Sara Paretsky - Body Work

I paused, then added, “It would be best not to spread the word that Chad seems to be improving. Whoever framed Chad for Nadia Guaman’s murder, we don’t want them getting another shot at him.”

Vishneski gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t know why I’m acting so surprised. We hired you, Mona and me, because we didn’t believe our boy could’ve shot that gal. It’s just-you’re making it sound like he’s in the middle of some big-ass conspiracy, and Chad, he doesn’t know any secrets. Are you sure about all this?”

“It’s guesswork,” I said. “But if, well, if someone came after him again while we were trying to prove my guesses, that would be a very bad way to prove me right. Just to be on the safe side, I’d like to get some bodyguards in place at the ICU. It’ll require cooperation from the medical staff, and I’m not sure how willing they’ll be, but there are a couple of guys I use when I need muscle. Very reliable.”

“I’ve got friends,” Vishneski interrupted. “Construction’s slow, and I know plenty of guys who’d be glad to look after my boy.”

“You should clear it with the head of the ICU. She’ll be more sympathetic if it comes from you than from me. But I’d suggest instead of saying you’re bringing in a bodyguard that you tell her you want a friend with Chad at all hours in case he wakes up when you’re not around.”

“I’ll talk to her, but, man, I wish you knew what was going on. This is so frustrating, you not knowing if my boy’s in danger or not, or who from. How could he survive Iraq and get caught in some conspiracy here at home? Do you think it’s al-Qaeda, stalking an American soldier out of revenge?”

“I don’t think Arabs were with your son the night he was drugged.” Mona Vishneski’s nosy neighbor would have noticed Arabs. “And if al-Qaeda was at work here, the Justice Department or Homeland Security would be tripping over me in this investigation. Does Chad know any older guys who served in Desert Storm, maybe, or even Vietnam?”

“God, I don’t know. Maybe he met some guys at the VA, but he never said anything about them to me.”

I looked across the room at Tim Radke and Petra and remembered that chunks of Chad’s blog had been blocked or deleted.

“I’ve got to go, Mr. Vishneski. But if you were going to guess at a password your son might have used on his blog, what would it be?”

“Password? What are you talking about now?”

“Some way to try to get at his missing posts. Do you have a hunch about a password for him?”

Vishneski thought a moment, then said, “Probably he’d have the number 54 in it, on account of he’s a big Brian Urlacher fan. Maybe something about the Black Hawks. I’d try those.”

We drove down to Club Gouge in Petra’s Pathfinder, Tim in the front seat with my cousin, me drowsing in the back. I’d collected my picklocks from my car’s glove compartment and locked my handbag, with Chad’s black armor mitt, in my trunk. I planned to drive straight to the Cheviot labs in the morning.

“So is this, like, your first break-in?” Petra asked Tim. “It’s my-I don’t know-do I count the time you broke into my apartment when I forgot my keys, Vic?” She looked over her shoulder at me as she spoke, and the Pathfinder fishtailed.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I squawked. “I don’t want it to be my last.”

Petra managed to straighten out, narrowly avoiding a collision with an oncoming bus.

“Do you two gals think because I was a soldier I’m some sort of outlaw?” Tim Radke asked. “I mean, Vic here thinks I’m a hacker. And you, you think I’m a break-in artist.”

“I’m the outlaw in this party,” I said just as Petra started to say, Oh, gosh, me and my motormouth . “Unless you have skills you’re keeping to yourself, I’m the one who can pick a padlock in thirty seconds using the lip of a sardine can. Petra, darling Petra, put your damned phone away or let Tim or me drive, okay?”

“Gosh, Vic, I was just-”

Tim took the phone from her. “I didn’t survive five years in Iraq to die in a Chicago car crash.”

“Okay, okay, you two bullies,” Petra said. “I’ll get back at you, see if I don’t.”

Without seeing her face, I knew she was giving her exaggerated pout, the look she assumed when she knew she’d been caught in the wrong. We were taking her car because neither my Mustang nor Tim’s old truck handled well on these slush-filled streets, but I was beginning to realize that a good car isn’t as important as a focused driver.

When we got to Club Gouge, I had Petra drive slowly past so I could see if Olympia had any security in place. The fire had been confined to the interior, so no boarding alerted you to the damage. Only the empty parking lot told passersby the club was closed. That and a message in the box by the front door used to announce upcoming acts. Tonight it read “Club Gouge is closed for repairs. Stay tuned for our grand reopening next week.” Which was clever, because no matter when the repairs were complete, the grand reopening would always be next week.

No one seemed to be watching the club, either from the alley or the L platform. I told Petra to park up the street and stay in the car with Tim while I worked the lock. If I holler, take off, and leave me on my own.”

Tim got out of the car with me. “I learned a thing or two about keeping a lookout when I was in the Army. If you’re going to become an outlaw to help Chad, at least I can keep watch.”

Petra decided that meant she should join us as well. She thought she needed to skulk, lurking behind L girders, then dashing across the open spaces between them. It was Radke who told her she was attracting attention.

“Act normal,” he told her. “Act like you’ve got a right to be here. It’s the only way to be if a patrol-a cop, I mean-rides by.”

A keypad worked the front lock, but Petra had never been given the combo. The side door, which opened onto the parking lot, had a keyhole that sat flat against the panel. It was tricky but not impossible, although my sore palm enhanced the challenge.

While I worked the lock, Tim disappeared into the shadows behind us. I trusted him. Of course I trusted him. Even if he had a combat medal, he didn’t own expensive clothes-he wore a faded Army parka, not a “soft overcoat.” Still, I was relieved when the tongue of the lock slipped back, and he reappeared, a shadow sliding up to the door.

While I held the tongue flat, he slid a metal strip along the edge of the door and pried it open. When I tried to turn on the hall lights, nothing happened. The building was bitterly cold. Olympia, or perhaps the city, had shut off the power to lessen the risk of the fire restarting-or maybe to save money until reconstruction started.

As we moved deeper into the dark building, the acrid stench of charring began to choke us. Charred and frozen at the same time, what a gruesome end. I pulled my muffler over my nose and mouth. I didn’t want to think about what poisons the fire had released-the synthetic fabric in the curtains, the varnish on the stage floor, the polymers in the wire casings-all no doubt Grade A carcinogens when they burn. I imagined my lungs coated with some kind of black grease that would never go away.

“Not all the perfumes of Arabia,” I muttered.

“Say, what, Vic?” Petra demanded.

I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. Bad sign. I shone my flashlight up and down the corridor. The shadows made ghastly shapes-the wires looked like the tentacles of a giant praying mantis. I shuddered but moved forward. Even Petra was subdued, clutching Tim’s arm as we edged our way to the back of the stage.