Sara Paretsky - V.I. Warshawski 08 (62 page)

Bendel
got out of the passenger seat when he saw me walk up the sidewalk.

“Senator
Gantner would like to talk to you.”

I
called the dogs to heel—they were far too friendly and I didn’t want them to
catch any terrible diseases from licking him. “He can call for an appointment.
I’ll see if I can fit him in.”

The
back door of the car opened and the well-groomed figure I knew from campaign
ads stepped out. “Humor me, Ms. Warshawski. I’m in Chicago on a very brief
visit.”

I
made an elaborate show of looking at my watch. “Oh, very well. I can give you
ten minutes.”

As
they followed me into the house Mr. Contreras popped his head into the hall.
“Come on up,” I told him. “Your chance to meet a U.S. senator in the flesh. You
can be a witness to any threats or bribes he tries on me.”

The
old man looked startled, but followed eagerly enough. When we were settled in
my living room, me in my sweaty shorts, Gantner and Bendel in perfectly
tailored summer worsted, Gantner came quickly to the point.

“I’ve
heard from Eric here that you’d had some communication problems with my
brother’s company, with Gant-Ag. Gant-Ag is a global concern. You know it’s
privately held, but it’s no secret that our annual sales are in excess of
thirty billion. My brother, who’s been running the company since I went to
Congress, doesn’t always have time to understand the details of the operation.
Nor should a CEO bother himself about all the nuts and bolts. When I talked to
him this morning he told me he’d been mistaken in thinking that the plane that
you helped destroy was one of ours—it belonged to a private company in the
Caribbean that isn’t interested in trying to collect damages. Craig will be
sending you a letter to that effect—it should go out in today’s mail.”

“That
will be a big relief, of course, Senator,” I said, reclining at my ease in the
armchair. “To him, I suppose, as well as to me.”

“On
the other matters of concern to you, I’m afraid my son got carried away in his
zeal to help out a homeless charity here in Chicago. He’s been so used to a
life of ease and indulgence that when two of his friends suggested he join the
board he went ... well, overboard in his efforts to help them. He’s resigned
from the organization and won’t take any further part in its affairs.

“Alec
was a little naive. He was especially confused by his lifelong friendship with
Don Blakely. Blakely apparently gave a directive to one of the Home Free
contractors that ended in the murder of Deirdre Messenger. It’s been a source
of great grief to all of us, both my family and the company, to find that the
banker whom we all trusted duped us so thoroughly. Donald Blakely apparently
was using both the company and his own bank, Gateway, as a front for
money-laundering schemes, with Home Free as the focal point.

“When
Mrs. Messenger discovered that, she should have gone to the police.

Instead,
she heroically tried to confront Don on her own, with the tragic results we all
have seen. I’m urging Clive Landseer to use the full power of his office to
prosecute the man immediately responsible, Anton Radescu. We’re having to
absolve his boss, Gary Charpentier, of everything but ignorance.”

“Very
smart,” I said. “Otherwise he might finger Heccomb, and Heccomb might squeal on
naive little Alec.”

Gantner
hushed me with an imperious finger. “Under the circumstances, Ms.

Warshawski,
I think we’re all better off not calling each other names. Eric?”

He
was gone so fast I almost had trouble believing he’d ever been there.

When
Murray learned of the audacious defense the Gantners were mounting he almost
deafened me with his scream of outrage. He had joined me in the backyard with
the dogs, where I was watching Mr. Contreras fiddle with his garden. My
neighbor put down his trowel long enough to tell Murray about our meeting with
the senator—he was relishing the fact that he’d had a front-row seat while
Murray was off someplace sweating.

“It’s
one giant mother fucking cover-up,” Murray concluded, ignoring a dirty look
from Mr. Contreras. “Gantner must have the whole Justice Department by the
short and curlies, because they’re willing to buy into this story. And my
editor is telling me my trip out to Morris was a freelance job, so he isn’t
interested in giving me resources to go after them.”

“Uh-huh.”
I played with Peppy’s ears.

“What
are you going to do about it, Warshawski?”

“A
rain dance, I guess. Bring down the waters of God to drown every Gantner
cornfield in the Midwest.”

“Seriously.
You cannot sit on your butt while justice is reamed out.”

“You
mean you want me to give you free help building the story of your career for
you. I’m not doing anything for anyone these days, even when they offer me cash
on the barrelhead.”

Murray
grabbed my shoulders and shook them. “You can’t, Warshawski. You can’t give
up.”

“That’s
what I keep telling her,” Mr. Contreras chimed in. “When have you ever let
anyone coldcock you, doll?”

“I’m
tired. I spent a month risking my life for some abstract concept of justice,
and all that happened in the end was my lover left me. Go to one of the big
firms. They work for money, so they don’t get broken on the wheel of passion.”

“Come
on, Warshawski. You can’t play Achilles—that’s a role for a Greek nobleman, not
a Polish gutter fighter.”

I
collected Peppy and went inside. I agreed the whole story was heinous, but I
was wrung dry.

The
ironic thing was, now that I didn’t want to do any work I was turning jobs
away. Even a meeting with Phoebe Quirk didn’t inspire me. A week or so after my
final conversation with Fabian she invited me to lunch at Filigree’s.

She
was uncharacteristically subdued, even apologetic.

“What
with one thing and another I caused a lot of trouble for you, didn’t I?

Maybe
Conrad wouldn’t have broken up with you if I hadn’t gotten you involved.”

“I
don’t know; Deirdre would still have been murdered. I would still have tried to
protect Emily Messenger. What’s going to happen to Lamia, by the way?”

“Home
Free is being reorganized with a new board. Tish Coulomb will take over as
executive director. She wants to return the organization to providing services
to the homeless, but in the meantime, they do have legitimate funds available
for one last building, so the Lamia women will get a chance to bid on that.
We’re hopeful.”

Phoebe
was silent for a bit, fiddling with her wineglass, then she spoke rapidly,
without pausing for air. “I know I was pretty shirty the last time we spoke,
but would you consider doing some work for me? I’ve got a hot tip on a little
biotech company a couple of pharmacy profs have started, but I’ve never heard
of them. I’d pay you six hundred a day plus expenses.”

“I’m
not interested.”

“Vic,
I’ve said I’m sorry.” Phoebe spoke with a flash of her usual arrogance, then
remembered she was here as a supplicant and smiled. “No one else we work with
is as thorough as you. What would it take?”

I
thought it over. “There is something you could do for me: get Tish Coulomb to
take Ken Graham on to complete his community service. If she’s reorganizing
Home Free she’ll need help. If that works out I’ll think about your problem—but
this is definitely not a promise to act.”

The
next day Phoebe called to tell me everything was in train for Ken to start work
on Home Free’s files. I roused myself enough to make a written presentation for
Ken to take to his probation officer. Darraugh was so pleased with the result
that he wrote me a check for ten thousand dollars. I tried to turn it down—it
seemed excessive for the job.

He
spoke with his usual curtness. “I know what you went through on this, Vic.

More
than you think. A couple of weeks ago some jackass from Gantner’s staff, Eric
Bundle or Bindle or something, came to tell me that Ken’s probation would be
revoked if I continued to do business with you. I took a very dim view of that
threat, very dim indeed. I didn’t bother you with it at the time, but a day or
two later when the Gant-Ag story hit the headlines I realized what you’d been
up against. You earned this. Cash it. Get a proper office. Take a holiday.”

I
cashed the check. I even got Mr. Contreras to accept a thousand to help with
his taxes. I still couldn’t summon the energy to work, but maybe I’d follow the
rest of Darraugh’s advice and take a holiday, too—lately I’d been studying
travel brochures for Reichenbach Falls.

I was
mulling it over when Officer Neely surprised me one morning as I returned from
a run. She waited in the living room while I took a shower and made coffee.

We
talked a little about Emily, then Neely said abruptly, “I’m resigning from the
force. I can see that I’m not much good in a hierarchical organization when I
don’t agree with the hierarchy. I was lucky that Terry was my commanding
officer—he rotated me to other assignments and put Gustavo Galatea in my place
on the Messenger case, but he didn’t write me up or tell anyone else that I’d
blown up at him. But I can’t go through a situation like that again.

“What
I wanted to know ... Why I came to you ... There are a lot of stories going
around about you, that you’re quitting. I wanted to find out.” Her face was
flushed with embarrassment and she fiddled with her empty coffee cup.

When
I told her what I’d been doing lately she took a deep breath. “I have a
proposition for you. I’d like to work for you. If you want to take a vacation I
could even run your operation while you’re away. I’ve been talking to Emily
about her and her brothers living with me. She’s willing to do it, and Eva Kuhn
thinks it would be a good fit, especially since Fabian will pay for a nanny for
Nathan. Fabian would pay their school fees, too, but I need work—I can’t
support them if I resign from the force.”

I
laughed. “If you think an operation like mine provides enough income to support
two people, let alone three children, you have sadly inflated ideas about it.”

She
flushed again but wouldn’t let me mock her into silence. “If there were two of
us we could take on more work, and a wider range of it. I’m very organized. You
wouldn’t have to worry about the details that bore you. And I wouldn’t mind the
dull, repetitive jobs, at least not for a while: it would mean I could keep a
regular schedule. I’m twenty-nine, I’m very fit, and you know I’m experienced.”

It
was such an unexpected proposition that I couldn’t even decide how I felt about
it. I left her with the promise to think it over.

It
Ain’t Over Till It’s Over

July
27th was a blisteringly hot day. At Mr. Contreras’s urging I packed the dogs
into my car and drove down to the Indiana Dunes for a picnic and a swim. He
stayed behind to work on his garden. I left him to a happy afternoon of
mulching or mowing or whatever the plants needed.

It
was six when we got back. Coming up the walk I thought I heard laughter from
the rear of the apartment. The dogs and I went through the narrow passageway
and found the yard full of people. When I appeared there came a great cry of
“Surprise!” and “Happy Birthday!”

Someone—I
later learned it was Ken Graham—had rigged my name up in lights, with the
message, “Life Begins at Forty.” I stood at the corner of the yard with a
foolish smile on my face.

Mr.
Contreras surged forward with a glass of champagne. “You thought I didn’t
remember it was your birthday, didn’t you, doll? Have a happy one.”

Lotty
and Max came over to kiss me. Max handed me a Chinese vase, filled with flowers
from his own garden. Much touched, I took that inside, out of harm’s way, and
returned to greet the rest of the party.

Sal
was there, with her current love, a young actress. Mary Louise Neely brought
Emily and her brothers. Neely was doing freelance work for me now—we were
trying that for six months before considering a more formal arrangement.

Emily,
her unruly hair sticking out from her head like a giant bush, in jeans and a
crimson tank top, looked alert, even young. She had written a joke-filled poem
for me, copied out in a careful calligraphy.

Darraugh
and Ken arrived together, in a rare display of family harmony. Ken, thinking he
might fill the void in my life left by Conrad, had stayed in town to attend
summer school. We’d had our promised dinner at Filigree’s, and I’d gone sailing
with him a couple of times—I’d even enjoyed myself. But Ken’s calf love was
waning—in the fall he was joining the Peace Corps in Eastern Europe.

Darraugh
had mastered his disappointment with more graciousness than I’d expected.

Bobby
Mallory and his wife, Eileen, Phoebe Quirk, Camilla Rawlings, Marilyn
Lieberman, and Eva Kuhn and the rest of my basketball squad were there. Even
Manfred Yeo showed up. I arched a sardonic eyebrow at Murray when he showed up
with Tish Coulomb. He smiled at me sheepishly, but they looked quite happy
together.

Mr.
Contreras gave me back my mother’s picture of the Uffizi, the walnut frame so
expertly restored that only my most anxious searching could find the nicks in
it.