Sara Paretsky - Burn Marks

Behind me Jim Hart and Butkus were carrying on about the fine points of Dan Hampton’s first-half play. I switched the radio off and read the story slowly.

The Star had only given it five inches. I went through the Tribune and the Sun-Times and finally found enough detail to let me know the time the police thought it had happened-late Friday afternoon-the mailman’s discovery of her body on Saturday when he went in through the unlocked front door with a registered letter, and Mr. Seligman’s shock. Mrs. Donnelly had left two daughters, Shannon Casey (thirty-two) and Star Wentzel (twenty-nine), both married, and three grandchildren. Mass would be at St. Inanna’s parish Tuesday afternoon; visitation at the Callahan Funeral Home Monday evening. In lieu of flowers money should be sent to the St. Inanna scholarship fund.

The Bears and Bills were stacked in a violent heap on the silent TV screen-the second half had started without me. I switched off the set and went to the window to look out. It could have been random violence-money came into the office. Someone knew that, staked it out, killed her before she could get to the bank.

“Just don’t forget that’s possible,” I lectured myself out loud. “Don’t get so wound up in your favorite theories that you ignore the amount of random ugly violence in this town.” How could it have been random, though, with Cerise dead, the attack on Elena and me, the two fires. It all connected someplace. The murderer had ransacked the files, but no money had been taken, either from the office or from Mrs. Donnelly’s own bag.

Mrs. Donnelly’s death made me do something I had felt too churlish to do earlier-call Furey to see what he knew about Elena.

He sounded pleased enough to hear from me, although I could tell by the background noise I’d interrupted a party. “You got us all kind of worried, Vic. You doing okay?”

“I was feeling better until I went to the hospital this morning to visit my aunt. They told me you’d come around to talk to her and that they gave you all the details.”

“Yeah. I tried calling you a few times but just got your answering service. I was hoping you might have some idea where she went. She’s our only real lead on Wednesday’s fire.”

“Besides me.” I told him about Montgomery’s theory.

“Oh, Monty-he gets a little off balance sometimes. Don’t pay any attention to him. What about your aunt? I checked that hotel on Kenmore, but she hasn’t been back there since she skipped ten days ago.”

I suggested the abandoned buildings on the Near South Side and he promised to get a patrol unit to check them out. The pals had all come over to watch the game-he kind of wanted to get back to it, but he’d talk to me later in the week.

The phone rang as soon as I’d hung up. It was my uncle Peter, frothing because of my letter: What did I think he was, some cretin that he’d expose his children to someone like Elena?

“It’s okay, Peter-she’s vanished. No one’s going to ask anything of you.” Actually I was planning on calling Reese tomorrow to make sure they had his name and address as Elena’s financial guarantor, but I didn’t see it would help him any to learn that this afternoon.

The news didn’t mollify him. “Just get this through your head, Vic-if I’d wanted to stay tied to a bunch of losers, I wouldn’t have moved away from Chicago. If that offends you, I’m sorry, but I want more for my children than Tony wanted for you.”

I was about to launch a full-scale counterattack on how Tony wouldn’t have wanted sleaze for me, but even as I started it I realized the futility of saying anything. Peter and I had been around this track together a good many times. Neither of us was going to change. I hung up without saying good-bye.

I went back to the window and looked down at the drab bungalows facing my building. Maybe Tony would have wanted a mansion in Winnetka for me, but he’d only known bungalows and walk-ups-he wouldn’t think they were any disgrace for me.

My fight with Peter had exhausted me more than carrying around that tropical rain forest had this morning. If I wanted to prance around the rooftops tonight, I needed some rest. I switched off the phones and fell into my bed.

House Calls

It was six when I woke up again. My shoulder muscles had stiffened from the aftermath of carrying Ralph MacDonald’s flowers up to Elena. I wanted to soak them under a hot shower. That was impossible with my gauze mitts. Anyway, I needed to keep my hands protected for my upcoming labors.

Although I’d had a little peanut butter while watching the Bears, I hadn’t eaten a proper meal yet today. I still didn’t have any real food in the house. I’d planned to ask Robin to drive me to the store yesterday, but after his squib about taking me off the case it had gone out of my mind. I didn’t think I could do my Santa Claus imitation without dinner.

I pulled on the top to my long underwear and put a black cotton sweater on over that. It might be cool on the rooftops and I didn’t want anything as bulky-or as visible-as a jacket. Jeans and my black basketball high-tops completed the ensemble that the well-dressed burglar was wearing this year. I also needed some kind of dark cap or scarf to keep light from reflecting from my face or hair. I rummaged through my drawers and came up with a soft black linen square Eileen Mallory had given me last Christmas. I didn’t think the green and blue design woven into it would show up at night.

If I’m carrying my gun I usually wear a shoulder holster. Since I wanted to bring a few tools with me tonight, I dug out an old police-style belt with a holster and holes for slinging handcuffs or a truncheon.

My best flashlight was buried in the Prairie Shores rubble, but I had another one someplace. After rooting through the dining-room cupboard and the hall closet, I found it at the back of the refrigerator top. Although a little greasy to the touch, its battery still worked. I strung some twine through the hook on its end and tied it to my belt. A small hammer, a screwdriver, and a dark hand towel completed my supplies. I used to have a set of picklocks given to me by a grateful client in my PD days, but the police had confiscated those several years ago. I picked up my rolling footstool from behind the refrigerator and headed out.

I managed to slink out of the apartment without rousing Mr. Contreras, Peppy, or even Vinnie the banker. The fall twilight had set in, purply-gray and changing quickly to black. No passerby could make out my equipment belt. I stuck it in the Chevy’s trunk with the footstool and drove the four blocks to the Belmont Diner for dinner. After a bowl of hearty cabbage soup and a plate of roast chicken with mashed potatoes, I felt too stuffed to move.

Gluttony is a terrible enemy of the private detective. I’d have to wait a good hour before starting my trek, maybe even longer. You’re disgusting, I admonished myself privately as I paid the bill. Peter Wimsey and Philip Marlowe never had this kind of problem.

Back in the Chevy I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. If I returned to my apartment, the chances were good I’d run into the old man. If his jealous sixth sense warned him I was setting out on an adventure, I might not be able to get away without him. I didn’t want to go to a movie. I didn’t want to sit in my office with a novel.

I put the car into gear and went north, up to Estes. The Chevy seemed to be behaving itself again-maybe I’d been imagining the groan in its engine.

It was only eight when I got to Saul Seligman’s house, not too late for visiting even an old man. I could see a dim glow of light behind the heavily draped windows. A late-model Chrysler stood immediately in front of the house. I parked just behind it and went up the walk to ring the bell.