Sara Paretsky - Burn Marks

By the time I finished I was panting. I leaned back in my chair with my eyes shut, trying to head off the incipient pain in my head.

“Vic, I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re alive. You’ve been doing a marvelous job. But we wonder whether someone else could bring a different perspective. Just the fact that your aunt is involved may be affecting your detachment.”

“That’s your right,” I repeated stiffly. “But if you bring someone else in, I will not work in a subordinate capacity to him. Or her. I’ll be glad to share my notes and my ideas, but I won’t continue working for Ajax.”

“Well, maybe we don’t have to hire someone else at this point. There is a city Bomb and Arson Squad…” Robin offered tentatively.

“Who wouldn’t even look at the Indiana Arms for you. Don’t put your faith in them just because I’ve gotten some licks-it’d take more than that to get Roland Montgomery to look at the case seriously. He’s even spinning a little story about me setting the fires myself.”

Robin looked startled. “You’re joking!”

When I told him about my meeting yesterday with Montgomery, he made a sour face. “What the hell is with that guy? He hates outsiders horning in on arson inquiries- I know-we’ve clashed before-but this is outrageous even for him.”

His mention of outsider brought the elusive memory of a face at the fire swimming back to my mind, but I couldn’t place it. “You don’t know who called in the alarm, do you? If the fire trucks hadn’t been there, I don’t think my aunt would have made it out.”

Robin shook his head again. “I have pals in the fire department who let me see everything they have on both fires, but the call to 911 was anonymous.”

I ran my fork around in the congealed grease on my plate, trying to come up with questions I should ask about the fire. Did the police have a list of the onlookers, for example, or had anything been left behind at the site that might point to the arsonist?

My heart wasn’t in it, though. The questioning of my professional judgment wounded me as few other criticisms could. At the same time I saw myself in a shameful light, clattering off to the Prairie Shores Hotel like a giant elephant thundering through the veldt. If I’d called the cops-of course, I had called Furey. Still, a full police battalion might have saved both Elena and me a knock on the head. But the truth was, if it happened again tonight, I would do it the same way all over again. I couldn’t expose Elena to the ribald indifference of the police. I have to solve my private problems privately. I don’t even know if it’s a strength or weakness. It just is.

I paid my bill and we set off silently for my apartment, neither of us pretending the conversation hadn’t occurred. Outside my building Robin played with the bandages on my right hand, choosing his words.

“Vic, I think we’ll let the Seligman investigation go on the back burner for a few days. We’ll get someone to talk to the night watchman in more depth, but we won’t ask him to take over the case. Next week, when you’re feeling better, we’ll see what he’s turned up and you can decide how you feel about going ahead with the rest of it.”

That seemed fair to me. It didn’t stop me feeling depressed as I slowly hiked upstairs, but it did ease the tight knot between my shoulder blades.

As I was unlocking my door Mr. Contreras and the dog came bounding upstairs. When they reached the second landing I could hear him scolding her gently-he couldn’t see where he was going; did she have to keep racing back and forth under his feet? Trip him up and then where would she be with me gone all the time. I felt the knot come back to my neck and faced them without a welcoming smile.

Mr. Contreras was hidden behind a giant parcel wrapped in the striped paper florists use. “This came while you was out, doll,” he panted. “I thought I might as well accept it for you so they didn’t bring it by when you was asleep or something.”

“Thanks,” I said with what politeness I could muster- I just wanted to go into my own cave and hibernate. Alone.

“It’s okay, doll, I’m happy to help. What happened to your friend? He leave you high and dry?” He set the parcel down gently and wiped his forehead.

“He knew I wanted to rest,” I said pointedly.

“Sure, cookie, sure. I understand. You want some time by yourself. You need me to do anything for you?”

I was about to utter a firm denial when I thought of the letter I wanted to express to my uncle Peter. I needed to sleep so badly I couldn’t get to the post office before their early Saturday closing.

Mr. Contreras was more than pleased to mail it for me. He was ecstatic that I’d chosen him for the errand. He was so thrilled I wished I’d fought back my fatigue and taken the damned thing myself.

When he bustled off with the letter-“Don’t give me no money now, doll, I’ll settle with you later”-I dragged the flowers inside. It was a magnificent bouquet, reds and golds and purples so exotic I hadn’t seen them before. They were arranged in a handsome wooden bowl lined with plastic. I fished around among the foliage for a card.

“Glad you’re out of the hospital,” ran the round unformed writing of the florist. “Next time try to pick quieter work.”

It was signed “R.M.” I was so tired I didn’t even want to try to decide if it was a good-natured gibe or a warning. I locked all the bolts, turned off both phones, and stumbled into bed.

Preparing for the High Jump

When I got up on Sunday I knew I’d turned the critical corner toward recovery. I wasn’t back to my full strength, but I felt clear-headed and energetic. The lingering depression from my breakfast with Robin resolved itself to a manageable problem-my ability to handle the Seligman investigation was in doubt, not my entire career and personality. Even my hands were better. I didn’t take off the gauze, but I could do simple household chores without feeling that the skin was splitting open to the bone.

The early detective gets the worm. Although it was unlikely that anyone would come into the Alma Mejicana offices at all on Sunday, they were less likely to do so first thing in the morning.

Before taking off I went into the living room to do a modified version of my exercises-I wasn’t ready to start running yet, but I needed to keep limber. Ralph MacDonald’s flowers dominated the room. I’d forgotten them. As I stretched my quads and tightened my glutes, I eyed the tropical rain forest balefully. Whether meant as a threat or a humorous compliment, they were overwhelming, too big a gesture from a man who scarcely knew me.

When I finished my leg lifts-twenty-five with each leg instead of my usual hundred left me breathless-I scrambled into my jeans and a sweatshirt. Straining, I carried the flowers down to my car. I drove over to Broadway and picked up a bagel, an apple, and some milk at one of the delis.

My attempts to eat and drive at the same time showed the state of my healing-two-handed, the steering wheel was manageable. With one hand my palms started smarting and my wrist ached. I pulled over at the corner of Diversey and Pine Grove to eat. The tropical flowers stained the car with their heavy scent, making it hard to eat without queasiness. I rolled the window all the way down, but the smell was still heady. Finally I gulped down the milk and started south without finishing the bagel.

Sunday morning is the best time to drive in Chicago, because there isn’t any traffic out. I made the nine miles to Michael Reese in fifteen minutes without pushing the speed limit.