Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

I cleaned up the worst ravages in my living room and kitchen. Lotty never criticizes my housekeeping, but she is scrupulously tidy herself and it didn’t seem fair to drag her out for a brain-picking session on such a cold night, then have her spend it in squalor.

Chicken, garlic, mushrooms, and onions sautéed in olive oil, then flamed with brandy made an easy attractive stew. A cup of Ruffino finished the dish. By the time I had water hot for fettucine, the doorbell rang.

Lotty came up the stairs briskly and greeted me with a hug. “A lifesaver that you called, my dear. It was a long, very depressing day: a child dead of meningitis because the mother would not bring her in. She hung an amulet around her neck and thought it would bring down a fever of forty-one degrees. There are three sisters; we put them in St Vincent ’s for observation, but my God!”

I held her for a minute before we went into the apartment, asking if she wanted a drink. Lotty reminded me that alcohol is poison. For extreme situations she believes brandy is permissible, but she did not consider today’s woes extreme. I poured myself a glass of Ruffino and put on water for her coffee.

We ate by candlelight in the dining room while Lotty unburdened herself. By the time we had finished the salad, she felt more relaxed and asked me what I was working on.

I told her about Rosa and the Dominicans and Albert’s phoning me to tell me the whole thing was off.

The candlelight was reflected in her black eyes as she narrowed them at me. “And what are you trying to prove by continuing?”

“It was Albert who phoned. Rosa may not agree,” I said defensively.

“Yes. Your aunt dislikes you. She’s decided-for whatever reason-to discontinue the effort to protect herself. So what are you doing? Proving that you are tougher, or smarter, or just plain better than she is?”

I thought it over. Lotty is sometimes about as pleasant as a can opener, but she braces me. I know myself better when I talk to Lotty.

“You know, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about Rosa. It’s not as though she’s an obsession; she doesn’t control my head that much. But I feel very protective of my mother. Rosa hurt her and that makes me angry. If I can show Rosa she was wrong to stop the investigation, that I can solve this problem despite failure by the FBI and the SEC, I’ll have proof that she was wrong about everything. And she’ll have to believe it.” I laughed and finished my glass of wine. “She won’t, of course. My rational self knows that. But my feeling self thinks otherwise.”

Lotty nodded. “Perfectly logical. Does your rational self have any way of solving this problem?”

“There are lots of things the FBI can do that I can’t because they have so much manpower. But one thing I could look into is who actually did the forgeries. Let Derek concentrate on who planted them and which ex-Dominicans are living in luxury.

“I don’t know any forgers. But it occurred to me that a forger is really a species of engraver. And I wondered about your uncle Stefan.”

Lotty had been watching me with an expression of shrewd amusement. Now her face changed suddenly. Her mouth set and her black eyes narrowed. “Is this an inspired guess? Or have you spent your spare time investigating me?”

I looked at her in bewilderment.

“You wondered why you never met my uncle Stefan? Although he is my only relative living in Chicago?”

“No,” I said doggedly. “I never thought about it for a minute. You’ve never met my aunt Rosa. Even if she weren’t a virago, you’d probably never have met her-friends seldom have much in common with relatives.”

She continued to stare searchingly at me. I felt very hurt but could think of nothing to say that would bridge the gulf of Lotty ’s suspicious silence. The last time I had felt this way was the night I realized the man I had married and thought I loved was as foreign to me as Yasir Arafat. Could a friendship evaporate in the same mist as a marriage?

My throat felt tight, but I forced myself to talk. “Lotty. You’ve known me for close to twenty years and I’ve never done anything behind your back. If you think I’ve started now .“ That sentence wasn’t going in the right direction. “There’s something you don’t want me to know about your uncle. You don’t have to tell me. Carry it to the grave with you. But don’t act as though everything you know about me suddenly has no foundation.” A light bulb went on over my head. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me your uncle really is a forger?”

The set look held in Lotty’s face for a few seconds, then cracked into a wry smile. “You are right, Vic. About my uncle. And about you and me. I’m truly sorry, my dear. I won’t try to make excuses-there are none. But Stefan.

When the war ended, I found there was left of my family only my brother and the distant cousins who had taken us in during the war. Hugo-my brother-and I spent what time and money we had searching for relatives. And we found Papa’s brother Stefan. When Hugo decided to move to Montreal, I came to Chicago -I had an opportunity for a surgical residency at Northwestern, too good a chance to turn down.” She made a throwaway gesture with her left hand. “So I set out to find Uncle Stefan. And discovered him in a federal prison at Fort Leavenworth. Currency was his specialty, although he had a social conscience: He was also forging passports for sale to the many Europeans trying to come to America at the time.”

She grinned at me, the old Lotty grin. I leaned across the table and squeezed her hand. She returned the pressure, but went on talking. Detectives and doctors both know the value of talking. “I went to see him. He’s likable. Like my father, but without the moral foundation. And I let him stay with me for six months when he was released-1959 that was; I was his only family, too.

“He got a job, doing custom work for a jeweler-after all, he wasn’t a robber, so they weren’t afraid he’d lift the sterling. As far as I know, he’s never stepped over the edge again. But naturally I haven’t asked.”

“Naturally not. Well, I will try to find a different engraver.”

Lotty smiled again. “Oh, no. Why not call him? He’s eighty-two, but he still has all his wits and some besides. He might be the one person who could help you.”

She would talk to him the next day and arrange a time when I could have tea with him. We had coffee and pears in the living room and played Scrabble. As usual, Lotty won.

THE AIR WAS clear and cold the next morning and a bright winter sun cast a strong glare back from the drifts lining the roads. Halsted had not been plowed, at least not north of Belmont, and the Omega jumped skittishly from rut to rut on the way to the Kennedy Expressway and Melrose Park.

I put on sunglasses and turned on WFMT. Satie. Unbearable. I turned it off again and started singing myself-nothing very noble, just the theme from Big John and Sparky. “If you go down to the woods today you’d better not go alone.”

It was a little after ten when I turned north on Mannheim and made my way to Rosa ’s. In Melrose Park, even the side streets had been carefully cleaned. Maybe there was something to be said for suburban living after all. The path leading to her side door had been shoveled neatly, not just a path half a person wide like my building super believed in. There was even something to be said for living with Albert. Which just went to show.

Albert came to the door. The light was behind me and I could see his petulant face through the thick screen. He was surprised and angry. “What are you doing here?”

“Albert. If Rosa has stressed it once, she’s stressed a hundred times the importance of families sticking together. I’m sure she’d be shocked to hear you greet me so ungraciously.”