Warshawski 09 - Hard Time (5 page)

5 Diving into the Wreck

A Dr. Szymczyk had been the surgeon on call. With the broken arm and severe contusions on both legs, they couldn’t be sure what the main locus of her problem was, but when Szymczyk saw the X rays he’d decided her abdominal injuries were the most critical.

Cynthia read to me from the surgeon’s dictation:
“She had advanced peritonitis: the entire abdominal cavity was filled with fecal matter. I saw already it was late, very late for helping her, and as it turned out, too late. The duodenum had ruptured, probably sometime previous to the broken arm, which looked very fresh. Forensic pathology will have to answer questions of time and manner of inflicting wounds.
Is that what you wanted, Vic?”

Not what I wanted, that death, those wounds. Poor little creature, to meet her end in such a way. “I take it they didn’t find anything on her to identify her? Do you know what time she was sent to the medical examiner?”

“Umm, hang on . . . yes, here it is. Dr. Szymczyk pronounced death at seven fifty–two. The operating–room administrator called the police; your Jane Doe was picked up and taken to the morgue at ten–thirty.”

So she was my Jane Doe now, was she? I came to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. I’d made a vow a few years back to stop diving into other people’s wrecks: I only got battered on the spars without getting thanks—or payment. I didn’t feel like jumping overboard one more time.

A woman hurrying toward State Street banged into me, jarring the phone and breaking the connection. “Do you think a cell phone gives you ownership of the streets?” she yelled over her shoulder.

Sidewalk rage, the new hip form of urban rudeness. I tucked the phone into my briefcase and went into Continental United’s building. On the outside, the curved glass walls reflected the city back to itself; inside, it cooled the inhabitants with arctic efficiency. The sweat on my neck and armpits froze. I shivered as I rode the elevator skyward.

During a meeting to discuss the background of a candidate to head the paper division, and the unrelated problems dogging delivery trucks from the Eustace, Georgia, plant, I wondered what special insight fasting brought people. The apple I’d snatched on my way out the door was all I’d eaten since the snacks at last night’s party. Far from feeling a heightened consciousness, all I could think of was food. I tried to keep a look of bright attention on my face and hoped the general chatter would cover my growling stomach. Fortunately I’ve sat through enough similar sessions that I could interject a cogent–sounding question or two, laugh at the human–resources vice president’s dull jokes, and agree to turn around the investigation in three days, unless I had to go to Georgia.

When we finally broke, at four, I encountered Darraugh Graham himself in the hall. Civility—need—required me to chat with him, about his son, about the political situation in Italy where he had a major plant, about the assignment I’d just been handed. I was lucky that Darraugh continued to come to me, instead of turning all his business over to one of the big outfits like Carnifice. Of course Carnifice supplies the armed guards Continental United needs for transporting payroll. I think they handled Darraugh’s security when he visited Argentina last winter. But he still gives me a significant chunk of work requiring more analysis than muscle; it behooves me to pay attention to his private chitchat.

He clasped my shoulder briefly and gave a wintry smile of farewell. I hurried to the elevator and fell into the frozen yogurt stand in the lobby. Extra–large chocolate and vanilla with nuts, fruit, and little waffle chips. Breakfast and lunch in one giant cup. I sat in one of the spindly chairs in the lobby to pry dress pumps off my swollen feet and slip back into my running shoes. Happiness lies in simple things, after all—a little food, a little comfort.

When I’d eaten enough to raise my blood sugar to the functioning point, I called Luke to get the word on my car. My better mood deflated rapidly: he estimated repairs at twenty–nine hundred.

“Freddie towed it to Cheviot for you, but he took a look at the damage when he unloaded it. You bent the front axle and stove in the radiator for starters. And when Freddie got there he found the neighborhood helping themselves to the battery, the radio, and a couple of tires, so I’ll have to repair the dash. And before you squawk, let me tell you that a big shop would charge at least a thousand more.”

I slumped in the hard chair. “I wasn’t squawking. That gurgling noise was the last of my pathetic assets being sucked into the Gulf of Mexico. Does this estimate include the kind of professional courtesy I gave you when I drove those creeps away from your yard?”

“You didn’t do anything for me I couldn’t do myself, Warshawski, but I know you don’t know what it takes to fix this car.”

I bit back an acid rejoinder. “What about your forensic buddies? What are they saying about inspecting the front end?”

“The earliest they can get to it is tomorrow afternoon. And I have a note here from Rieff at Cheviot. He says they need the autopsy report on the hit–and–run victim. And they ideally need the clothes she had on when she died. Their analysis is going to run you another grand, easy, probably more. Of course I won’t start repairs until after they’ve finished. And until you give me the go–ahead. But tell you what, Warshawski, being as you helped me out with those kids, I won’t charge you for the tow.”

“Luke, you’re a prince.”

Irony was wasted on him. “One good turn deserves another.”

I pressed the
END
key before I let my temper get the better of me. I’d spent three nights in his alley, nabbed a group of teenagers, put the fear of God into them sufficiently to make sure they didn’t return, and then stupidly gave Luke a courtesy discount in the belief he would reciprocate on future repair bills.

Twenty–nine hundred in repairs plus another grand for a forensic inspection. And yet another thousand or two for a replacement? Maybe I’d be better off renting by the week. Of course, I could let the Trans Am go for scrap and buy a used car with more oomph than the ones Mr. Contreras was investigating, but I loved my little sports car.

I smacked the tabletop in frustration. Why can’t I ever get ahead of the game financially? I work hard, I pay serious attention to my clients, and here I am, past forty and still scrambling at month’s end. I looked with distaste at the melted remains in the cup. Soggy waffle and lumps of berry floated in beige sludge. It looked like an artist’s depiction of my life. I stuffed the cup into an overflowing garbage can by the door and went out to catch the Blue Line to my office.

Since it was rush hour a train came almost as soon as I climbed onto the platform. Not only that, it was one of the new ones, air–conditioned and moving fast. It didn’t make up for everything that had gone wrong today, but it helped. In ten minutes I was at Damen and back in the wet heat.

A new coffee bar had opened, I noticed, making three, one for each of the three streets that came together at that corner. I stopped for an espresso and to buy a
Streetwise
from a guy named Elton who worked that intersection. Over the months I’d been renting nearby we’d struck up a relationship of the “Hi, how’s it going” kind.

When I moved my operation to Bucktown two years ago, the only liquid you could get by the glass was a shot and a beer. Now the bars and palm–readers of Humboldt Park are giving way to coffee bars and workout clubs as Generation X–ers move in. I could hardly criticize them: I’d helped start that gentrifying wave.

The Loop building where I’d rented since opening my practice had fallen to the wrecker’s ball more than a year ago, taking with it not just inlaid mosaic flooring and embossed brass elevator doors, but the malfunctioning toilets and frayed wiring that had kept the rent affordable. After the Pulteney’s demise I couldn’t find anything even close to my price range downtown. A sculpting friend convinced me to rent space with her in a converted warehouse near North and Damen, on Leavitt. I signed before the area started to be trendy and had been savvy enough—for once—to get a seven–year lease.

I miss being downtown, where the bulk of my business lies, but I’m only ten minutes away by L or car. The warehouse has a parking lot, which I couldn’t offer clients before. And a lot of the queries I used to have to do on foot—trudging from the Department of Motor Vehicles to Social Security to the Recorder of Deeds—I can handle right in my office by dialing up the Web. The one thing I don’t automate is my answering service: people in distress like a real person on the line, not a voice menu.

Inside my office I sternly turned my back on the futon behind my photocopier and powered up my computer. I logged on to LifeStory and submitted the name and social security number of the man Darraugh wanted to put in charge of his paper division.

Most investigators use a service like LifeStory. Data on things you imagine are private, like your income, your tax returns, those education loans you welched on, and how much you owe on that late–model four–by–four—not to mention your moving violations in it—are all available to people like me. In theory you have to know something about the person, like a social security number and perhaps a mother’s maiden name, to get this information, but there are easy ways around that, too. When I first went on–line two years back, I was shocked by how easy it was to violate people’s privacy. Every time I log on to LifeStory I squirm—but that doesn’t make me cancel my subscription.

The menu asked me how much detail I needed. I clicked on
FULL BACKGROUND
and was told that it would be a forty–eight–hour turnaround for the report—unless I wanted to pay a premium. I took the slow cheap route and leaned back in my chair to look through my notes. The rest of the assignment would keep until tomorrow, when I’d be—I hoped—more alert. I checked with my answering service to see if anything urgent had come in and then, before calling it a day, phoned over to the morgue.

Dr. Bryant Vishnikov, the medical examiner and the only pathologist I know personally, had left at noon. When I explained that I was an investigator working for Max Loewenthal over at Beth Israel and wanted to know about the Jane Doe we’d sent in this morning, the morgue attendant tried to persuade me to wait until morning when Vishnikov would be in.

I could hear the television in the background, loud enough to make out Chip Caray’s patter about the Cubs. It’s amazing how little actual information about the game in progress sportscasters give—I couldn’t even tell who was at bat.

“The Cubs will still be here tomorrow, and maybe you will be too, but I can’t wait that long,” I told the attendant.

He sighed loudly enough to drown out the squawk of a chair scraping back from the desk.

“They haven’t done the autopsy yet,” he announced, after I’d held for four minutes. “She came in too late for the doc to start on her, and he didn’t want anyone else working on her, apparently.”

“What about her ID? Did the cops have any luck with AFIS?”

“Uh, yeah, looks like we got an ID.”

He was making me pay for forcing him to work while on shift. “Yes? Who was she?”

“Nicola Aguinaldo.”

He garbled the name so badly I had to ask him to spell it. Once he’d done that he came to a complete halt again.

“I see,” I prodded. “Is she so famous I should recognize the name?”

“Oh, I thought maybe that was why you were so anxious—escaped prisoner and all.”

I sucked in an exasperated breath. “I know it’s hard, having to work for a living, but could you pretty please with sugar on it tell me what came in with the print check?”

“No need to get your undies in a bundle,” he grumbled. “I only got four people waiting to look at their loved ones.”

“As soon as you tell me how long Aguinaldo’s been running, you can turn your charm on the public.”

He read out the notes in a fast monotone and hung up. Nicola Aguinaldo had slipped out of a hospital in Coolis, Illinois, on Sunday morning, when the shift changed. The women’s correctional facility there had taken her in to treat what they thought might be an ovarian abscess, and Aguinaldo had left with the laundry truck. In the next forty–eight hours she’d made it back to the North Side of Chicago, run into some villain, and gotten herself murdered.

6 Sigñor Ferragamo, I Presume

The attendant hadn’t included Aguinaldo’s last known address in his summary, but that might not have been in the report, anyway. I looked in the phone book, but no one with that name lived anywhere near where Mary Louise and I had found her. Not that that meant anything—if she’d fallen afoul of some pimp or dealer, she might be far from home. It’s just that someone escaping from jail usually heads for relatives.

I sucked on a pencil while I thought it over and went back to my computer. None of the usual software turned up an Aguinaldo. I’d have to find her through the arrest–and–trial report, and they’re not easy to locate. Since I don’t have access to the AFIS system, it would mean searching trial records one at a time, without even a clue on an arrest date to guide me. Even with a Pentium chip that could take me a few weeks. I called Mary Louise again.

“Vic! I was going to get back to you after dinner, when I can hear myself think, but hold on while I get the boys their pizza.”

I heard Josh and Nathan in the background shouting over whose turn it was to choose a video, and then Emily, with adolescent disdain, telling them they were both stupid if they wanted to see that bore–rine Space Berets tape one more time. “And I don’t want any pizza, Mary Louise, it’s too fattening.”

“I suppose Lacey Dowell never eats pizza,” Josh yelled.

“No, she eats the blood of obnoxious little boys.”

Mary Louise called sharply to Emily to hang up the phone when she got the bedroom extension. In another moment the fighting in the background was switched off.

“I was out of my ever–lovin’ mind the day I thought fostering three kids would be a simple management problem,” Mary Louise said. “Even with Fabian paying enough for good home help, it’s relentless. Maybe I’ll switch from law to social work so I can counsel teenagers on how grueling it is to be a single mom.

“Anyway, the news on Lemour is kind of disturbing. Terry says he has a bad rap, even among cops, that there’ve been around a dozen complaints against him over the years for excessive violence, that kind of thing. But what’s more troubling is that Rogers Park lost the incident report. Terry asked them how they knew to come to you if they didn’t have the report, and they didn’t have a good answer for that. I didn’t get the names of either of the officers on the scene last night, did you?”

I felt ice start to build around my diaphragm. No, I hadn’t done anything that elementary. We could track down the paramedics—they should have a copy of the report. That would be another time–consuming search, but an uneasy impulse was making me think I’d better make the effort.

“Before you go, there’s one other thing,” I said. “The woman we found is dead—poor thing had some kind of advanced abdominal injury. She was on the run from Coolis. Could you find out when she was arrested, and why?” I spelled
Aguinaldo
for Mary Louise.

I didn’t want to dive into Nicola Aguinaldo’s wreck, but it felt as though someone had climbed up behind me on the high board to give me a shove.

Even after Detective Lemour’s idiotic hints that I’d been driving drunk this morning, it hadn’t occurred to me to call my lawyer. But if Rogers Park had lost the incident report I needed Freeman Carter to know what was going on. If a lazy detective decided to slap a manslaughter charge on me, Freeman would have to bail me out.

Freeman was on his way out of the office, but when I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the last twenty–four hours, he agreed it was too serious to turn over to his intern. After I told him Rogers Park claimed to have lost the incident report, he had me dictate a complete account into his phone recorder.

“Where is your car, Vic?” he asked before hanging up.

“The last I saw it, it was hugging a fireplug in Edgewater.”

“I’m late. I don’t have time to play games with you. But if the State’s Attorney demands it when I talk to him in the morning, I expect you to produce it. And for Christ’s sake don’t get on your charger and gallop around town confronting the cops. You’ve turned this over to me and I’m promising to take care of it. So don’t do anything rash tonight, okay, Vic?”

“It all depends on your definition, Freeman, but I think the most I’m up to is trying to find something to drive around town in.”

He laughed. “You’re doing okay if you can keep your sense of humor. We’ll talk first thing.”

After he hung up I tried to think what further steps to take. I called Lotty Herschel, whom I’ve known since my undergraduate days. She’s in her sixties now, but still works a full schedule both as a perinatalogist at Beth Israel and running a clinic for low–income families on the west fringe of Uptown.

When I told her what was going on she was horrified. “I don’t believe this, Vic. I’ll ask Max what happened to the young woman when she got to us, but I don’t think that will shed any light on why you’re being harassed in such a way.”

Her warmth and concern flowed through the line, making me feel better at once. “Lotty, I need to ask a favor. Can I come over for a minute?”

“If you can hurry. In fact, Max and I are going out in half an hour. If you don’t have a car can you take a cab to me?”

It was close to seven when a cab decanted me on north Lake Shore Drive. For years Lotty lived only a short walk from her clinic, on the top floor of a two–flat she owned. When she turned sixty–five last year, she decided that being a landlord was an energy drain she didn’t need and bought herself a condo in one of the art nouveau buildings overlooking the lake. I still wasn’t used to dealing with a doorman to see her, but I was glad she’d moved into a place more secure than the fringes of Uptown—I used to worry about her, small woman alone in the early–morning darkness, every user on Broadway knowing she was a doctor.

The doorman was beginning to remember me, but he still made me wait for Lotty’s permission before letting me pass. Lotty was waiting for me when the elevator reached the eighteenth floor, her dark, vivid face filled with concern.

“I’m on my way out now, Victoria, why don’t we ride down together and I’ll give you a lift home while you talk.”

Driving with Lotty is almost more adventure than I wanted at the end of a difficult day. She thinks she’s Sterling Moss and that urban roads are a competitive course; a succession of cars with stripped gears and dented fenders hasn’t convinced her otherwise. At least the Lexus she was driving now had a passenger–side air bag.

“The paramedics would have filed a report at the emergency–room admitting station,” I explained as we drove across Diversey. “I want a copy of that—I’m hoping it will include the names of the officers on the scene, and maybe even a copy of the police report, which the Rogers Park station says has disappeared.”

“Disappeared? You think they lost it on purpose?”

“That ape Lemour might have. But reports get misfiled every day; I’m not going to be paranoid about this—yet. Could you keep your hands on the wheel even if you’re alarmed or annoyed?”

“You can’t come to me for help, Vic, and then start criticizing me,” she snapped, but she looked back at the road in time to avoid a cyclist.

I tried not to suck my breath in too audibly. “The other thing is, I’d like the dress Aguinaldo was wearing when she died. Cheviot Labs needs to inspect it to see whether there are signs of any car—especially my car—in the fabric. They wouldn’t tell me at the morgue if her clothes came over with her, but I’m betting they’re still at the hospital, assuming they’re not in the garbage. Could you get Max to track them down? Or ask him for permission for me to call the ER staff? It’d have to be tonight, I’m afraid—the longer we wait, the more likely the clothes will be pitched.”

She turned left at Racine after the light had changed—in fact after the eastbound traffic had started to roar through—but I didn’t say anything, in case she became cranky enough to cut in front of a bus or a semi.

“We can do it by phone in Max’s car. If I can get his attention away from Walter Huston and his horse.” Her tone became sardonic: Max has a passion for old Westerns which seems utterly at odds with his other passion, Chinese porcelains. It’s also at odds with Lotty’s tastes.

“So you’re off to watch a Western just because your man likes them.” I grinned at her as she pulled up in front of my building. “Well, Lotty, it’s taken you over sixty years, but you’re finally learning to be graciously submissive to male authority.”

“Really, Vic, must you put it like that?” she snorted, then leaned across the seat to kiss me. “Please don’t move rashly on this investigation. You’re in a swamp, my dear; it’s important that you test each step before putting your full weight on it. Yes?”

I held her for a moment, drawing comfort from her embrace. “I’ll try to move cautiously.”

“I’ll call you in the morning, my dear, after I’ve spoken to Max.” She squeezed me briefly and put the car into gear again. “Remember, you’re coming to dinner at my place on Monday.”

Mr. Contreras was waiting for me on the front stoop. He had spent the day on the phone tracking down cars and badly wanted to talk about them. He’d located an old Buick in Park Ridge that he thought would be the best bet and arranged with the seller for us to look at it tonight—which meant a nice long ride on public transportation, since a cab to the suburbs would run at least forty dollars.

When Lotty roared through that intersection, it had occurred to me I probably left skid marks on the road. Just in case, and just in case no one had obliterated them, I wanted to get up there to photograph them while some daylight remained. Mr. Contreras, always eager for a piece of real detection, called the car owner to say we’d be a little late so that he could help me inspect. I took the dogs for a quick walk around the block and collected my camera and a magnifying glass.

We rode the Red Line up to Berwyn, which was only five blocks from the accident. The golden light of a summer sunset made the streets appear less tawdry than they had in the middle of the night. A group of boys pedaled by, some sitting two to a bike, and we passed a few skateboarders, but no Rollerbladers—in–line skates belong to the yuppie world further south.

At the corner of Balmoral a group of girls was jumping rope. I noticed two Mad Virgin T–shirts on girls whose dark hair was pulled back under fringed scarves. Global Entertainment’s tendrils reached even into the immigrant communities.

When I inspected the street I realized I’d wasted time on a fool’s errand. The fireplug I’d hit was slightly bent, and even after almost eighteen hours you could still see a trace of rubber in the road where I’d stood on my brakes. But there was no sign of where Nicola Aguinaldo had lain. She hadn’t been dead when we found her: no one outlined her body in chalk. I photographed the tread marks and the fireplug, using a flash since the light was dying.

The girls stopped their jumping to stare at me. “You know Morrell, miss?” “Take my picture too, miss?” “Put me in the book too, miss. Morrell talk to me, not to her.”

They began posing and shoving each other out of the way.

“Who’s Morrell?” I asked, wondering if a cop had come around pretending to be writing a book.

“Morrell, he’s a man, he’s writing a book about people who ran away from jail.”

I stared at the speaker, a girl of about nine with a braid that reached to the top of her shorts. “Ran away from jail? Does that mean—did he come here today?”

“No, not today, but most days. Now will you take my picture?”

I took shots of the little girls alone and together and tried to get them to tell me about Morrell. They spread their hands. He came around, he talked to some of the parents, especially Aisha’s father. They didn’t know who he was or where to find him. I gave it up and went back to inspecting the street, getting down on my hands and knees with the glass while Mr. Contreras stood over me to make sure no one hit me.

“You lose something, miss?” “You trying to find your ring?” “Is there a reward? We can help.”

I sat back on my heels. “You know a woman was hit here in the road last night? I’m a detective. I’m looking for any clues about her accident.”

“You really a detective? Where’s your gun?” one demanded, while another said, “Women can’t be detectives, don’t be a fool, Sarina.”

“Women can be detectives, and I am one,” I announced.

The girls started inspecting the area around the curb for clues. I found something like dried blood on the asphalt where I thought Nicola Aguinaldo had lain and photographed the spot from several different angles, then scraped a bit onto a tissue. It wouldn’t be very convincing if I had to talk to a judge or jury, but it was the best I could come up with.

The girls decided this meant Sarina was right—I must be a detective, they’d seen someone do the very same thing on television. After that they offered me a variety of items, from an empty Annie Greensleeves bottle to a Converse high–top. I solemnly inspected their findings. In the midst of the detritus, a piece of metal caught my eye as it had theirs: “This is gold, isn’t it, miss, is it valuable? Do we get a reward?”

It wasn’t gold but heavy plastic. It was new, and its shine had attracted the girls—it clearly hadn’t lain long in the gutter. It was shaped like a Greek omega, but it wasn’t a charm, more like some kind of signature from a handbag zipper, or maybe a shoe. I thought I should recognize the designer, but I couldn’t place it off the top of my head.

Mr. Contreras was getting restive: he really wanted to get out to Park Ridge to look at the car he’d picked out. I pocketed the emblem and put the rest of their findings in the garbage.

“Who is the oldest?” I asked.

“Sarina’s twelve,” they volunteered.

I handed a girl in a fringed scarf one of my cards and three dollars. “The money is for all of you to share; it’s your reward for helping me hunt for clues. The card is for your friend Morrell. When he comes again, will you give it to him? It has my name and phone number on it. I’d like him to call me.”

The girls clustered around Sarina. “What’s it say?” “Ooh, Sarina, she is a detective, it say so right here.” “She going to arrest you, Mina, for talking back to your mama.”