Sara Paretsky - Burn Marks

“So why did someone want to leave the two of you there to die?” Montgomery asked.

“You’re the bomb-and-arson whiz, Lieutenant. You tell me. All I know is, she called up scared, I found her on a pallet in the basement barely breathing, got knocked out myself, and am lucky to be here enjoying this scintillating conversation with some shred of my wits intact.”

Finchley started a sentence, then changed his mind and made an industrious note in his pocket diary. In the dim lamplight his closely cut hair merged with the black smoothness of his face.

Montgomery scowled at me but only said, “The Prairie Shores Hotel is across the street from that fire you were so excited about last week.”

I gave the thread of a smile. “Amazing.”

“I’m wondering if you set the fire yourself, to try to get the department to respond to your demands for an investigation into the Indiana Arms.”

I felt a jolt, the way you do when the earth goes on hurtling through space and you haven’t quite moved with it. Finchley’s jaw dropped. He clearly hadn’t been privy to Montgomery’s theories. “I didn’t know we were considering that possibility, Monty,” he said softly.

“And I would never have suspected you of so extravagant an imagination,” I put in. “Sounds like you read too much Tom Clancy on your days off.”

Finchley hid a smile so fast I wasn’t sure I’d seen it. “Monty, what evidence do we have that points to Miss Warshawski?”

Montgomery ignored him. “You tried to waste police resources last week, claiming there had been a baby in the Indiana Arms that was never there. It’s one of the hallmarks of arsonists that they can’t stand to have their handiwork ignored.”

“Hunh-unh.” I shook my head. “You go away and do some real work on this problem before you bother me again. You find out about the accelerant and who had access to it, and you come up with a reason for me knocking myself out and then setting the fire and then scrambling to get away. Then we’ll talk some more.”

“Accomplice,” Montgomery said smugly. “You must have run afoul of your partner in this.”

I leaned back in the corner of my couch and shut my eyes. “Good-bye, Lieutenant. The door will lock automatically behind you.”

He started shouting at me. When I didn’t respond he got up and shook my shoulder until my head throbbed in earnest.

“You’re one step away from a complaint of police brutality,” I said coldly. “Unless you have a warrant with my name on it, you get the hell out of my place now.”

If Finchley hadn’t been there, I think Montgomery would have slugged me, but he could see whose side the detective was on-he wasn’t nearly as dumb as he looked.

“Just watch your ass, Warshawski. I’m going to be sticking to you like your underpants. If you’re up to something, next time we’ll catch you red-handed.”

“Thanks for the warning, Lieutenant. It’s a help to know who your enemies are before you hit the streets.”

When the door shut behind them I did up all the bolts again and checked the back door for good measure. I was too tired to think about what it all meant, too tired even to call Bobby and chew his ear off about it. I staggered back to my bedroom and fell back into a deep, unrestful sleep.

A Few Kind Words from a Friend

Robin phoned later that evening, concerned that he hadn’t been allowed to see me in the hospital and glad I was still in one piece. He was eager to drive down for a convalescent visit. I was too worn out for more company but said he could stop by on Saturday if I felt better.

Before he hung up I remembered a question. “By the way, did Ajax insure the Prairie Shores Hotel-the place I was in?”

“No. It was the first thing I looked at, but of course we don’t cover abandoned buildings. And if it’s any comfort to you, it wasn’t owned by your pal Saul Seligman. So it’s either a vendetta against that block of Indiana or someone with a grudge against the Warshawski family.”

The last comment was meant as a joke, but it reminded me again of Elena, her red-veined face slack and empty. I muttered something to Robin about feeling too feeble for jokes and hung up. I did not have to be a Victorian angel and go sit with her. I didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.

I stumbled into the dining room and dug around in the cupboards hunting for stationery. It had been so long since I’d written any personal letters that the box had landed behind the fondue set and silver salad servers left over from my brief marriage. I stared at the pieces in bewilderment: Why had I carted those particular items all over Chicago with me for the eleven years since my divorce?

I wasn’t up to making a decision about them today; I thrust them back into the cupboard and sat down with the yellowed stationery to write my uncle Peter. It was a difficult letter-I had to overcome my dislike of him enough to plead Elena’s case with conviction. I described the accident, made much of my own decrepitude and the fact that I’d saved her life, and concluded with a plea that he either take her in himself or put her up in a convalescent facility. In the morning I’d express it to Mission Hills. It was the best I could do for Elena.

In the bathroom mirror my face looked sunken, nothing left but cheekbones and eyes, their gray looking almost black against the pallor of my skin. No wonder Mr. Contreras had been eager to fill me with steak. I stepped on the scale. My weight had fallen below a hundred and thirty pounds. I couldn’t afford to be that light if I wanted to have the energy to do my job. I wasn’t hungry but I’d better eat something.

I wandered moodily to the kitchen. After all this time any resemblance between the stuff in my refrigerator and human food was purely coincidental. I smelled the yogurt. It was still okay, but the vegetables and fruit had passed the point of no return while the orange juice smelled both rotten and fermented.

I took a bag of fettucini from the freezer and sawed off a hunk with my big butcher knife. While it boiled I ate the yogurt directly from the carton, trying to put some order into the chaos that enveloped me.

Several people had been annoyed with me the last week or two. Ralph MacDonald had descended from his throne to hint me away from Roz Fuentes’s affairs. Saul Seligman was upset that Ajax wouldn’t honor his claim. Zerlina Ramsay blamed me and Elena for her daughter’s death. It was quite a list, but I didn’t know that any of them would express their annoyance by leaving both Elena and me to die by fire. Of course Lotty was angry with me, too, but she preferred to do her scorching directly.

Then there was Luis Schmidt. He’d called me a bitch on Tuesday and told me not to ask any more questions about Alma Mejicana or he’d make me sorry. I’d flipped back some good macha retort and he’d hung up on me. So if I was going to go pawing around any of these people, Luis was the place to start.

The hissing of water on gas startled me back to the present-the fettucini had boiled over, extinguishing the pilot. Of course I couldn’t find a box of matches among the jumble on the stove. I started slamming doors open and shut. I just couldn’t take this life anymore, living alone, no one to pet me when I came home from the wars, nothing to eat, no matches, no money in the bank. I grabbed a handful of spoons and spatulas and flung them as hard as I could at the kitchen door.

When the clatter died down the grate over the door vibrated in a mournful bass for a few seconds. My shoulders sagged in defeat. I shuffled over to the door to collect my utensils. A wooden spoon had landed on the refrigerator. When I reached up for it I knocked a box of matches down. Okay, good. Have fits. They get results. I stuffed the implements back into a drawer and relit the stove.