Sara Paretsky - Total Recall

“Since you didn’t feed inside Ajax information to the alderman, can you think who might have?”

She shook her head. “It’s such a big company. And the files aren’t exactly secret, at least they weren’t when I was doing my research. They keep all of the old material in their company library, in boxes. Hundreds of boxes, as a matter of fact. Recent material they guarded carefully, but the first hundred years-it was more a question of having the patience to wade through it than any particular difficulty gaining access to it. Although you do have to ask the librarian to see it-still, anyone who wanted to study those papers could probably get around that difficulty.”

“So it might be an employee, someone with a grudge, or someone who could be bribed? Or perhaps a zealous member of Alderman Durham’s organization?”

“Any or all of those could be reasonable possibilities, but I have no names to put forward. Still, thirty-seven hundred people of color hold low-level clerical or manual-laboring positions in the company. They are underpaid, underrepresented in supervisory positions, and often are treated to overt racial slurs. Any of them could become angry enough to undertake an act of passive sabotage.”

I stood up, wondering if someone in the Sommers extended family was among the low-level clerks at Ajax. I thanked Amy Blount for being willing to talk to me and left her one of my cards, in case anything else occurred to her. As she walked me to the door I stopped to admire the picture of the squatting woman. Her head was bent over the basket in front of her; you didn’t see her face.

“It’s by Lois Mailou Jones,” Ms. Blount said. “She also refused to be a victim.”

Late that night, I lay in the dark next to Morrell, fretting uselessly, endlessly, about the day. My mind bounced-like a pinball-from Rhea Wiell to Alderman Durham, my fury with him rising each time I thought of that flyer he was handing out in the Ajax plaza. When I tried to put that to rest I’d go back to Amy Blount, to Howard Fepple, and finally to my gnawing worries about Lotty.

When I’d gone to my office from Amy Blount’s place, I’d found the copies of the Paul Radbuka video the Unblinking Eye had made for me, along with the stills of Radbuka.

My long afternoon dealing with Sommers and Fepple had pushed Radbuka out of my mind. At first I only stared at the packet, trying to remember what I’d wanted from the Eye. When I saw the stills of Radbuka’s face, I recalled my promise to Lotty to get her a copy of the video today. Numb with fatigue, I was thinking I might hang on to it until I saw her on Sunday at Max’s, when she phoned.

“ Victoria, I’m trying to be civilized, but have you not had my messages this afternoon?”

I explained that I hadn’t had a chance to check with my answering service. “In about fifteen minutes I’m talking to a reporter about the charges that Bull Durham’s been flinging at me, so I was trying to organize my response into sincere, succinct nuggets.”

“Bull Durham? The man who’s been protesting the Holocaust Asset Recovery Act? Don’t tell me he’s involved now with Paul Radbuka!”

I blinked. “No. He’s involved in a case I’ve been working on. Insurance fraud involving a South Side family.”

“And that takes precedence over responding to messages from me?”

“Lotty!” I was outraged. “Alderman Durham handed out flyers today defaming me. He marched around a public space bellowing insults about me through a bullhorn. It doesn’t seem extraordinary that I had to respond to that. I walked into my office five minutes ago. I haven’t even seen my messages.”

“Yes, I see,” she said. “I-but I need some support, too. I want to see this man’s video, Victoria. I want to know that you’re trying to help me. That you won’t aban-that you won’t forget our-”

Her voice was panicky; she was flailing about for words in a way that made my insides twist. “Lotty, please, how could I forget our friendship? Or ever abandon you? As soon as I finish with this interview, I’ll be right over. Say in an hour?”

When we hung up I checked my messages. She’d phoned three times. Beth Blacksin had phoned once, to say she’d love to talk to me but could I come to the Global building, since she was jammed up with editing all the interviews and demonstrations of the day. She’d seen Murray Ryerson-he’d join us at the studio. I thought wistfully of my cot in the back room but gathered up my things and drove back downtown.

Beth spent twenty minutes taping me while she and Murray peppered me with questions. I was being careful not to implicate my client, but I freely tossed them Howard Fepple’s name-it was time someone besides me started pushing on him. Beth was gleeful enough to get this exclusive new source that she happily shared what she had with me, but neither she nor Murray had any idea who had given Durham the information on the Birnbaums.

“I got thirty seconds with the alderman, who says it’s common knowledge,” Murray said. “I talked to the Birnbaum legal counsel, who said it’s overblown ancient history. I couldn’t get to the woman who wrote their history, Amy Blount-someone at Ajax suggested it was her.”

“I talked to her,” I said smugly. “I’d bet hard against her. It has to be another Ajax insider. Or maybe someone in the Birnbaum company with a grudge. You talk to Bertrand Rossy? I gather he’s fulminating-the Swiss probably aren’t used to street demonstrations. If Durham hadn’t libeled me, I’d be chortling over it.”

“You know that piece we did on Wednesday on Paul Radbuka?” Beth said, changing the subject to something she cared about personally. “We’ve had about a hundred and thirty e-mails from people who say they know his little friend Miriam. My assistant’s tracking them down. Most of them are unstable glory-seekers, but it will be such a coup if one of them turns out to be the real deal. Just think if we reunite them on-air!”

“I hope you’re not building that up on-air,” I said sharply. “It may turn out to be just that: air.”

“What?” Beth stared at me. “You think he made up his friend? No, Vic, you’re wrong about that.”

Murray, whose six-eight frame had been curled against a filing cabinet, suddenly stood up straight and began pelting me with questions: what inside dope did I have on Paul Radbuka? What did I know about his playmate Miriam? What did I know about Rhea Wiell?

“Nothing on all of the above,” I said. “I haven’t talked to the guy. But I met Rhea Wiell this morning.”

“She’s not a fraud, Vic,” Beth said sharply.

“I know she’s not. She’s not a fraud and she’s not a con artist. But she believes in herself so intensely that-I don’t know, I can’t explain it,” I finished helplessly, struggling to articulate why her look of ecstasy when she discussed Paul Radbuka had unnerved me so much. “I agree-it doesn’t seem possible that someone as experienced as Wiell could be conned. But-well, I guess I won’t have an opinion until I meet Radbuka,” I finished lamely.

“When you do, you’ll really believe in him,” Beth promised.

She left a minute later to edit my remarks for the ten o’clock news. Murray tried to talk me into a drink. “You know, Warshawski, we work together so well, it’d be a shame not to get back in the habit.”

“Oh, Murray, you sweet-talker, you, I can see how badly you need your own private angle on this stuff. I can’t stay tonight-it’s vital that I get to Lotty Herschel’s place in the next half hour.”

He followed me down the hall to the security station while I handed in my pass. “What’s the real story for you here, Warshawski? Radbuka and Wiell? Or Durham and the Sommers family?”