Sara Paretsky - Burn Marks

My talks with Mrs. Donnelly left me scratching my head. She seemed loyal to the old man, but I couldn’t help thinking she knew something she wasn’t telling. It wasn’t so much what she said as the sly look I got when the talk drifted to her children and what their expectations of Mr. Seligman might be. If it hadn’t been for that occasional smirk, I would have given Seligman a complete pass to Ajax.

On Saturday I finally found the night man from the Indiana Arms. He was holed up with a brother on the South Side, trying to avoid any inquiry into his activities on the night of the fire. We had a long and difficult conversation. At first he assured me he hadn’t left the premises for a minute. Then he came around to the idea that he’d heard a noise outside and gone to investigate.

Finally a combination of threats and bribes brought forth the information that he’d gotten a list of the races at Sportsman Park along with fifty dollars in betting money. They’d come in Wednesday’s mail, he didn’t know who from, he certainly hadn’t kept the envelope. He didn’t think it would matter if he left for an hour or two; when he got back late-after a snort with his buddies-the hotel was burning beautifully. He took one look at the fire trucks and headed for his brother’s house on Sangamon.

It was clear that someone had cared enough about burning down the building to study the night man, find out he bet the races, and know he couldn’t resist a free night at the track. But that someone wasn’t Saul Seligman. I put it all together in a report for Ajax, wrote out a bill, and asked whether they wanted me to pursue the matter further.

If your primary goal is to find the arsonist, then I will try to discover who sent the money. Since no envelope exists and Mr. Tancredi claims never to have seen any strangers regularly lurking around the premises, finding who sent the money will be a long and expensive job. If all you want is a strong probability that your insured did not burn his own proprty, we can stop at this point: I believe Mr. Seligman and his subordinates are innocent of arson.

After putting it in the mail I walked the ten blocks to Wrigley Field and watched the Cubs die a painful death at the hands of the Expos. Although my hapless heroes were twenty games below five hundred the ballpark was packed; I was lucky to get a seat in the upper deck. Even if I could have gotten a bleacher ticket, I don’t sit there anymore-NBC made such a cult of the Bleacher Bums when the Cubs were in the ′84 playoffs that drunk yuppies who don’t know the game now find it the trendy place to sit.

It was after five when I got home. A late-model black Chevrolet bristling with antennae was parked illegally next to the hydrant in front of my building. I looked at it with the usual curiosity you give an unmarked police car when it’s next to your home. The windows were rolled up and I couldn’t see through the smoky glass, but when the door opened I saw Bobby Mallory had been driving himself.

I was surprised to see him-it was the first time he’d ever come to my apartment without a formal escort. I hurried to the curb to greet him.

“Bobby! Good to see you. Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

He ran a hand through my hair, a rare gesture of affection since I graduated from high school. “Just thought I’d come by and see you, Vicki, make sure you’re not playing with some kind of fire that’s likely to burn you.”

“I see.” I tried to keep my tone light while a wall of caution shut down part of my mind. “Is that something you can do in one sentence out here on the sidewalk or do you want to come up for some coffee?”

“Oh, let’s go inside, be comfortable. If you’ve got decaf, that is-I can’t take coffee late in the day anymore. I’m almost sixty, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” I wondered if he was trying to pump me obliquely for word on what Eileen had planned for the big day, but I didn’t think he’d treat me to such an elaborate routine for that. I politely held the door for him and let him precede me up the three flights.

Bobby, still on his good behavior, ignored the untidy heap of papers in the living room. I tried not to feel embarrassed at being caught in such chaos by an old friend of my parents and went to scrounge in my kitchen.

“I’m afraid I’m out of decaf,” I apologized a few minutes later. “I can give you some juice or a Coke or wine. No beer, though.”

He took a Coke. One of Bobby’s fetishes, in addition to not swearing in front of me, is not to drink with me-he can’t get over the idea that he’d be encouraging me in immorality. He drank a little, ate a handful of crackers, gestured at the piano, and asked if I was still working at my singing. My mother had been an accomplished musician, an aspiring operatic soprano whose career had been cut short when her family shipped her to America to escape fascism. One of Bobby’s unexpected traits was to share her love of opera; she used to sing Puccini for him. He would be a happy cop if I’d fulfilled her dream and become a concert singer instead of aping my dad and turning into a detective.

I had to admit my voice was a little rusty. “Seen any rare birds lately?”

Another unexpected hobby of Bobby’s was photographing birds. As he discoursed on taking his two oldest grandchildren to the forest preserve last weekend, I wondered how long we were going to pretend that this was just a social call.

“Mickey’s coming out with us tomorrow,” he said. “He’s a good boy. Young man, I should say, but I’ve known him since he was born.”

“Yes, he’s told me you’re his godfather.” I sipped some Coke and watched him over the rim of the glass.

“Eileen and I were both hoping you two would hit it off, but she keeps telling me you can’t force these things.”

“He’s a Sox fan. It would never work out.”

“Even though you like sports and race around playing police, you want a guy who’s more artistic.”

I didn’t know whether to jump down his throat for calling my work “playing police” or be amazed that he put so much thought into my character. “Maybe I just don’t want to be married. Michael hangs out with a crowd where the wife is the little woman who stays home and has kiddies. That may be your dream for me but it’s not my style, never has been and never will be.”

“‘Never’ is a long time, Vicki.” He held up a hand as the blood rushed to my face. “Hold your fire. I’m not saying you’re wrong. Just don’t get yourself out on a limb where you’ll saw yourself off rather than admit you changed your mind. But that’s not what I came to say to you.”

It made me downright mad to think of him and Eileen sitting at dinner, planning my marriage to his godson- “Maybe truelove will get her mind off wanting to be a boy and play boys’ games with guns and baseballs”-as though my life and my choices were of no account. I bit back a diatribe. Yelling at Bobby could only put me at a severe disadvantage.

“I haven’t asked Mickey anything about you,” he went on. “I figure it’s his business. But he’s been like a cat on a hot stove since he saw you clinched with that kid the other night.”

“I can’t call up and apologize for being found necking at my own front door.”

“Just go easy on him, will you, Vicki? I’m fond of the boy. I don’t want an explosion on my staff because you’re turning them on and off like faucets. I know there’s been something between you and John, even though neither of you admits it; I don’t want a blowup between him and Mickey. Or Mickey and you. You may not believe it, but I’m fond of you too.”

My cheeks flamed again, this time with embarrassment. “There’s never been anything between McGonnigal and me. He gave me a lift home last winter in the middle of the night. I was beat, he thought I looked cute when vulnerable, we had one kiss and both knew we couldn’t cross that line again. Since then it’s been like I was Cleopatra’s asp. And I’m damned if I’m going to apologize to him for that.”