Sara Paretsky - Body Work

She’d used my foundation with a lavish hand, covering the spidery network of broken blood vessels so thoroughly that her face looked startling, like a Kabuki mask.

“Well done,” I said briskly, collecting what was left of my makeup and sticking it in my bag. I’d finish my own face later.

Before she could come up with any more delaying tactics, I picked up her French book and ushered her down the stairs toward Mr. Contreras. My neighbor had breakfast laid out on his kitchen table. It wasn’t until we were facing each other across his wife’s old checked red tablecloth that I remembered her name had also been Clara. This would add to his already strong interest in the youngest Guaman sister’s welfare, and it would make it harder for him to let her go back into the world.

“We are going to have a long day,” I told him. “We’re going to Clara’s school to explain why she’s tardy and see if it’s a secure enough campus. Then we’re going to see her mother and find a safe place for them to sleep.”

Mr. Contreras said there wasn’t any place safer than his apartment, and I had to go through a longer version of the litany I’d just covered with Clara, including the fact that I was going to announce myself as the tethered goat.

He didn’t like any of it, sending Clara away, letting her go to school, or even me using myself as bait, although that was at the bottom of his list of objections. I finally suggested he accompany us to her school.

“I’ll go get the car and meet you in the alley in twenty minutes. Clara can finish her breakfast and say good-bye to Peppy.”

I went out the back way and down the alley to the side street, where I’d parked early this morning. The car didn’t blow up when I unlocked it or even when I turned over the engine. Good signs. And, even better, Mr. Contreras and Clara arrived within a minute of my pulling up behind our building.

We had a quick run down Ashland to St. Teresa of Avila. It was after one-thirty now, and I was starting to worry about the clock. Clara’s principal, Dr. Hausman, turned out to be a sharp, intelligent woman who quickly took in the details of what had happened. Hausman was cautious at first about talking to me, which made Mr. Contreras bristle. As soon as I put her in touch with Lotty, though, the principal became briskly professional.

“We did call your mother when you didn’t appear this morning,” Hausman said to Clara, “and she was quite upset but didn’t give me any details. I can see why now. We’ll give you a pass for today, but I’m going to send you off to your counselor to work out how to make up your missing assignments for today. Ms. Warshawski and I will figure out the best way to keep you in school and keep you safe.”

Dr. Hausman had the happy notion of sending Mr. Contreras with Clara. As soon as they had gone down the hall to the counselor’s office, she said, “I’ve been here long enough that I knew both Alexandra and Nadia. Their deaths have been a heavy burden on Clara, and she’s taken refuge in sarcasm and hostility, but, mercifully, she’s also taken refuge in her studies. I don’t want her class attendance to suffer, yet I also don’t want her in the kind of danger that cost her sisters their lives.”

“I’m going to try to persuade her mother to go to Arcadia House,” I said. “It’s a shelter for domestic-violence victims, and I’m on the board. If I can line up someone to act as a bodyguard to and from the shelter to the school, will Clara be safe here during the day or should I try to have someone sit with her?”

The principal thought it over. “How secure did you think we were when you got in just now?”

“It wasn’t bad, as far as it went-we came in through the main door, and we had to show some ID. I don’t know what the rest of your campus is like, how many open doors there are, and I don’t have time to look around this afternoon.”

Hausman nodded. “I’ll talk to my security staff and arrange for someone to be outside any classroom where Clara is for the next week. If it goes on longer than that, then you’ll have to hire guards. It’s not fair to the school as a whole to divert resources to one student. We had an Israeli diplomat’s child here for a semester, and he’d brought in his own guards. The kids took it in stride, once the initial excitement died down, so I don’t think they’ll overreact to anyone you bring in for Clara.”

She walked with me down to the counselor’s office, where we collected Clara and Mr. Contreras. As we walked through the high limestone gates separating the school from the street, I put my gun into my coat pocket and kept my hand on it, but the only people on the street were waiting at the bus stop at the corner, and none of them paid us any attention.

If our meeting at the school went more easily than I’d feared, our conversation with Clara’s mother was more difficult. When we got to Twenty-first Place, it was clear that someone was watching the house and not making any secret of it. A late-model black Lexus was parked in front, engine running, with either Konstantin or Ludwig at the wheel.

I didn’t slow, just went straight on to Ashland, where I parked near a busy coffee shop.

“That car in front of the house,” Clara said, “that was one of the men who hit me last night.” Her eyes were big in her Kabuki face.

“Yes,” I said, “I know who he is. I need you to call your mother, see if she’s home or at work, and get her to meet us here.” I put the battery in my cell phone and handed it to Clara.

After a moment’s hesitation, looking from me to Mr. Contreras, she typed in the number. “Ma, it’s me… I’m fine, just sore. Dr. Herschel, she did a great job fixing my nose. She says I shouldn’t even need surgery… No, I can’t come home!… No, he’s in front of the house, waiting for me… No, Ma, if I come home, he’ll kill me. You want all your children gone?… I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Please, Ma, come to me. I’m at Julia’s Café con Leche on Ashland… No, now. Please, Mamá!”

The incipient hysteria in her voice was genuine and apparently got through to her mother. Clara handed me back the phone, saying Cristina was coming. I removed the battery again and hustled our little group into Julia’s to buy coffee and sandwiches. I insisted that we eat in the car. I didn’t want a row of sitting ducklings inside the coffee shop if someone trailed Clara’s mother here.

We had an agonizing half hour before Cristina appeared. As soon as Clara saw her mother, she jumped out of the car and ran to embrace her. I hurried after, anxious to get the Guamans off the streets.

Cristina Guaman’s face was as gray and puffy as her daughter’s. “Why are you torturing my family?”

I surveyed the street behind her. “Were you followed here?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. I went out the back door and crossed the neighbor’s yard to come out on Twenty-second Street. Why are you putting Clara in harm’s way? Why did you get my Nadia killed?”

Mr. Contreras said, “She ain’t the person killing your children. If you’d been a better ma to your girls, not blaming them for the lives they were leading, your oldest kid wouldn’t never have gone off to Iraq in the first place.”

“How dare you!” Cristina said to him. She turned to me, “Is this your husband?”

The question embarrassed me almost as much as it did the old man, but I didn’t bother to answer. We were starting to draw an audience, people wanting to know who was attacking who here-and it was hard to tell, from the way we were standing, who was the assailant, who the victim. Since I was a well-dressed gringa in a poor area, I didn’t want to push my luck.

“We need to get you and Clara and the rest of your family to a safe house,” I said. “I want to take you to Arcadia House. It’s a women’s shelter, and they are expert at keeping their residents free from harm, as long as we can think of a place for your husband to stay.”