Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

Roger, you goon, I thought. Did that just occur to you?

Mallory and Assuevo were talking in unison. “Threw what?”

Bobby was demanding, while Assuevo said, “Who’s Miss

Paciorek?”

When they quieted down, I said to Bobby, “Do you want to explain Agnes Paciorek to Mr. Assuevo, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t ride me, Warshawski,” he warned. “We’ve had our discussion on that. If you or Mr. Ferrant has some hard evidence to show she was killed because she was looking into those Ajax buyers, give it to me and I’ll follow it to the end. But what you’ve told me so far doesn’t add up to more than the kind of guilt we always find with friends and relations-she was killed because I didn’t do this or that or because I asked her to stay late or whatever. You have anything to add to that, Mr. Ferrant?”

Roger shook his head. “But she told me she was staying late to talk to someone about the sales.”

Bobby sighed with exaggerated patience. “That’s just what I mean. You’re the college-educated one, Vicki. You explain to him about logic and moving from one argument to the other. She was working late on Ajax and she got shot. Where’s the connection?”

“Ah,” Assuevo said. “That stockbroker who was killed. My sister’s husband’s niece is a cousin of her secretary… Do you think there’s a connection with the fire, Ms. Warshawski?”

I shrugged. “Tell me something about the arson. Does it have a signature you recognize?”

“It could be the work of any professional. Quick, clean, minimum fuel, no prints-not that we expect prints in the middle of January. No evidence left behind. It was organized, Ms. Warshawski. Organized. So we want to know who is organizing against you. Maybe the enemies of Ms. Paciorek?”

Mallory looked at me thoughtfully. “I know you, Vicki. You’re just arrogant enough to go stirring that pot without telling me. What have you found?”

“It’s not arrogance, Bobby. You made some really disgusting accusations the morning after Agnes died. I figure I don’t owe you one thing. Not one name, not one idea,”

His round face turned red. “You don’t talk to me that way, young lady. If you obstruct the police in the performance of their duties, you can be arrested. Now what have you found out?”

“Nothing. I know who the Chicago brokers were for the big blocks of Ajax sales the last six-seven weeks. You can get those from Mr. Ferrant here. That’s what I know.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know the firm of Tilford and Sutton?’

“Stockbrokers? Yeah, they’re on Mr. Ferrant’s list.”

“You ever been to their offices?”

“I don’t have anything to invest.”

“You wouldn’t have been there two nights ago, would you, investigating their Ajax sales?”

“At night? Stockbrokers do business during the day. Even I know that..

“Yeah, clown. Someone broke into their offices. I want to know if it was you.”

“There were eight or nine brokers on Mr. Ferrant’s list. Were they all broken into?”

He smashed his fist on the table to avoid swearing. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Why, Bobby? You keep telling me there’s nothing to investigate there. So why would I break in to investigate something that doesn’t exist?”

“Because you’re pigheaded, arrogant, spoiled. I always told Tony and Gabriella they should have more children-they spoiled you rotten.”

“Well, too late to cry about that now… Look, I’ve had a rough night. I want to find some place to crash and then try to get my life going again. Can I go back to the apartment and see if any of my clothes are salvageable?”

Assuevo shook his head. “We got a lot more to discuss here, Ms. Warshawski. I need to know what you’re working on.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bobby put in. “Ferrant here started to ask if it was the same person who threw something, and you cut him off. Who threw what?”

“Oh, some kids on Halsted threw a rock at the car the other night-random urban violence. I don’t think they’d set fire to my apartment just because they missed the car.”

“You chase them?” Assuevo demanded. “You hurt them in some way?”

“Forget it,” Bobby told him. “It didn’t happen. She doesn’t chase kids. She thinks she’s Paladin or the Lone Ranger. She’s stirred up something big enough to hire a professional torch, and now she’s going to be a heroine and not say anything about it.” He looked at me, his gray eyes serious, his mouth set in a tight line. “You know, Tony Warshawski was one of my best friends. Anything happens to you, his and Gabriella’s ghosts will haunt me the rest of my life. But no one can talk to you. Since Gabriella died, there isn’t a person on this planet can get you to do something you don’t want to do.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything I could say.

“C’mon, Dominic. Let’s go. I’m putting a tail on Joan of Arc here; that’s the best we can do right now.”

After he left, the exhaustion swept over me again. I felt that if I didn’t leave now I’d pass out in the chair. Still wrapped in the blanket, I forced myself to my feet, accepting Roger’s helping hand gratefully. In the hallway, Assuevo lingered a moment to talk to me. “Ms. Warshawski. If you know anything about this arson attempt, and do not tell us, you are liable for criminal prosecution.” He stabbed my chest with his finger as he talked. I was too tired even to become angry. I stood holding my glasses and watched him trot to catch up with Bobby.

Roger put an arm around me. “You’re all done in, old girl. Come back to the Hancock with me and take a hot bath.”

As we reached the outer door, he felt in his pockets. “I left my wallet on your dresser. No money for a cab. You have any?”

I shook my head. He ran across the parking lot to where Bobby and Assuevo were climbing into Bobby’s police car. I staggered drunkenly after him. Roger demanded a lift back to my apartment so he could try to rummage for some money. And possibly some clothes.

The ride back down Halsted was strained and quiet. When we got to the charred remains of my building, Assuevo said, “I just want you to be very clear that that building may not be safe. Any accidents, you’re on your own.”

“Thanks,” I said wearily. “You guys are a big help.”

Roger and I picked our way across ice mountains formed by the frozen jets of water from the fire trucks. It was like walking through a nightmare-everything was familiar, yet distorted. The front door, broken open by the firefighters, hung crazily on its hinges. The stairs were almost impassable, covered with ice and grime and bits of walls that had fallen in.

At the second-floor landing, we decided to separate. The stairs and floor might take the weight of one person, but not two. Locked in my stubborn desire to cling to my mother’s two surviving wineglasses, I allowed Roger to go ahead and stood holding them, shivering in my slippers, wrapped in the blanket.

He picked his way cautiously up to the third floor. I could hear him going into my apartment, heard the occasional thud of a brick or piece of wood falling, but no crashes or loud cries. After a few minutes he came back to the hallway. “I think you can come up, Vic.”

I clutched the wall with one hand and stepped around the ice. The last few stairs I had to do on hands and knees, moving the glasses up a step, then myself, and so to the landing.

The front of my apartment had essentially been destroyed. Standing in the hail, you could look directly into the living room through holes in the walls. The area around the front door had been incinerated, but by stepping through a hole in the living-room wall you could stand on supporting beams.