Blood Shot

by Sara Paretsky

  “If he shows up, or if you hear from him, make sure he gets in touch with me. I can’t tell you how important it is that he do so.” I hesitated, not sure whether melodrama would make her totally nonfunctional or guarantee her giving my message to her son. “His life may be in danger, but if I can talk to him, I think I can keep anything from happening to him.”

  She was starting to hiss questions at me in a strained whisper, but Big Art cut in behind her, wanting to know who she was talking to. She hung up hurriedly.

  The longer young Art stayed away, the less I liked it. The kid didn’t have any friends and he didn’t have any street sense. I shook my head uselessly and stuck the Smith & Wesson into the waist of my jeans.

  Kappelman was calmly reading The Wall Street Journal when I came back to the living room. He didn’t look as though he’d been monitoring me on the phone, but if he was truly an evil creep, he’d be able to appear innocent. I gave up chewing on it.

  “I have to tell Mr. Contreras I’m going out-otherwise, when he realizes I’m not up here he’s going to call the cops and have you arrested for murdering me.”

  He made a fatalistic gesture. “I thought I’d left that kind of crap behind when I moved out of my mother’s house. That’s why I’m in Pullman-it was as far as I could reasonably get from Highland Park.”

  As I locked the dead bolt the phone started to ring. Thinking it might be young Art, I excused myself to Ron and went back into the apartment. Much to my astonishment it was Ms. Chigwell, in extreme distress. I braced myself, thinking she had called to upbraid me for driving her brother to attempt suicide. I tried a few awkward apologies.

  “Yes, yes, it was very sad. But Curtis was never a strong character-it didn’t surprise me. Nor that he wasn’t able to do it successfully. I suspect he meant to be found-he left all the lights on in the garage, and he knew I would come in to see why. After all, he believes I drove him to it.”

  I blinked a little at the indulgent contempt in her voice. She surely wasn’t phoning to assuage any putative guilt on my part. I asked an exploratory question.

  “Well, really, it’s just something-something very strange happened this afternoon.” She was suddenly stumbling, losing her usual gruff assurance.

  “Yes?” I said encouragingly.

  “I know it’s inconsiderate of me to bother you, when you just had such a terrible ordeal yourself, but you are an investigator, and it seemed to me you were a more proper person to go to than the police.”

  Another long pause. I lay down on the couch to ease the soreness between my shoulders.

  “It’s-well, it’s Curtis. I’m sure he broke in here this afternoon.”

  That was sufficiently startling that I sat up again. “Broke in? I thought he lived with you!”

  “He does, of course. But, well, I rushed him to the hospital when I found him on Tuesday. He wasn’t very sick and they released him on Wednesday. He was terribly embarrassed, didn’t want to face me over the breakfast table, and said he was going to stay with friends. And to be frank with you, Miss Warshawski, I was just as happy to be rid of him for a few days.”

  Kappelman came over to where I was sitting. He waved a note under my nose-he would be down with Mr. Contreras getting permission for my outing. I nodded abstractedly and asked Ms. Chigwell to continue.

  She took a breath, audible across the lines. “Fridays are my day at the hospital, you know. I do volunteer work with elderly ladies who no longer-well, you don’t want to hear about that now. But when I got back I knew the house had been broken into.”

  “And you called the police and stayed with a friend until they arrived?”

  “No. No, I didn’t. Because I realized almost immediately it had to be Curtis. Or that he had let someone in who wouldn’t have known the house well enough not to create a disturbance.”

  Confusion was making me impatient. I interrupted to ask if any valuables were gone.

  “Nothing like that. But you see, Curtis’s medical notebooks are missing. I’d hidden them from him after he tried burning them, and that’s why-” She broke off. “I’m explaining this so badly. It’s why I hoped you would come, even though it’s a great distance and you are most tired yourself I feel sure that whatever Curtis was involved with down at the Xerxes plant that he didn’t want to tell you is in those notebooks.”

  “Which are missing,” I interjected shortly.

  She gave the ghost of a laugh. “Only his copies. I kept the originals. I typed his notes up for him over the years. That’s all that’s missing. I never told him I kept all the original notebooks.

  “You see-he had put the data in Father’s old leather diaries, the ones he had custom-bound for himself in London. It seemed-a kind of desecration to throw them out, but I knew Curtis would be horribly angry to think I was keeping them out of memory for Father. So I never told him.”

  I felt a little prickling along the base of my neck, that primitive adrenaline jolt that lets you know you’re getting close to the saber-toothed tiger. I told her I’d be at her house within the hour.

  28

  The Golden Notebooks

  Kappelman and Mr. Contreras had struck an uneasy truce over the grappa bottle. Ron got quickly to his feet when I came in, putting a stop to a long anecdote about how Mr. Contreras knew when he first saw him what a lightweight one of my old lovers had been. I explained glibly that I’d had an urgent SOS from an aunt of mine in the suburbs, one I couldn’t ignore.

  “Your aunt, doll? I thought you and her-” Mr. Contreras caught the look of steel in my eyes. “Oh, your aunt. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “More just panicking over me,” I said firmly. “But she’s my mother’s only surviving relative. She’s old and I can’t leave her hanging.” It seemed wrong somehow to confuse the redoubtable Ms. Chigwell with my mother’s mad Aunt Rosa, but you have to work with what’s at hand.

  Kappelman agreed with me politely-whether he believed me was another matter. He finished his grappa in a long swallow, winced as the raw alcohol hit his esophagus, and said he’d see me to my car. “Relatives are a trial, aren’t they?” he added sardonically.

  He waited patiently while I looked around the car for any obvious signs of bombs, then shut the door for me with an old-fashioned courtesy at variance with his bedraggled clothes.

  The temperature had dropped some ten degrees, just below freezing. After the dull fog of the last few weeks, the sharper air braced me. A few snowflakes drifted into the windshield, but the roads were clear and I had a quick run out the Eisenhower to York Road.

  Ms. Chigwell was waiting for me at the door, her gaunt fierce face unchanged for the trying events of the last few days. She thanked me unsmilingly for making the trip, but I was beginning to know her and could tell her rough manner wasn’t meant to be as unfriendly as it appeared.

  “I’m having a cup of tea. My brother keeps telling me it’s a sign of weakness, turning to stimulants when one feels troubled, but I think I’ve proved to be tougher than him. Would you like a cup?”

  One serving of tea a day was all the stimulus I could handle. Declining as politely as I could, I followed her into the living room. It presented a scene of cozy domesticity worthy of Harriet Beecher Stowe. A fire burning cleanly in the grate refracted rich colors in the silver tea service on a low table nearby. Ms. Chigwell gestured me to one of the chintz armchairs facing the fireplace.

  “In my day young ladies did not have lives of their own outside the household,” she said abruptly, pouring tea into a translucent china cup. “We were supposed to marry. My father was a doctor out here, when it was really a separate little town, not part of the city at all. I used to help him out. By the time I was sixteen I could’ve set a simple fracture, treated a lot of the fevers he saw. But when it came time for college and medical training, that was Curtis’s role. After Father died in 1939, Curtis tried keeping up the practice. He wasn’t much good at it, though; patients kept going elsewhere until finally he had to take a
position at that plant.”

  She looked at me fiercely. “I see you’re an active young woman, you do what you want, you don’t take no for an answer. I wish I’d had your backbone at your age, that’s all.”

  “Yes,” I said gently. “But I had help. My mother ended up on her own in a strange country-she couldn’t speak the language; the only thing she could do was sing. She almost died as a result, so she swore I would never be as helpless and scared as she was. Believe me, that makes a big difference. You’re asking too much of yourself to think you should have done it all on your own.”

  Ms. Chigwell swallowed her tea in large gulps, her throat muscles working, her left hand clenching and unclenching. Finally she felt enough in command of herself to speak again.

  “Well, as you can tell, I never married. My mother died when we were seventeen. I kept house for my father and then for Curtis. I even learned to type so I could help them with their work.”

  She smiled mirthlessly. “I didn’t try to follow what Curtis did at that company he worked for. My father had been a great country doctor, a master diagnostician. I suspect all Curtis did was take people’s temperatures when they felt ill to see if they had a legitimate excuse to leave work early. By 1955, when he started in with these detailed records of his, I no longer knew anything of what went on in the medical world-the changes were too vast from my childhood days. But I still knew how to type, so I typed whatever he brought home for me.”

  Her story made me shiver a little. And mutter a little word of thanks to my mother’s spirit. Fierce, intense, prickly, she’d been difficult to live with, but my earliest memories included her strong belief in me and what I could achieve with my life.

  Ms. Chigwell must have seen some of the thought in my face. “Don’t pity me. I’ve had many fine moments in this life of mine. And I never indulge in self-pity-a far greater weakness than tea, and one Curtis is most subject to.”

  We sat quietly for a while. She poured herself a second cup and drank it in slow, measured sips, staring sightlessly into the fire. When she had finished she put the cup down with a decisive snap and moved the tray to one side.

  “Well, I mustn’t keep you with my maundering. You’ve come a great distance and I can tell you’re in a fair amount of pain, even though you’re trying to hide it.”

  She stood upright with only a slight effort. I copied her slowly and stiffly and followed her up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. The upper landing was lined with bookshelves. Clearly a great many of Ms. Chigwell’s fine moments had come from books-there were easily a thousand of them, all neatly dusted and carefully aligned on their shelves. How she’d ever known something was amiss among this orderly infantry was amazing. It took someone axing my front door to bits for me to know I’d suffered a home invasion.

  Ms. Chigwell nodded toward an open door on my right. “Curtis’s study. I came in here last Monday evening because I smelled fire. He was trying to burn his notebooks in his waste can. An appalling idea, since the waste can was leather, and it, too, began to burn with a terrible odor. I knew then that whatever was bothering him had to do with those records. But I thought it would be most wrong of him to back away from the facts by destroying them.”

  I felt an uneasy sympathy for Curtis Chigwell, living with this battalion of rectitude. It would drive me to stronger stimulants than tea.

  “Anyway, I took them, and hid them behind my boating books. Obviously a foolish mistake, since boating has always been my great love. It is the first place Curtis would have thought to look. But I believe he felt so humiliated by my catching him in the act, or perhaps so frightened about not being able to get rid of his guilty secret, that the next afternoon he tried killing himself.”

  I shook my head. So Max had been right in a way. By stirring up the Xerxes pot I’d put so much pressure on Chigwell that he’d felt he had no options left. It made me feel a little seasick. I followed Ms. Chigwell quietly down the hall, my feet sinking in the soft gray pile.

  A room at the end held a profusion of flowering plants that absorbed the eye. This was Ms. Chigwell’s sitting room, with a rocking chair, her knitting basket, and a serviceable old Remington on a small table. The books continued in here, in shelves that were built only to waist level, serving as platforms for the red and yellow and purple flowers.

  She knelt in front of the shelf next to the typewriter and started pulling leather-bound volumes from it. They were old-fashioned diaries, bound in rich green, with Horace Chigwell, M.D., tooled in gold on each cover.

  “I hated Curtis using Father’s personal diaries, but there seemed no good reason for him not to. Of course the war-Hitler’s war-put a stop to things like personally bound diaries, and Curtis never had his own. He coveted these terribly.”

  There were twelve altogether, covering a period of twenty-eight years. I flipped through them curiously. Dr. Chigwell had written in a prim, spidery hand. It looked neat on the page, all the letters carefully aligned, but it proved tough to read. The books seemed to be an inventory of the medical history of the Xerxes employees. At least I presumed the names spelled out in the difficult script were the employees’.

  Sitting in a wicker straight-backed chair, I rummaged among the volumes until I found 1962-the year Louisa had started at Humboldt. I thumbed slowly through the names -they weren’t presented in alphabetical order-but didn’t see hers. In 1963, after she’d been there a year, she showed up near the end of the list as a white female, age seventeen, address on Houston. My mother’s name leapt out at me-Gabriella Warshawski was the person to be notified in case of an emergency. Nothing about the baby, nothing about its father. Of course that didn’t prove Chigwell hadn’t known about Caroline-just that he hadn’t put the information in his notebooks.

  The rest of the entry seemed to be a series of notes in medical shorthand: “BP 110/72, Hgb 13, BUN 10, Bili 0.6, CR 0.7.” I assumed “BP” was blood pressure but couldn’t even begin to guess what the other letters meant. I asked Ms. Chigwell, but she shook her head.

  “All this technical medicine is long after my time. My father never did any blood work-they didn’t even know about typing blood in his day, let alone what they can do with it now. I suppose I was too bitter about not becoming a doctor to want to know anything.”

  I puzzled over the entries a few more minutes, but this was work for Lotty. I stacked the books. Time for me to do something I could understand: I asked her how the intruders had gotten into the house.

  “I presume Curtis let them in,” she said stiffly.

  I leaned back in the chair and looked at her thoughtfully. Maybe no one had been in the house this afternoon. Maybe she was seizing the opportunity offered by her brother’s disappearance to avenge herself for his bungling their father’s practice all these years. Or perhaps in the confusion of the last few days she’d forgotten where she’d hidden the typed notes. She was, after all, nearly eighty.

  I tried probing, but not very skillfully. She frowned ferociously.

  “Young lady, please do not treat me like a senile old woman. I am in full possession of my faculties. I saw Curtis trying to bum his notes five days ago. I can even show you the spot where the wastebasket burned through to the carpet.

  “Why he wanted to destroy them I have no idea. Nor why he should sneak in here to steal them. But both of these things occurred.”

  My face felt a little hot. I got up and told her I’d check out the premises. She was still a little frosty, but she took me on a tour of the house. Although she said she’d tidied any disarray among her books and silver, she hadn’t vacuumed or dusted. After a painstaking search worthy of Sherlock Holmes, I did find traces of dried mud on the stairwell carpeting. I wasn’t sure what that proved, but I could easily believe it wouldn’t have come from Ms. Chigwell. None of the locks showed any sign of forcing.

  I didn’t think she should stay the night here alone-anyone who came in once in such a way could easily return, with or without her brother. And if they had see
n me arrive, they might easily come back to demand why in ways that an old lady-however tough she might be-would be unable to withstand.

  “No one is forcing me from my home. I grew up in this house and I am not leaving it now.” She scowled at me fiercely.

  I tried my best to dissuade her, but she was adamant. Either she was scared and didn’t want to admit it, or she knew why her brother was so desperate to get his hands on the notebooks. But then she wouldn’t have given the originals to me.

  I shook my head in irritation. I was exhausted, my shoulders ached, my head was throbbing slightly where I’d been hit. If Ms. Chigwell wasn’t telling the truth, tonight wasn’t the night for me to figure it out-I needed to go to bed. As I was leaving, though, something else occurred to me.

  “Who did your brother go to stay with?”

  At that she looked a little embarrassed-she didn’t know. “I was surprised when he said he was going to stay with friends, because he doesn’t have any. He did get a call Wednesday afternoon about two hours after he got out of the hospital, and it was a little after that that he announced he was going away for a few days. But he left when I was doing my volunteer stint at the hospital, so I don’t have any idea who might have come by for him.”

  Ms. Chigwell also had no idea who had called her brother. It had been a man, because she had picked up an extension at the same time Curtis had. Hearing a man say her brother’s name, she’d immediately hung up. It was a pity, really, that her sense of moral rectitude had been too great for her to eavesdrop on her brother, but you can’t have everything in an imperfect world.

  It was close to eleven when I finally left. Looking back, I could see her gaunt frame silhouetted in the doorway. She lifted a hand in a formal gesture and shut the door.

  29

  Night Crawlers

  I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I got into my car. The pain in my shoulders returned in a wave that swept me back limply in the front seat. Little tears of hurt and self-pity pricked my eyelids. Quitters never win and winners never quit, I quoted my old basketball coach grimly. Play through the pain, not against it.