Sara Paretsky - Indemnity Only

I shook my head. “Beats me. None of my clients has ever given me the secret to the neutron bomb or even a new brand of toothpaste. I just don’t deal with that kind of stuff. And anytime I do have volatile evidence, I leave it in a safe in my office…” My voice trailed off. Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner? If someone had torn the apartment apart looking for something, they were probably down in my office now.

“Give me the address,” Bobby said, I gave it to him and he got on the car radio and ordered a patrol car to go up and check. “Now, Vicki, I want you to be honest with me. This is off the record-no witnesses, no tapes. Tell me what you took out of that apartment that someone, call him Smeissen, wants back so badly.” He looked at me in a kindly, worried, fatherly way. What did I have to lose by telling him about the picture and the pay stub?

“Bobby,” I said earnestly, “I did look around the apartment, but I didn’t see anything that smacked remotely of Earl or any other person in particular. Not only that, the place didn’t look as though anyone else had searched it.”

Sergeant McGonnigal came up to the car. “Hi, Lieutenant-Finchley said you wanted me.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Who came in and out of the building while you were watching it?”

“Just one of the residents, sir.”

“You sure of that?”

“Yes, sir. She lives in the second-floor apartment. I was just talking to her-Mrs. Alvarez-said she heard a lot of noise about three this morning, but didn’t pay any attention to it-says Miss Warshawski often has strange guests and wouldn’t thank her-Mrs. Alvarez-for interfering.”

Thanks, Mrs. Alvarez, I thought. The city needs more neighbors like you. Glad I wasn’t home at the time. But what, I wondered, was whoever ransacked my place looking for so desperately? That pay stub linked Peter Thayer to Ajax, but that was no secret. And the picture of Anita? Even if the police hadn’t connected her to Andrew McGraw, the picture didn’t do that, either. I had put them both in my inner safe at my office, a small bomb- and fireproof box built into the wall at the back of the main safe. I had kept current case papers in there ever since the chairman of Transicon had hired someone to retrieve evidence from my safe two years ago. But I just didn’t think that was it.

Bobby and I discussed the break-in for another half hour, touching occasionally on my battle wounds. Finally I said, “Now you tell me something, Bobby: Why don’t you believe it was Mackenzie?”

Mallory stated through the windshield. “I’m not doubting it. I believe it. I’d be happier if we had a gun or a fingerprint, but I believe it.” I didn’t say anything. Bobby continued to look forward with unseeing eyes. “I just wish I’d found him,” he said at last. “My captain got a call from Commissioner Sullivan Friday afternoon saying he thought I was overworked and he was asking Vespucci to assign Carlson to help me out. I went home under orders-to get some sleep. Not off the case. Just to sleep. And next morning there was an arrest.” He turned to look at me. “You didn’t hear that,” he said.

I nodded agreement, and Bobby asked me a few more questions about the missing evidence, but his heart wasn’t in it. At last he gave up. “If you won’t talk, you won’t. Just remember, Vicki: Earl Smeissen is a heavy. You know yourself the courts can’t nail him. Don’t try to play hardball with him-you’re just not up to his weight at all.”

I nodded solemnly. “Thanks, Bobby. I’ll keep it in mind.” I opened the door.

“By the way,” Bobby said casually, “we got a call last night from Riley’s Gun Shop down in Hazelcrest. Said a V. I. Warshawski had bought a small handgun down there and he was worried-she looked rather wild. That wouldn’t be anyone you’d know, would it, Vicki?”

I got out of the car, shut the door, and looked in through the open window. “I’m the only one by that name in my family, Bobby-but there are some other Warshawskis in the city.”

For once Bobby didn’t lose his temper. He looked at me very seriously. “No one ever stopped you when you had your mind set on something, Vicki. But if you’re planning on using that gun, get your ass down to City Hall first thing tomorrow morning and register it. Now tell Sergeant McGonnigal where you’re going to be until your place is fixed up again.”

While I was giving McGonnigal my address, a squawk came in on Mallory’s radio about my office: the place had been ransacked. I wondered if my business-interruption insurance would cover this. “Remember, Vicki, you’re playing hardball with a pro,” Bobby warned. “Get in, McGonnigal.” They drove off.

Filing a Claim

When I got to Lotty’s it was afternoon. I had stopped on the way to call my answering service-a Mr. McGraw and a Mr. Devereux had both phoned, and left numbers. I copied them into my pocket phone book but decided not to call until I got to Lotty’s. She greeted me with a worried head shake. “Not content with beating you, they beat your apartment. You run with a wild crowd, Vic.” But no censure, no horror-one of the things I liked in Lotty.

She examined my face and my eye with her ophthalmoscope. “Coming along nicely. Much less swelling already. Headache? A bit? To be expected. Have you eaten? An empty stomach makes it worse. Come, a little boiled chicken-nice Eastern European Sunday dinner.” She had eaten, but drank coffee while I finished the chicken. I was surprised at how hungry I was.

“How long can I stay?” I asked. “I’m expecting no one this month. As long as you like until August tenth.”

“I shouldn’t be more than a week-probably less. But I’d like to ask the answering service to switch my home calls here.”

Lotty shrugged. “In that case, I won’t switch off the phone by the guest bed-mine rings at all hours-women having babies, boys being shot-they don’t keep nine-to-five schedules. So you run the risk of answering my calls and if any come for you, I’ll let you know.” She got up. “Now I must leave you. My medical advice is for you to stay in, have a drink, relax-you’re not in good shape and you’ve had a bad shock. But if you choose to disregard my professional advice, well, I’m not liable in a malpractice suit”-she chuckled slightly-”and keys are in the basket by the sink. I have an answering machine by my bedroom phone-turn it on if you decide to go out.” She kissed the air near my face and left.

I wandered restlessly around the apartment for a few minutes. I knew I should go down to my office and assess the damage. I should call a guy I knew who ran a cleaning service to come and restore my apartment. I should call my answering service and get my calls transferred to Lotty’s. And I needed to get back to Peter Thayer’s apartment to see if there was something there that my apartment smashers believed I had.

Lotty was right: I was not in prime condition. The destruction of my apartment had been shocking. I was consumed with anger, the anger one has when victimized and unable to fight back. I opened my suitcase and got out the box with the gun in it. I unwrapped it and pulled out the Smith & Wesson. While I loaded it, I had a fantasy of planting some kind of hint that would draw Smeissen-or whomever-back to my apartment while I stood in the hallway and pumped them full of bullets. The fantasy was very vivid and I played it through several times. The effect was cathartic-a lot of my anger drained away and I felt able to call my answering service. They took Lotty’s number and agreed to transfer my calls.

Finally I sat down and called McGraw. “Good afternoon, Mr. McGraw,” I said when he answered. “I hear you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”