Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

“I’m on my way to court, V.1. Can it wait?”

“This won’t take long-I just want to know some of Don Pasquale’s fronts-restaurants, laundries, anyplace I might be able to get discreetly in touch with him.”

A long silence at the other end. “You’re not so hard up you’d work for him, are you?”

“No way, Maggie-I don’t think I could stand up in court to an interrogation by you.”

Another pause, then she said, “I guess I’m happier not knowing why you want to know. I’ll call you when I’m free-maybe about three this afternoon.”

I wandered restlessly around the apartment. I was sure it wasn’t Pasquale who’d been on the phone to me. I’d seen him in the Federal Building once or twice, heard him speak in a thick Italian accent. Besides, say Pasquale was ultimately responsible for the forged stocks, responsible for creating them, he couldn’t be the one who got them into the priory safe. Maybe he lived in Melrose Park, maybe he went to church at the priory. Even so, he’d have to have bought off a lot of people there to get at the safe. Boniface Carroll or Augustine Pelly as front men for the Mafia? Ludicrous.

Of course, there was always Rosa. I snorted with laughter at the image of Rosa as a Mafia moll. She’d keep Annunzio in line good and proper-yes, no pasta for you tonight, Annunzio, unless you burn my niece with acid.

I suddenly thought of my cousin Albert. I hadn’t even included him in the picture before; he was so much in Rosa’s shadow. But… he was a CPA and the mob could always use good CPAs. And here he was, fat, forty, unmarried, dominated by this truly awful mother. Maybe that would rouse some antisocial spirit in him-it would in me. What if Rosa had called me without his knowing it? Then afterward he talked her into sending me away. For some bizarre reason he had stolen St. Albert’s stocks and replaced them with counterfeits, but when the investigation heated up he replaced them. He could have gotten the combination to the safe at any time from Rosa.

I continued to work up a case against Albert while cooking curried eggs with peas and tomatoes for lunch. I didn’t know my cousin very well. Almost anything could go on behind that bloated, amorphous exterior.

Roger Ferrant called again while I was halfway through the curried eggs. I greeted him cheerfully.

“Vic. You’re sounding more like yourself again. I want to talk to you.”

“Sure. Have you learned something new about your Ajax takeover?”

“No, but there’s something else I want to discuss with you. Can we have dinner tonight?”

On an impulse, still preoccupied with Albert, I not only agreed but even offered to cook. After hanging up I cursed myself-that meant cleaning up the damned kitchen.

Feeling slightly aggrieved, I scrubbed out a collection of stale pots and plates. Made the bed. Trudged through unshoveled sidewalks to the grocery, where I bought a pot roast and cooked it like beef Bourguignon, with onions, mushrooms, salt pork, and of course, Burgundy. To show Roger I didn’t suspect him anymore-or at least not at the moment-I decided to serve dinner wine in the red Venetian glasses my mother had brought from Italy. She had originally carried out eight, carefully wrapped in her underwear, but one of them broke several years ago when my apartment was ransacked. I now keep them in a locked cupboard in the back of my clothes closet.

When Maggie called at four-thirty, I realized one side benefit of heavy housework-it definitely keeps your mind off your troubles. I’d been too busy to think about Don Pasquale all afternoon.

Her voice on the phone brought the clutch of fear back to my stomach.

“I just took a brief glance through his files. One of his favorite meeting places is Torfino’s in Elmwood Park.”

I thanked her with as much heartiness as I could muster.

“Don’t,” she said soberly. “I don’t think I’m doing you any favor telling you this. All I’m doing is speeding you on your way. I know you’d find it out for yourself-one of your newspaper pals would be glad to send you to your funeral just to generate a snappy story.” She hesitated. “You were always a maverick when you were on the public defender’s roster-I hated appearing against you because I never knew what outrageous defense you might rig up. I know you’re a good investigator, and I know you have a lot of pride. If you’re onto something that leads to Pasquale, call the police, call the FBI. They’ve got the resources to handle the Mob, and even they’re fighting a losing battle.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” I said weakly. “I appreciate the advice. I really do. I’ll think about it.”

I got the number of Torfino’s restaurant. When I called and asked for Don Pasquale, the voice at the other end said brusquely he’d never heard of such a man and hung up.

I dialed again. When the same voice answered, I said, “Don’t hang up. If you should ever happen to meet Don Pasquale, I’d like to give him a message.”

“Yes?” Grudgingly.

“This is V. I. Warshawski. I’d like a chance to talk to him.” I spelled my last name slowly, giving him my phone number, and hung up.

By now my stomach was jumping in earnest. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle either Roger or dinner, let alone a combination of the two. To relax, I went into the living room and picked out scales on my mother’s old piano. Deep diaphragm breaths. Now, scales on a descending “Ah.” I worked vigorously for forty-five minutes, starting to feel some resonance in my head as I loosened up. I really should practice regularly. Along with the red glasses, my voice was my legacy from Gabriella.

I felt better. When Roger arrived at seven with a bottle of Taittinger’s and a bunch of white spider mums, I was able to greet him cheerfully and return his polite kiss. He followed me to the kitchen while I finished cooking. I wished now I hadn’t cleaned up this morning. The place was such a mess I’d have to wash up again tomorrow.

“I lost track of you at Agnes’s funeral,” I told him. “You missed a good old scene with some of her relatives.”

“Just as well. I’m not much of a scene person.”

I dressed a salad and handed it to him and pulled the roast from the oven. We went into the dining room. Roger uncorked the champagne while I dished out the dinner. We ate without talking for a while, Roger staring at his place. At last I said, “You said there was something you wanted to discuss-not anything very pleasant, I take it.”

He looked up at that. “I told you I’m not interested in scenes. And I’m afraid what I want to discuss has the makings of a row.”

I set down my wineglass. “I hope you’re not going to try to talk me into laying off my investigation. That would lead to a first-class fight.”

“No. I can’t say I’m crazy about it. It’s the way you do it, that’s all. You’ve closed me out of any discussion about that- or anything you’re doing. I know we haven’t spent that much time together so maybe I don’t have the right to have expectations about you, but you’ve been damned cold and unfriendly the last few days. Since Agnes was shot, in fact, you’ve been really bitchy.”

“I see… I seem to have stirred up some people who are a lot bigger than me. I’m afraid, and I don’t like that. I don’t know who I can trust, and that makes it hard to be open and friendly with people, even good friends.”

His face twitched angrily. “What the hell have I done to deserve that?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. But I don’t know you that well, Roger, and I don’t know who you talk to. Listen. I guess I am being bitchy-I don’t blame you for getting mad. I got involved in a problem that was puzzling but didn’t seem too dangerous- my aunt’s thing with the fake stock shares-and the next thing I knew someone tried pouring acid in my eyes.” He looked shocked. “Yes. Right on this very landing. Someone who wants me away from the priory.