Sara Paretsky - Body Work

Before finally packing up for the night, I called Terry Finchley over at CPD headquarters. A detective at his level, being groomed for a major promotion, didn’t keep regular hours any more than I did. He was still at his desk.

“Warshawski. You were next on my list to call.”

I’d known Finchley long enough to hear the tightly reined fury in his thickened voice. I could picture the pulses throbbing at his temples, turning his ebony skin a deeper black.

“I take it you got the message I left last night?”

“Just what were you doing moving a murder suspect out of county custody? I just got the report. You had this guy lawyered up so fast, we didn’t have a chance-”

“‘Lawyered up’?” I repeated coldly. “That is a disgusting phrase. By which you mean, I saw Chad Vishneski had access to some basic, constitutionally protected rights. Aside from the fact that he’s in a coma, so it’s hard to believe he’s a flight risk. And aside from the fact that you arrested him based on no more than a phone tip, which came from where exactly?”

“I do not have to reveal anything to you, Warshawski, crime hotlines least of all. But I will remind you that the gun used to murder Nadia Guaman was found in bed next to Vishneski-”

“Who was unconscious and unable to answer any questions. When your crew picked up the murder weapon, what did they do with Vishneski’s cell phone and his laptop? A Lenovo ThinkPad, it was.”

“That, again, is none of your damned business unless you are representing the perp, in which case you can present the usual subpoenas for evidence.”

“His parents hired me, John and Mona Vishneski. When I saw that Chad’s computer and his cell phone were missing, I assumed you had booked them in. But, if not, it supports our hypothesis that someone was in the apartment with Chad the night Guaman was murdered. And that whoever was there thought it prudent not to leave his electronics lying around where someone like you, or even me, could read his files.”

Finchley was silent for a minute. I heard the clicking of his fingers on his keyboard, and then a swearword, under his breath but unmistakable.

“ If the electronics are missing-and I’m not relying on your word for that or anything in this case, Warshawski-it doesn’t prove squat about Vishneski’s innocence.”

“Not in and of itself,” I said. “But I went over to Nadia Guaman’s apartment this morning, which the CPD didn’t seem to think was worth searching. Here’s something strange: Her place had been tossed. Her computer was gone. Some of her artwork.”

He tapped more keys. “She lived in Humboldt Park. Plenty of drug-happy housebreakers there.”

“If it was just Guaman, or just Vishneski, whose computer was gone, I’d agree. But both? Come on, Terry.”

He let out a sigh, deliberately loud to signal that I was annoying him. “We have a solid case against Vishneski. He assaulted the dead woman twice in the weeks before he shot her. He’s a textbook stalker. And the murder weapon was in bed with him.”

“You’ve tested the weapon?”

“I know you think we’re too inept to tie our shoes without you holding the laces for us, but, yes, it did occur to me to get the weapon tested. The Glock on the pillow next to Chad Vishneski fired the bullet that killed Nadia Guaman.”

“And residue? You did an atomic absorption test on Chad’s hands?” I persisted despite his annoyance.

“Of co-” He broke off mid-word. “I’ll get back to you on that as well.”

I was aching to know what Finchley was reading on the computer. Had someone screwed up and forgotten to test Chad? Or was there some anomaly in the result itself that gave him pause?

“By the way,” I said, “it would help Chad’s treatment if the doctors knew what drugs they found in his system. Did they test him over at Cermak?”

“Freeman Carter can get a court order, if you need to know.”

That raised my hackles. I hadn’t planned on riding him about sloppy work at the crime scene, but I added, “You might like to know that Chad vomited on his pillowcase. I sent that, and the empty beer cans by the bed, out to a private forensic lab for analysis.”

“Damn you, Warshawski, couldn’t you have called me first?”

“It was four days after Guaman’s murder. I figured if your team had wanted to collect evidence, they had plenty of time.”

I thought I could hear Finchley gnash his teeth, but all he said was, “If someone jumps you tonight, or breaks into your place, don’t call 911, Vic. Even if we caught the perp red-handed, you wouldn’t think we knew what we were doing.”

I opened my mouth to apologize, then stopped. I would not apologize for letting Terry Finchley know his team had missed evidence. And I would not apologize for getting Chad Vishneski good medical care-assuming it wasn’t too late.

The client called moments after Finchley had slammed the phone in my ear to ask if I’d found anything.

“It’s more what I haven’t found, Mr. Vishneski.” I explained what my search at Nadia Guaman’s had turned up-or actually, hadn’t turned up.

“So you’re saying you can’t prove anything,” he cried, frustrated. “And I still have to come up with money for your bill. If I promised someone a building would go up and he came around and found an empty hole in the ground, he’d be within his rights to sue me. Especially if I’d taken his money.”

“Detecting isn’t like putting up a building. It’s like hide-and-seek. They’re hiding, I’m seeking, and right now the hiders are ahead of me. They’re very good. If you think you can find a better seeker, I can understand that. I will say that I have not failed a client yet, but I’m sure that’s how you feel about your buildings, too.”

He wasn’t ready to fire me, we both knew that. He just needed to vent his fears about his son. His son, who Iraq had changed from happy boy to angry man. His son, who was lying in a coma. His son, who might have killed a young woman.

Outside, I dusted the residue of the snow from my car. My cousin had been texting me when I’d been on the phone with Terry, her messages increasing in urgency. While the engine warmed up, I phoned her, wondering what new crisis had occurred at Club Gouge.

“Vic, I got fired,” she blurted as soon as she heard my voice.

“I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing,” I said. “Club Gouge is looking more and more unstable-”

“You don’t understand! From my day job. That’s why I’m calling. I desperately need the club job now. And when I called in this afternoon, to see if they could add to my hours, Olympia told me she’d only do it if you stopped hanging around the club. She says you’re bad for her business and she can’t keep me on if you keep showing up.”

I massaged my forehead with my gloved hand-a mistake, because I rubbed melted snow into my face. How typical of Olympia to blackmail one of her waitstaff like this.

“You need to look for a real job, pronto. Olympia is way too erratic for you to count on her for your rent money. Besides which, I need to be at the club as I work on Nadia Guaman’s murder. If I have to come back, I’ll figure out a disguise, but-”

“You can’t!” Petra cried. “I just told you-”

“Petra, turn off the temper tantrum and listen to me. I just said that I’ll do my best not to jeopardize your job. I need to talk to Karen Buckley, and I don’t know where she lives. Tell me the next time she’ll be at the club, and I’ll wait for her outside.”

“Vic, no, don’t.” Not even the bad connection could mask the panic in her voice. “You don’t understand. I need this job.”