Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

After I took him back to the priory I swung onto the Eisenhower back to Chicago. A little light snow had begun falling. It was a few minutes before ten; I turned on WBBM, Chicago ’s news station, to catch news and a weather forecast.

I listened vaguely to reports of failed peace initiatives in Lebanon, continued high unemployment, poor retail sales in December despite Christmas shopping. Then Alan Swanson’s crisp voice continued:

Tonight’s top local story is the violent death of a Chicago stockbroker. Cleaning woman Martha Gonzales found the body of broker Agnes Paciorek in one of the conference rooms in the offices of Feldstein, Holtz and Woods, where Miss Paciorek worked. She had been shot twice in the head. Police have not ruled out suicide as a cause of death. CBS news correspondent Mark Weintraub is with Sergeant McGonnigal at the Fort Dearborn Tower offices of Feldstein, Holtz and Woods.

Swanson switched over to Weintraub. I almost swerved into a ditch at Cicero Avenue. My hands were shaking and I pulled the car over to the side. I turned off the engine. Semis roared past, rattling the little Omega. The car cooled, and my feet began growing numb inside their pumps. “Two shots in the head and the police still haven’t ruled out suicide,” I muttered. My voice jarred me back to myself; I turned the motor on and headed back into the city at a sober pace.

WBBM played the story at ten-minute intervals, with few new details. The bullets were from a twenty-two-caliber pistol. The police finally decided to eliminate suicide since no gun was found by the body. Miss Paciorek’s purse had been recovered from a locked drawer in her desk. I heard Sergeant McGonnigal saying in a voice made scratchy by static that someone must have intended to rob her, then killed her in rage because she didn’t have a purse.

On impulse I drove north to Addison and stopped in front of Lotty’s apartment. It was almost eleven: no lights showed. Lotty gets her sleep when she can-her practice involves a lot of night emergencies. My trouble would keep.

Back at my own apartment, I changed from my suit into a quilted robe and sat down in the living room with a glass of Black Label whiskey. Agnes and I went back a long way together, back to the Golden Age of the sixties, when we thought love and energy would end racism and sexism. She’d come from a wealthy family, her father a heart surgeon at one of the big suburban hospitals. They’d fought her about her friends, her life-style, her ambitions, and she’d won every battle. Relations with her mother became more and more strained. I would have to call Mrs. Paciorek, who disliked me since I represented everything she didn’t want Agnes to be. I’d have to hear how they always knew this would happen, working downtown where the niggers are. I drank another glass of whiskey.

I’d forgotten all about laying some bait for my anonymous phone caller until the telephone interrupted my maudlin mood. I jumped slightly and looked at my watch: eleven-thirty. I picked up a Dictaphone from my desk and turned it to “Record” before picking up the receiver.

It was Roger Ferrant, feeling troubled about Agnes’s death. He’d seen it on the ten o’clock news and tried calling me then. We commiserated a bit; then he said hesitantly, “I feel responsible for her death.”

The whiskey was fogging my brain slightly. “What’d you do-send a punk up to the sixtieth floor of the Fort Dearborn Tower?” I switched off the Dictaphone and sat down.

“Vic, I don’t need your tough-girl act. I feel responsible because she was staying late working on this possible Ajax takeover. It wasn’t something she had time for during the day. If you hadn’t called her-”

“If you hadn’t called her, she would have been there late working on another project,” I interrupted him coldly. “Agnes often finished her day late-the lady worked hard. And if it comes to that, you wouldn’t have called her if I hadn’t given you her number, so if anyone’s responsible, it’s me.” I took another swallow of whiskey. “And I won’t believe that.”

We hung up. I finished my third glass of scotch and put the bottle away in the built-in cupboard in the dining room, draped my robe over a chair back, and climbed naked into bed. Just as I turned out the bedside light, something Ferrant had said rang a bell with me. I called him back on the bedside phone.

“It’s me, Vic. How did you know Agnes was working late on your project tonight?”

“I talked to her this afternoon. She said she was going to stay late and talk to some of her broker pals; she didn’t have time to get to it during the day.”

“In person or on the phone?”

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know.” He thought about it. “I can’t remember exactly what she said. But it left me with the impression that she was planning to see someone in person.”

“You should talk to the police, Roger.” I hung up and fell asleep almost immediately.

NO MATTER HOW often I wake up with a headache, I never remember it the next time I’m putting away five or six ounces of whiskey. Thursday morning a dry mouth and pounding head and heart woke me at five-thirty. I looked disgustedly at myself in the bathroom mirror. “You’re getting old, V.!., and unattractive. When your face has cracks in it the morning after five ounces of scotch, it’s time to stop drinking.”

I squeezed some fresh orange juice and drank it in one long swallow, took four aspirins, and went back to bed. The ringing phone woke me again at eight-thirty. A neutral young male voice said he was connected with Lieutenant Robert Mallory of the Chicago police department and would I be able to come downtown that morning and talk to the lieutenant.

“It’s always a pleasure for me to talk to Lieutenant Mallory,” I replied formally, if somewhat thickly, through the miasma of sleep. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is about.”

The neutral young man didn’t know, but if I was free at nine-thirty, the lieutenant would see me then.

My next call was to the Herald-Star. Murray Ryerson hadn’t yet come in for the day. I called his apartment, and felt vindictive pleasure at getting him out of bed. “ Murray, what do you know about Agnes Paciorek?”

He was furious. “I can’t believe you got me out of bed to ask me that. Go buy the fucking morning edition.” He slammed the phone down.

Angry myself, I dialed again. “Listen, Ryerson. Agnes Paciorek was one of my oldest friends. She got shot last night. Now Bobby Mallory wants to talk to me. I’m sure he’s not calling for deep background on University Women United, or Clergy and Laity Concerned About Vietnam. What was in her office that makes him want to see me?”

“Hang on a second.” He put the receiver down; I could hear his feet padding away down the hall, then water running and a woman’s voice saying something indistinguishable. I ran into the kitchen and put a small pot of water on the stove, ground beans for one cup of coffee, and brought cup, water, and filter back to my bedside phone-all before Murray returned.

“I hope you can hold off Jessica or whatever her name is for a few seconds.”

“Don’t be catty, Vic. It isn’t attractive.” I heard springs creaking, then a muffled “ouch” from Murray.

“Right,” I said dryly. “Now tell me about Agnes.”

Paper rustled, springs creaked again, and Murray ’s smothered voice whispered, “Knock it off, Alice.” Then he put the mouthpiece in front of his lips again and began reading from his notes.

“Agnes Paciorek was shot at about eight last night. Two twenty-two bullets in the brain. Office doors not locked- cleaning women lock behind when they finish sixtieth floor, usually at eleven o’clock. Martha Gonzales cleans floors fifty-seven through sixty, got to floor at her usual time, nine-fifteen, saw nothing unusual on premises, got to conference room at nine-thirty, saw body, called police. No personal attack-no signs of rape or struggle. Police presume attacker took her completely by surprise or possibly someone she knew