Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

I suggested he send someone to interview Rosa, and gave him the list of possibilities I’d offered Hatfield. Murray would work those into the story. He’d probably get someone to dig up the name of the original donor and get some public exposure on his heirs. That would force Hatfield to do something- either eliminate them as being involved or publicly announce how old the dud certificates were. “Them that eat cakes that the Parsee man bakes make dreadful mistakes,” I muttered to myself.

“What was that?” Murray said sharply. “Are you setting me up to do your dirty work for you, Warshawski?”

I gave him a look that I hoped implied limpid innocence. “ Murray! How you talk. I just want to make sure the FBI doesn’t railroad my poor frail old aunt.” I signaled to Sal that we were ready to leave; she runs a tab that she sends me once a month, the only bill I ever pay on time.

Murray and I moved up north for seafood at the Red Tide. For eight dollars you can get a terrific whole Dungeness crab, which you eat sitting at a bar in a dark basement about half the size of my living room. Afterward I dropped Murray at the Fullerton L stop and went on home alone. I’m past the age where bed-hopping has much appeal.

SNOW WAS FALLING the next morning as I made my five-mile run to Belmont Harbor and back. The ice-filled water was perfectly still. Across the breakwater I could see the lake motionless, too. Not peaceful, but sullenly quiet, its angry gods held tightly by bands of cold.

A Salvation Army volunteer was stamping his feet and calling cheery greetings to commuters at the corner of Belmont and Sheridan. He gave me a smiling “God bless you” as I jogged past. Must be nice to have everything so simple and peaceful. What would he do with an Aunt Rosa? Was there any smile broad enough to make her smile back?

I stopped at a little bakery on Broadway for a cup of cappuccino and a croissant. As I ate at one of the spindly-legged tables, I pondered my next actions. I’d met with Hatfield yesterday more out of bravado than anything else-it brought me some sort of perverse pleasure to irritate his well-pressed Brooks Brothers facade. But he wasn’t going to do anything for me. I didn’t have the resources to pry into the Dominicans. Anyway, even if Murray Ryerson turned something up, what would I do about it if Rosa didn’t want me investigating? Wasn’t my obligation finished with her abrupt command to stop?

I realized that I was carrying on this internal monologue as an argument with Gabriella, who didn’t seem pleased with me for bugging out so early. “Goddamn it, Gabriella,” I swore silently. “Why did you make me give you that crazy promise? She hated you. Why do I have to do anything for her?”

If my mother were alive she would shrivel me on the spot for swearing at her. And then turn fierce intelligent eyes on me: So Rosa fired you? Did you go to work only because she hired you?

I slowly finished my cappuccino and went back out into a minor blizzard. Strictly speaking, Rosa had not fired me. Albert had called to say she didn’t want me on the job any longer. But was that Albert or Rosa speaking? I should at least get that much clear before deciding what else to do. Which meant another trip to Melrose Park. Not today-the roads would be impossible with the snow: traffic creeping, people falling into ditches. But tomorrow would be Saturday. Even if the weather continued bad there wouldn’t be much traffic.

At home I peeled off layers of shirts and leggings and soaked in a hot tub for a while. Being self-employed, I can hold my review of operations and management anywhere. This means time spent thinking in the bath is time spent working. Unfortunately, my accountant doesn’t agree that this makes my water bill and bath salts tax deductible.

My theory of detection resembles Julia Child’s approach to cooking: Grab a lot of ingredients from the shelves, put them in a pot and stir, and see what happens. I’d stirred at the priory, and at the FBI. Maybe it was time to let things simmer a bit and see if the smell of cooking gave me any new ideas.

I put on a wool crepe-de-chine pantsuit with a high-necked red-striped blouse and low-heeled black boots. That should be warm enough to walk in if I got stuck in the snow someplace. Wrapping my big mohair scarf around my head and neck, I went back into the storm, adding the Omega to the queue of slowly moving, sliding cars trying to get onto Lake Shore Drive at Belmont.

I crept downtown, barely able to see the cars immediately next to me, and slithered off at Jackson. Leaving the Omega next to a snowdrift behind the Art Institute, I trudged the six blocks to the Pulteney Building, which looked worse than usual in the winter weather. Tenants had tracked snow and mud into the lobby. Tom Czarnik, the angry old man who calls himself the building superintendent, refuses to mop the floor on stormy mornings. His theory is that it will just get nasty again at lunch, so why bother? I should applaud a man whose housekeeping views coincide so closely with mine, but I cursed him under my breath as my boots slid in the lobby slush. The elevator wasn’t working today either, so I stomped up four flights of stairs to my office.

After turning on the lights and picking up the mail from the floor, I phoned Agnes Paciorek at her broker’s office. On hold while she sold a million shares of AT &T, I looked through bills and pleas for charity. Nothing that wouldn’t wait until next month. At last her brisk deep voice came on the line.

“Agnes. It’s V. I. Warshawski.”

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then I explained who Roger Ferrant was and said I’d given him her number.

“I know. He called yesterday afternoon. We’re meeting for lunch at the Mercantile Club. Are you downtown? Want to join us?”

“Sure. Great. You find anything unusual?”

“Depends on your definition. Brokers don’t think buying and selling stock is unusual but you might. I’ve got to run. See you at one.”

The Mercantile Club sits on top of the old Bletchley Iron Building down in the financial district. It’s a businessmen’s club, which reluctantly opened its doors to women when Mrs. Gray became president of the University of Chicago, since most of the trustees’ meetings were held there. Having admitted one woman they found others sneaking through in her wake. The food is excellent and the service impeccable, although some of the old waiters refuse to work tables with women guests.

Ferrant was already sitting by the fire in the reading room where the maître d’ sent me to wait for Agnes. He looked elegant in navy-blue tailoring and stood up with a warm smile when he saw me come into the room.

“Agnes invited me to gate-crash; I hope you don’t object.”

“By no means. You look very smart today. How are your forgeries coming?”

I told him about my useless interview with Hatfield. “And the Dominicans don’t know anything, either. At least not about forgery. I need to start at the other end-who could have created them to begin with?”

Agnes came up behind me. “Created what?” She turned to Ferrant and introduced herself, a short, compact dynamo in a brown-plaid suit whose perfect stitching probably required an eight-hundred-dollar investment. Half a day’s work for Agnes.

She shepherded us into the dining room where the maître d’ greeted her by name and seated us by a window. We looked down at the South Branch of the Chicago River and ordered drinks. I seldom drink whiskey in the middle of the day and asked for oloroso sherry. Ferrant ordered a beer, while Agnes had Perrier with lime-the exchanges didn’t close for almost two hours and she believes sober brokers trade better.