Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

“When Thomas told me yesterday that you were coming I phoned you three times. Each time I told the person who answered to make sure you knew you were not welcome at my daughter’s funeral. Now don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Mrs. Paciorek. You spoke with my answering service. I was too busy to phone in for messages. And even if I’d gotten your orders, I would still have come: I loved Agnes too much to stay away from her funeral.”

“Loved her!” Her voice was thick with anger. “How dare you make filthy innuendos in this house.”

“Love? Filthy innuendos?” I echoed, then laughed. “Oh. You’re still stuck on the notion that Agnes and I were lovers. No, no. Just good friends.”

At my laughter her face suffused with crimson. I was afraid she might have a stroke on the spot. The red-faced white-haired man stepped forward and took my arm. “My sister made it clear you’re not wanted here. I think it’s time you left.” His heavy voice was not that of my threatening caller.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll just find Dr. Paciorek and say goodbye to him.” He tried to propel me toward the door but I shook his hand loose with more vigor than grace. I left him rubbing it and paused in the crowd behind Mrs. Paciorek, straining for the smooth, accentless voice of my caller. I couldn’t find it. At last I gave up, found Dr. Paciorek, made some routine condolences, and collected Phyllis and Lotty.

FERRANT DROPPED BY late in the afternoon with a copy of Barrett’s list. He was grave and formal and declined an offer of a drink. He didn’t stay long, just looked over the brokers with me, told me none of those registered as buying the stock were Ajax customers, and left.

None of the firms listed were familiar to me, nor were the names of the stock registrants. In fact, most of the registrants were the brokers themselves. Barrett’s cover letter to Roger explained that this was typically the case right after a stock changed hands-it generally took a month or so for the actual owner’s name to be filed.

One company appeared several times: Wood-Sage, Inc. Its address was 120 S. LaSalle. Three of the brokers also had addresses there, a fact that seemed more interesting than it really was. When I looked it up on my detailed map of the Loop, I discovered that it was the Midwest Stock Exchange.

There wasn’t much I could do with the list until Monday, so I put it in a drawer and concentrated on the NFL Pro Bowl. I sent out for a pizza for supper and spent the night restlessly, the Smith & Wesson loaded next to my bed.

Sunday’s Herald-Star had a nice little story about my acid burn on the front page of Chicago Beat. They’d used a picture taken last spring at Wrigley Field, a bright eye-catching shot. Readers who made it to Section III couldn’t avoid seeing me. The personal ads included numerous thanksgivings to St. Jude, several lovers seeking reconciliations, but no message from Uncle Stefan.

Monday morning, I stuck my gun in a shoulder holster under a loose tweed jacket and drove the Omega into the Loop to begin a day at the brokerage houses. At the offices of Bearden & Lyman, Members of the New York Stock Exchange, I told the receptionist I had six hundred thousand dollars to invest and wanted to see a broker. Stuart Bearden came out to meet me personally. He was a dapper man in his middle forties, wearing a charcoal pinstripe suit and a David Niven mustache.

He led me through a maze of cubicles where earnest young people sat with phones in one hand, typing on their computer terminals with the other, to his own office in the far corner of the floor. He brought me coffee and treated me with the deference half a million dollars commands. I liked it. I’d have to tell more people I was rich.

Calling myself Carla Baines, I explained to Stuart that Agnes Paciorek had been my broker. I was getting ready to place an order for several thousand shares of Ajax when she’d warned me away from the stock. Now that she was dead I was looking for a new broker. What did Bearden & Lyman know about Ajax? Would they agree with Ms. Paciorek’s advice?

Bearden didn’t blink or blench on hearing Agnes’s name. Instead, he told me what a tragedy her death was; what a tragedy, too, that you couldn’t feel safe working in your own office at night. He then punched away at his computer and told me the stock was trading at 543 3/8. “It’s been going up the last few weeks. Maybe Agnes had some inside news that the stock is cresting. Are you still interested?”

“I’m not in any hurry to invest. I guess I should make up my mind about Ajax in the next day or so, though. Do you think you could scout around and let me know if you hear anything?”

He looked at me closely. “If you’ve been thinking about this move for some time, you must know there’s a lot of talk about a covert takeover bid. If that’s the situation, the price will probably continue to go up until the rumor is confirmed one way or another. If you’re going to buy, you should do it now.”

I spread my hands. “That’s why I don’t understand Ms. Paciorek’s advice. That’s why I came here-to see if you knew why she’d warn me not to buy.”

Bearden called his research director. The two had a short conversation. “Our staff hasn’t heard anything to counter-indicate a buy order. I’d be very happy to take it for you this morning.”

I thanked him but said I needed to do some more research before I made a decision. He gave me his card and asked me to let him know in a day or two.

Bearden & Lyman was on the fourteenth floor of the Stock Exchange. I rode the elevator down eleven floors to my next quarry: Gill, Turner & Rotenfeld.

By noon, having talked myself dry in three different brokerage offices, I beat a discouraged retreat to the Berghoff for lunch. Ordinarily I don’t like beer, but their homemade dark draft is an exception. A stein and a plate of sauerbraten helped recoup my strength for the afternoon. Everyone had given me essentially the same information I’d gotten from Stuart Bearden. They knew the rumors about Ajax and they urged me to buy. None of them showed any dismay on hearing either Agnes’s name or my interest in Ajax. I wondered if I’d taken the wrong approach. Maybe I should have used my own name.

Maybe I was barking up an empty tree. Perhaps a late-night burglar, intent on computer terminals, had found Agnes and shot her.

I continued to prove that a woman with six hundred thousand dollars to invest gets red-carpet treatment. I’d talked to no one but senior partners all morning and Tilford & Sutton was no exception: Preston Tilford would see me personally.

Like the firms I’d visited that morning, this one was medium-sized. The names of twenty or so partners were on the outer door. A receptionist directed me down a short hallway and through the trading room where a score of frantic young brokers manned phones and terminals. I picked my way through the familiar stacks of debris to Tilford’s office in the far corner.

His secretary, a pleasant, curly-haired woman in her late forties, told me to go in. Tilford was nervous, his finger-nails bitten down to the quick. This was not necessarily a sign of guilty knowledge, at least not guilty knowledge about Agnes- most of the brokers I’d seen today were high-strung. It must be nerve-racking following all that money up and down.

He doodled incessantly as I pitched my tale to him. “Ajax, hmm?” he said when I’d finished. “I don’t know. I have-had a lot of respect for Agnes’s judgment. It so happens we’re not recommending anyone to buy now, either, Ms., uh, Baines. Our feeling is that these takeover rumors have been carefully placed by someone trying to manipulate the stock. The bottom could crash out at any time. Now, if you’re looking for a growth stock, I have several here that I could recommend for you.”