Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

I blew her a kiss and dialed Vishnikov’s home number. “Jeesh, Bryant, good thing you only deal with the dead: your bedside manner gets the living totally weirded out. You really think Whitby looks like a user?”

“I just don’t want the family refusing to pay the bill if I find out what they don’t want to know.”

“Well, talk to me about it next time. I will guarantee the bill,” I said grandly.

“In that case, we’ll use the new spectrometer, Warshawski. Time on it’s five hundred bucks an hour, but you’ll be happy with the results.”

He hung up, pleased with himself. I hoped he was joking. Or that the Whitbys could pay his bill.

I phoned Lotty next, but only got her answering machine. Where was everyone on Saturday afternoon? I needed a human voice right now. I left a message saying I was fine, just bruised a bit in body and mind, and I’d try her again over the weekend.

Finally, I put two more quarters into the phone and called my neighbor. Mr. Contreras was predictably upset and voluble. He, too, had heard the news, and not only had my name been on it as someone Sheriff Rick Salvi was eager to talk to-but deputies had come around the apartment twice already today, and where was I and what was I doing?

I fed quarters into the phone until my supply dried up, giving hire the details of last night’s excursion-except, of course, my escape with Benjamin. Mr. Contreras vigorously approved of my jumping out the bathroom window to get away from the sheriff, but wanted to know why I hadn’t come home then.

“I was beat: I checked into a motel out there.” I said. “I only woke up a little bit ago.”

“So you didn’t actually see the A-rab, huh, doll? What was that girl, that Catherine Bayard doing out there in the middle of the night? She mixed up with that terrorist, do you think?”

“Hard to picture,” I said lightly. “Probably has some boyfriend in the area she doesn’t want her folks to know about. I just put in my last quarter. Can you meet me at your back door in ten minutes? My clothes are a wreck and I want to change before I do anything else. Just in case DuPage has the place staked out, and just in case they haven’t posted anyone in back.”

The warning beeps sounded. We were disconnected before Mr. Contreras could finish his response. Waving a cheery farewell to the woman who’d wrestled me for the phone, I headed into the dank afternoon.

I switched on my cell phone-Earth to VI. once more-and climbed back into the Jaguar. When the engine turned over, I found myself thinking that Luke could file off the serial number and repaint the car blue instead of red. I knew I had to return it, but driving the coolest car on the road brought me more cheer than Father Lou’s horse liniment.

I drove up Western, past a new mega-mall that had driven away two little grocers, a small appliance rental and repair shop and Zoe’s Homemade Pies and Cakes. Ah, progress. I crossed Racine, the street where I live, and parked a block to the east.

I walked in a square, south and west, away from the car, so I could saunter up Racine looking for any unusual vehicles or loiterers. The overcast afternoon was bleeding into a gray dusk, cloaking my face from any watchers.

If I were a Clancy or Ludlum superhero, I’d have memorized all the license plates on the two-block stretch, and been able to tell you which ones hadn’t been here when I left early yesterday morning. Since it’s all I can do to remember my own plate number, I concentrated instead on vans that could hold listening devices, and cars where people were sitting with the motors running. One of these was a Chicago squad car across the street from my own building. Not too subtle.

After walking another block north, I turned east again and cut down

through the alley behind my building. No squad cars were warming the night air behind my building. A woman I recognized was emptying her garbage, but no one else was in the alley.

Mr. Contreras was waiting for me inside the back gate, along with the dogs. The three greeted me with a heartwarming ecstasy. While we were still outside, I explained the possibility that the building might be under electronic surveillance. “I don’t think that it is-I don’t think my being in the house an Arab speaker fled from warrants huge attention-but I can’t be sure. So-don’t say anything to me you wouldn’t want Clara to hear.”

In the dark, I could sense rather than see the old man’s embarrassment: Clara was his beloved wife, dead now for many years. I hastily changed the subject, explaining that I had borrowed a car and needed to drop it some place close to its owner. “I’m going upstairs to change, then I want to drive out to New Solway and collect the Mustang. Want to come along?”

He was delighted to take even a small part in my adventure. I left him in his own kitchen and went up to my apartment.

My living room overlooks Racine, so I moved through it in darkness, trying to remember where I’d left things like the piano bench. I only banged my shin once. Since no one seemed to be watching the back, I did turn on lights in my bedroom and kitchen, first making sure the blinds were pulled and the door leading from the back to the front of the hall was shut. After my night in Larchmont Hall, the apartment seemed tiny, but I was glad of my small space. It was like a cloak, protecting me.

I was ravenous, and badly wanted real food. In the last twenty-four hours, I’d had a smoothie, a plate of eggs and some toast and tea in the rectory kitchen. I put water on for pasta. In the freezer, I actually found part of a roast chicken. I stuck it in the microwave while I changed.

My shoulder muscles did not like it when I tried to fasten my bra, but I gritted my teeth and did up the hooks: it felt important not to be exposed, even beneath a sweater, when I finally got around to the law. I put some of Father Lou’s embrocation on a bath brush so I could reach behind my head to rub it into my sore zone. It had an odd smell, not unpleasant, but conjuring up stables or locker rooms. Remembering Father Lou’s advice to tape the area, I dug an Ace bandage out of the medicine chest. I managed to wrap it tightly enough to hold the sore muscle in place. With clean jeans and walking shoes, I felt strong enough to get by for a while. My running shoes were badly nicked from scaling Larchmont. I’d have to stretch the budget to cover a new pair.

I still had some decent-looking lettuce, a bag of carrots and fresh green beans in my refrigerator. I put these together into a salad, which I ate with the chicken and pasta, sitting down at the kitchen table. Too often I eat either in the car or walking around the apartment while I get ready to run out the door.

I wanted to keep things slow right now, not rush at whatever lay ahead. When I finished eating, I washed the dishes, including the ones I’d let build up in the sink while I was under the weather. Bringing a container of household cleaner and a sponge with me, I walked slowly down the stairs to collect Mr. Contreras and the dogs. We went out the back way, down the alley to the Jaguar.

The roads west were clear; we made the forty-mile trip in fortyfive minutes. To my relief, as well as my amazement, the Mustang still stood behind the shrubbery where I’d left it. Maybe Schorr’s deputies hadn’t spotted it: maybe they’d posted the squad car to intercept Benji, rather than to stake out my car. We drove on past the Mustang and parked the Jaguar in the Larchmont carriageway.

While the dogs tore through the underbrush, Mr. Contreras and I cleaned out the Jaguar. I was concerned about obliterating any trace of Benji, but he was happy to think he was getting dog hair and my fingerprints out of the car. We left it on the carriageway, keys in the ignition, for some New Solway cop to find.