Sara Paretsky - Body Work

I needed her Social Security number, but I couldn’t find a home address for her, let alone a credit history that might yield information on her background. I went back to embodiedart.com. If you had to pay her for her work, she must have a bank account or a credit card somewhere, but she took payment only through PayPal, which meant she could be collecting the money under another name, maybe even in another state.

I sat back in my chair. Here was a woman who was aggressive in exposing herself before audiences and yet she’d left no trail in our hyper-documented age. I could imagine a fear of stalkers might require total anonymity in her life these days, but it was strange that someone so purposefully self-exposing left no public trace of her private life.

I transferred addresses for the handful of K. Buckleys who might be the Body Artist. I could do old-fashioned legwork, see if any of them had a home studio, but I wasn’t expecting to find her.

I was so lost in thought, and files, that I didn’t notice Mona Vishneski until she appeared at my table and hesitantly said my name.

“Ms. Vishneski!” I sprang to my feet.

She was a lost-looking woman around my age, her clothes hanging on her, as if worry over her son had made her lose a dress size overnight. Close up, I could see how rough her skin was; she didn’t seem to have washed her face or combed her hair since Chad’s arrest. She took off her gloves and then looked at them puzzled, trying to figure out what they were. She was carrying a scuffed leather handbag, big enough to hold a computer and a change of clothes. She finally stuck her gloves into one of its side pockets.

“John told me he hired you to clear Chad’s name. I used to work with detectives back when I was managing a building for Mercurio. We’d hire them to find out where people had skipped off to without paying their rent, but I don’t remember we ever hired you.”

I agreed that I’d never worked for Mercurio. Companies that size tend to use big agencies, not solo ops like me.

“But, Ms. Vishneski, your husband-ex-husband-hired me to find out what happened Friday night at Club Gouge. You both need to understand, however painful it is to think about, that the evidence points to your son having shot Nadia Guaman.”

“If you think he’s guilty, then I don’t think we should be working with you.” Her eyes were bright with emotion.

I kept my voice level. “I’m committed to approaching this situation with an open mind. But I can’t ignore evidence, and the evidence is that the murder weapon was found next to Chad. Another thing: I was present myself for two extremely angry encounters between your son and Nadia Guaman. I plan to look into their relationship, to see what lay behind his rage. But if you’d be more comfortable working with one of the detectives you used to know at Mercurio, I can respect that. If Mr. Vishneski agrees, then we’ll void the contract he signed yesterday and return his retainer. I would ask you to pay the fee my lawyer is charging for providing the court order we needed to move Chad from the prison hospital to Beth Israel.”

Mona Vishneski shifted her weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

“Do you want to think about it overnight?” I suggested.

“Oh, I guess we should go ahead, if we’re going to do anything at all.” Her shoulders sagged again as the anger went out of her. “John said you’ve done criminal work and that you come highly recommended. It’s not that I’m not grateful for you getting a real hospital and good doctors for Chad. Just don’t expect me to agree that my son shot a woman, when I know he never could have.”

Clients who blow hot and cold, they’re always the most annoying to work with. One day they want evidence at any cost, the next, they don’t think you’re up to the job. Maybe a smart detective would have voided the contract just to keep from being squeezed between a divorced couple. Instead, I bought Mona Vishneski a drink-ginseng peppermint tea-and ordered another macchiato for myself.

“Tell me about Chad’s guns,” I said when we were finally both sitting. “John says you wouldn’t let him keep them in your apartment, but he did, anyway, didn’t he?”

For a moment, her anger spurted up again, but then she made a little fluttery gesture like a butterfly settling down. “I didn’t like it, but where else could he keep them? He had two, which I hated, even though everyone in construction carries, even John. But you look at guns and you think of death. I asked Chad how he could stand having a gun anywhere near him after all the death he’d seen in Iraq, and he’d just say, ‘No one’s ever going to sneak up on me again.’ Like the way suicide attackers and them sneak up on our troops in Iraq. Chad lost so many buddies there. It was just a miracle he didn’t get killed himself that time his whole unit died around him.” Like her ex-husband, she pronounced the country I -raq.

“I used to go to mass every week, thanking God for sparing me what so many other mothers had to bear, their sons dead or missing arms and legs. But watching how Chad’s been since he got home-and now this-maybe I’m not so lucky. Maybe we’d all be better off if he had lost his legs instead of his mind.”

“Mona!” a voice said. “How can you talk like that?”

It was John Vishneski. Mona and I had been so intent on each other that we hadn’t noticed him come into the café.

“John!” Mona cried. “I told you I wanted to see this detective of yours for myself.”

John gave the smile that seemed to crack his cheeks. I looked away, it was so painful to watch.

“I got too lonely sitting around the hospital,” he said, “looking at Chad hooked up to all those machines. That Dr. Herschel, she’s something, isn’t she? The way she made those county so-and-sos stand up and salute, it’s the one good thing I’ve seen this week. Mona, you want more tea? Do I order at the counter?”

“The Glock,” I said to Mona while John was ordering drinks. “Was that one of Chad’s guns?”

“How should I know? I told you, I hate them, I don’t know one from another. You should ask those Army friends of his. They probably know.”

“Ask his Army buddies what?” John Vishneski said, pulling up a chair. “About his guns? Chad didn’t own-”

“John, what’s the point in lying?” Mona asked. “When it’s you who used to take him to target practice?”

“It’s not a crime, is it, to teach your own son how to handle a gun?” Vishneski cried.

“You know the Glock is his, and you can’t bring yourself to acknowledge it,” I said in a flat voice.

Vishneski reached for his cigarettes, as he seemed to do any time he didn’t want to talk about something. Studying the pack, not me, he said, “Not know, not for sure. Before he shipped out, he had two, a Beretta and a Smith and Wesson. I kept them while he was overseas, but when he came home and I saw how… how… well, how he was, I worried he might hurt himself, so I told him there’d been a break-in, someone had stole those guns out of my place. But I’m pretty sure he went down to Indiana, picked up something down there. You can, you know-no one even wants to see your driver’s license. So maybe he does own a Baby Glock, how do I know?”

The hair at the nape of my neck prickled. “Mr. Vishneski, everything you’re saying makes Chad sound unstable. Why do you think he didn’t kill Nadia Guaman?”

Vishneski sucked in a breath as if it were a lungful of smoke. “Shit, Ms. Warshawski-sorry, ladies-you have to know Chad. He might have put a bullet through his own self to put an end to his nightmares, but he wouldn’t go out killing some girl in an alley. Or anywhere else. He just wouldn’t. He wasn’t that kind of boy.”