half hour to lie in a cool bath before changing into my jeans.

  It was getting on for two now. Murray Ryerson should be back from his usual prolonged lunch with obscure sources. Fixing myself a sandwich with some of last night’s leftover chicken, I went into the living room and dialed his number at the Star. He answered the phone himself.

  “Hi, Murray. It’s Vic.”

  “Whoo, Vic, what a thrill. Let me get my asbestos gloves in case the phone gets too hot to handle.”

  “Good thinking, Ryerson. The more sarcastic you get, the easier it will be to have this conversation.”