Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

I told her the odd things I’d learned about Olin Taverner’s death, and the man who’d broken into Taverner’s apartment. “I’d give a month’s pay with chocolate sauce to know what was in Taverner’s papers. Marc didn’t say anything to Aretha Cummings, did he?”

“Not that she reported to us,” Amy said. “And you know, that was a big story, an old man opening a locked drawer, showing off his secret papers. If Marc had mentioned it, I think she would have said, even if he swore her to secrecy, although I can call her again in the morning to double-check.”

“Right.” I made a note. “We need the notes Marc took at Taverner’s last Thursday night. Or we need the connection between Taverner and Kylie Ballantine-although I’m assuming it’s something to do with the blacklist. Maybe she was hauled before HUAC, even though it isn’t mentioned in any of her papers down at the Harsh Collection.”

“I can go to the university library tomorrow,” Amy offered. “All those hearings are on microfiche. I did try with Hendricks to see if he might have any of Marc’s notes-I could sort of see him going to Marc’s desk and helping himself when the news came in Marc had died-in case there was something he could either use, or needed to cover up. He definitely was jealous of Marc’s success. So was Jason Tompkin. Tompkin thinks Marc

flew solo too much because he wanted glory. His theory is Marc got hold of something dangerous, but all he saw was the prize he’d get for scooping the world, so he didn’t tell anyone. I-don’t like that idea. Someone like this J.T. would make Marc retreat into his shell, but not out of-of jealousy or ambition. More out of-he didn’t like a lot of noise.”

“It’s hard when you have to investigate affairs of people you’re close to,” I sympathized. “I went through that when my cousin Boom-Boom diedit’s almost like being the fly on the wall when people are talking about you, isn’t it?”

I looked over the notes I’d been making. “Marc visited Taverner a week ago, on Thursday. When did he try to see Llewellyn? Or at least, when did he and Hendricks have their big dustup,” I asked. “Before or after Marc met Taverner?”

“I don’t know.” Paper rustled as she went through her own notes. “You think Taverner told him something about Llewellyn? But what?”

“I don’t think anything,” I said impatiently. “I don’t know enough to think.”

“The fight was recent,” she said slowly. “It could have been last Friday. I can call J.T. tomorrow and ask him.”

“Do: it could be important,” I said.

Before hanging up, we organized the next day’s work. I told Amy that the archivist thought Marc might have found some original documents in Kylie Ballantine’s old home.

“I’d like to make one last desperate effort to find those papers, or any papers of his. It just isn’t natural, the way everything has vanished.”

We agreed to meet at Marc’s house in the morning. While I broke into his Saturn to see if any documents were there, Amy would start a finetooth-comb search of the house itself, in case we’d missed anything yesterday. Then Amy would go down to the university library while I tried to talk to Renee Bayard. After all, Renee had met Calvin doing volunteer clerical work for people who had been called before Congress; she might know if there had been a connection between Taverner and Ballantine.

While we’d been talking I’d had another idea about that secret file of Taverner’s: young Larry Yosano, the lawyer doing odd jobs for Lebold, Arnofl: It was a little late for business calls, but he was on the emergency shift this week. I figured I’d get further faster by assuming Taverner had been another of Lebold, Arnoff’s New Solway clients, and started by saying that Taverner’s death must be generating a certain amount of work at the office.

He concurred, but added, “You know, Ms. Warshawski, nothing against you, but I do have a private life. It’s hard enough when all those New Solway clients think I’m the Japanese houseman they can call in the middle of the night. Can’t we have this conversation tomorrow in my office?”

I had to agree, although I didn’t really want to add another trip to the western suburbs to my crowded Friday schedule. We settled on three in the afternoon-Yosano had wanted to do it earlier, but I wanted to get things clear at Whitby’s house so that I knew whether I really had to clutch at straws by going into the Larchmont pond.

I was finally climbing back into bed when my phone rang. I was startled to hear Darraugh Graham’s voice, bitingly angry.

“Didn’t I make it clear that you were not to trouble my mother any further? You have thirty seconds to explain why you’ve so blatantly disregarded my orders.”

I stiffened. “Darraugh, you are not a marine colonel and I am not one of your recruits. I owed your mother the courtesy of a visit to explain what I’d done and why I wouldn’t be further involved in her problems. And I won’t apologize for seeing her.”

“It was unconscionable of you to upset her. That wasn’t a courtesy visit, it was an interrogation.”

“She called you to complain? Oh, no. Lisa called to complain. Your mother was upset by learning how ill Calvin Bayard was, not by anything I asked her. I think it’s permissible for a woman to weep over the decay of an old friend.”

“Talking to my mother can have nothing to do with your murder investigation. I warned you about that earlier. If you wish to continue in my employment, I am ordering you to stay away from my mother.”

“I’ll think about it, Darraugh. About my wishes, I mean. Good night.” I hung up before my anger rode me into an outright declaration o? quitting. His thousand-a-month retainer-one could pay too high a price for money sometimes.

When I got to Lebold, Arnoff’s offices in Oak Brook Tower, Larry Yosano took me in to meet Julius Arnoff it was better that the senior partner know who was involving herself in the affairs of the firm’s most important clients. Better for Yosano, anyway.

By the time I arrived-late-at the meeting, I had already had a long day. I’d woken early, from feverish dreams: I’d been hunting for Morrell through the caves of Kandahar, when the caves turned into the culvert under the road in Anodyne Park. It was miles long, the soil rank with rotted fish and rat droppings. I was no longer hunting Morrell, but fleeing from the man who’d butted me in the stomach. I ran as fast as I could, but my feet in my Bruno Magh pumps were sinking into the fetid ground, and the man was driving a golf cart. When I finally turned in a desperate effort to confront him, Marc Whitby was at the wheel.

I woke panting and sweating. It was only five o’clock. I tried to go back to sleep, but I was in that gritty state where it was impossible to slide away from my conscious brain. Finally, when the late winter sky was starting to streak red, I got up and took the dogs for a run.

I wanted to go as far as I could as fast as I could. I wanted to get away from myself and my tired gray mind, but at the end of three miles, Mitch

and Peppy both balked: they planted themselves in the bike path and refused to move, despite both commands and bribes.

I finally turned around and took them home at a pace slow enough to please them, but one that left me prey to the uneasy images from my dreams. I couldn’t shake the images, nor the feeling that something beyond mere unpleasantness lay in them.

Back home, I showered and made breakfast-eggs, in the hopes that protein would overcome my gray mood and give me the energy to organize my day. Work felt beyond me this morning, but I didn’t have the income or the upbringing to indulge only myself.