Sara Paretsky - Indemnity Only

Lotty had brought a flashlight with her, rather than turn on a light that might show through the street-side window. She pointed it down the steps so I could see the way, then turned it off. I padded down after her. At the bottom she seized my wrist, let me around bicycles and a washing machine, and very slowly and quietly drew back the dead bolts in the outside door. There was a little click as they snapped open. She waited several minutes before pulling the door open. It moved into the basement, quietly, on oiled hinges. I slipped out up the stairs in crepe-soled shoes.

From behind the screen of garbage cans I peered into the alley. Freddie sat propped against the back of the wall at the south end of the alley two buildings down. As far as I could tell, he was asleep.

I moved quietly back down the stairs. “Give me ten minutes,” I mouthed into Lotty’s ear. “I may need a quick escape route.” Lotty nodded without speaking.

At the top of the stairs I checked Freddie again. Did he have the subtlety to fake sleep? I moved from behind the garbage cans into the shadow of the next building, my right hand on the revolver’s handle. Freddie didn’t stir. Keeping close to the walls, I moved quickly down the alley. As soon as I was halfway down, I broke into a quiet sprint.

The Union Maid

Paul was waiting as promised. He had a good head-the car was out of sight in the alley. I slid into the front seat and drew the door closed. “Any trouble?” he said, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb.

“No, but I recognized a guy asleep in the alley. You’d better call Lotty from the clinic. Tell her not to leave Jill alone in the apartment. Maybe she can get a police escort to the clinic. Tell her to call a Lieutenant Mallory to request it.”

“Sure thing.” He was very likable. We drove the short way to the clinic in silence. I handed him my car keys, and reiterated where the car was. “It’s a dark blue Monza.”

“Good luck,” he said in his rich voice. “Don’t worry about Jill and Lotty-I’ll take care of them.”

“I never worry about Lotty,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “She’s a force unto herself.” I adjusted the side mirror and the rearview mirror, and let in the clutch: Lotty drove a small Datsun, as practical and unadorned as she was.

I kept checking the road behind me as I drove across Addison to the Kennedy, but it seemed to be clear. The air was clammy, the damp of a muggy night before the sun would rise and turn it into smog again. The eastern sky was light now, and I was moving quickly through the empty streets. Traffic was light on the expressway, and I cleared the suburbs to the northbound Milwaukee toll road in forty-five minutes.

Lotty’s Datsun handled well, although I was out of practice with a standard shift and ground the gears a bit changing down. She had an FM radio, and I listened to WFMT well past the Illinois border. After that the reception grew fuzzy so I switched it off.

It was six in clear daylight when I reached the Milwaukee bypass. I’d never been to Hartford, but I’d been to Port Washington, thirty miles to the east of it on Lake Michigan, many times. As far as I could tell, the route was the same, except for turning west onto route 60 instead of east when you get twenty miles north of Milwaukee.

At 6:50 I eased the Datsun to a halt on Hartford’s main street, across from Ronna’s Café-Homemade Food, and in front of the First National Bank of Hartford. My heart was beating fast. I unbuckled the seat belt and got out, stretching my legs. The trip had been just under 140 miles; I’d done it in two hours and ten minutes. Not bad.

Hartford is in the beautiful moraine country, the heart of Wisconsin dairy farming. There’s a small Chrysler plant there that makes outboard motors, and up the hill I could see a Libby’s cannery. But most of the money in the town comes from farming, and people were up early. Ronna’s opened at 5:30, according to the legend on the door, and at seven most of the tables were full. I bought the Milwaukee Sentinel from a coin box by the door, and sat down at an empty table near the back.

One waitress was taking care of the crowd at the counter. Another covered all the tables. She was rushing through the swinging doors at the back, her arms loaded up with plates. Her short, curly hair had been dyed black. It was Anita McGraw.

She unloaded pancakes, fried eggs, toast, hash browns, at a table where three heavyset men in bib overalls were drinking coffee, and brought a fried egg to a good-looking young guy in a dark blue boiler suit at the table next to me. She looked at me with the harassment common to all overworked waitresses in coffee shops. “I’ll be right with you. Coffee?”

I nodded. “Take your time,” I said, opening the paper. The men in the bib overalls were kidding the good-looking guy-he was a veterinarian, apparently, and they were farmers who’d used his services. “You grow that beard to make everyone think you’re grown up. Doc?” one of them said.

“Naw, just to hide from the FBI,” the vet said. Anita was carrying a cup of coffee to me; her hand shook and she spilled it on the veterinarian. She flushed and started apologizing. I got up and took the cup from her before any more spilled, and the young man said good-naturedly, “Oh, it just wakes you up faster if you pour it all over yourself-especially if it’s still hot. Believe me, Jody,” he added as she dabbed ineffectually at the wet spot on his arm with a napkin, “this is the nicest stuff that’s likely to spill on this outfit today.”

The farmers laughed at that, and Anita came over to take my order. I asked for a Denver omelette, no potatoes, whole-wheat toast, and juice. When in farm country, eat like a farmer. The vet finished his egg and coffee. “Well, I hear those cows calling me,” he said, put some money on the table, and left. Other people began drifting out, too: It was 7:15-time for the day to be under way. For the farmers this was a short break between morning milking and some business in town. They lingered over a second cup of coffee. By the time Anita brought back my omelette, though, only three tables had people still eating, and just a handful were left at the counter.

I ate half the omelette, slowly, and read every word in the paper. People kept drifting in and out; I had a fourth cup of coffee. When Anita brought my bill, I put a five on it and, on top of that, one of my cards. I’d written on it: Ruth sent me. I’m in the green Datsun across the street.”

I went out and put some money in the meter, then got back in the car. I sat for another half hour, working the crossword puzzle, before Anita appeared. She opened the passenger door and sat down without speaking. I folded up the paper and put it in the backseat and looked at her gravely. The picture I’d found in her apartment had shown a laughing young woman, not precisely beautiful, but full of the vitality that is better than beauty in a young woman. Now her face was strained and gaunt. The police would never have found her from a photograph-she looked closer to thirty than twenty-lack of sleep, fear, and tension cutting unnatural lines in her young face. The black hair did not go with her skin, the delicate creamy skin of a true redhead.

“What made you choose Hartford?” I asked.

She looked surprised-possibly the last question she’d expected. “Peter and I came up here last summer to the Washington County Fair-just for fun. We had a sandwich in that cafe, and I remembered it.” Her voice was husky with fatigue. She turned to look at me and said rapidly, “I hope I can trust you-I’ve got to trust someone. Ruth doesn’t know-doesn’t know the kind of people who-who might shoot someone. I don’t either, really, but I think I have a better idea than she does.” She gave a bleak smile. “I’m going to lose my mind if I stay here alone any longer. But I can’t go back to Chicago. I need help. If you can’t do it, if you blow it and I get shot-or if you’re some clever female hit man who fooled Ruth into giving you my address-I don’t know. I have to take the chance.” She was holding her hands together so tightly that the knuckles were white.