Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

Such furniture as I owned was destroyed. Blackened by fire and soaked with water, it was irrecoverable. I tried picking out a note on the piano and got a deadened twang. I bit my lip and resolutely moved past it toward the bedroom. Because bedroom and dining room were on either side of the main hall and the main path of the fire, the damage there was less. I’d never sleep in that bed again, but it was possible, by sorting carefully, to find some wearable clothes. I pulled on a pair of boots, donned a smoke-filled sweater, and rummaged for an outfit that would carry me through the morning.

Roger helped me pack what seemed restorable into two suitcases, prying open their frozen locks.

“What we don’t take now I might as well kiss good-bye-the neighborhood will be poking through the remains before too long.”

I waited until we were ready to leave before looking in the cupboard at the back of my closet. I was too afraid of what I’d find. Fingers shaking, I pried the door off its sagging hinges. The glasses were wrapped carefully in pieces of old sheet. I unrolled these slowly. The first one I picked had a jagged piece broken from it. I bit my lower lip again to keep it in order and unwrapped the other four. They seemed to be all right. I held them up to the dim morning light and twirled them. No cracks or bubbles.

Roger had been standing silently. Now he picked his way across the debris. “All well?”

“One’s broken. Maybe someone could glue it, though-it’s just one big piece.” The only other valuables in the cupboard were Gabriella’s diamond drop earrings and a necklace. I put these in my pocket, rewrapped the glasses and placed them in one suitcase, and put on the shoulder holster with my Smith & Wesson in it. I couldn’t think of anything else I desperately needed to keep. Unlike Peter Wimsey, I collect no first editions. Such kitchen gadgets as I owned could be replaced without too much grief.

As I started lugging the suitcases to the hole in the living-room wall, the phone rang. Roger and I looked at each other, startled. It never occurred to us that Ma Bell could keep the wires humming after a fire. I managed to find the living-room extension buried under some plaster.

“Yes?”

“Miss Warshawski?” It was my smooth-voiced friend. “You were lucky, Miss Warshawski. But no one is lucky forever.”

WE DROVE DOWN to the Hancock in the Omega. I let Roger out with my baggage and went to find Street parking. By the time I staggered back to his apartment I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do anything until I got some sleep. Pasquale, Rosa, Albert, and Ajax whirled muzzily through my brain, but walking was so difficult that thinking was impossible.

Roger let me in and gave me a set of keys. He had showered. His face was gray with fatigue, but he didn’t think he could take the day off with so many rumors flying around about the takeover-management was meeting daily, mapping strategy.

He held me tightly for a few minutes. “I didn’t say much at the hospital because I was afraid I might ruin your story. But please, Vic, please don’t run off into anything stupid today. I like you better in one piece.”

I hugged him briefly. “All I care about right now is getting some sleep. Don’t worry about me, Roger. Thanks for the place to stay.”

I was too tired to bathe, too tired to undress. I just managed to pull my boots off before falling into bed.

It was past four when I woke again, stiff and foggy but ready to start moving again. I realized with distaste that I stank and my clothes stank, too. A small utility room next to the bathroom held a washing machine. I piled in jeans, underwear, and everything in the suitcases that didn’t require dry cleaning. A long soak in the bathtub and I felt somewhat more human.

As I waited for my jeans to dry I called my answering service. No message from Don Pasquale, but Phil Paciorek had phoned and left his on-call number, I tried it, but he apparently was handling some emergency surgery. I gave Ferrant’s number to the hospital and tried Torfino’s restaurant again. The same gritty voice I’d talked to the day before continued to disclaim all knowledge of Don Pasquale.

The early evening editions had arrived in the downstairs lobby. I stopped in the coffee shop to read them over a cappuccino and a cheese sandwich. The fire had made the Herald Star’s front page-ARSON ON THE NORTH SIDE- in the lower left corner. Interview with the De Paul students. Interview with the Takamokus’ worried daughter. Then, in a separate paragraph with its own subhead: “V. I. Warshawski, whose apartment was the focal point of the fire, has been investigating a problem involving forged securities at the Priory of Albertus Magnus in Melrose Park. Ms. Warshawski, the victim of an acid-throwing mugger two weeks ago, was not available for comment on a connection between her investigation and the fire.”

I ground my teeth. Thanks a bunch, Murray. The Herald-Star had already run the acid story, but now the police were bound to read it and see the connection. I drank some more cappuccino, then flipped to the personal section of the classifieds. A small message was waiting for me: “The oak has sprouted.” Uncle Stefan and I had agreed on this since he’d been working with my certificates of Acorn stock. I had last looked at the personals on Sunday; today was Thursday. How long had the ad been running?

Roger was home when I got back to the apartment. He told me apologetically that he was all done in; could I manage dinner alone while he went to bed?

“No problem. I slept all day.” I helped him into bed and gave him a backrub. He was asleep by the time I left the room.

I pulled on long underwear and as many sweatshirts as I could manage, then walked back to Lake Shore Drive to retrieve my car. A wind blowing across the lake cut through my pullovers and long underwear. Tomorrow I’d definitely stop at Army-Navy Surplus for a new pea jacket.

I wondered about the tail Bobby claimed he was going to slap on me. No one had followed me to my car. Looking in the rearview mirror, I didn’t see any waiting cars. And no one would loiter on the street in this wind. I decided it must have been bravado-or someone had countermanded Bobby.

The Omega started only after severe grumbling. We sat and shivered together, the car refusing to produce any heat. A five-minute warm-up finally persuaded the transmission to groan into gear.

While side streets were still piled with snow, Lake Shore Drive was clear. After a few turgid blocks, the car moved north briskly. At Montrose the heater finally kicked grudgingly into life. At the Evanston border I had stopped shivering and was able to pay more attention to traffic and road conditions.

The night was clear; on Dempster the heavy rush-hour traffic was moving well. I spun off onto Crawford Avenue and made it to Uncle Stefan’s a few minutes before seven. Before leaving the car, I jammed the Smith & Wesson into the front of my jeans where the butt dug into my abdomen-the pullovers made a shoulder holster impractical.

Whistling through my teeth, I rang Uncle Stefan’s bell. No answer. I shivered in the entryway a few minutes, and rang again. It hadn’t occurred to me that he wouldn’t be home. I could wait in the car, but the heater wasn’t very efficient. I rang the other bells until someone buzzed me in-one in every building, letting the muggers and buggers in.

Uncle Stefan’s apartment was on the fourth floor. On my way up, I passed a pretty young woman coming down with a baby and a stroller. She looked at me curiously. “Are you going to visit Mr. Herschel? I’ve been wondering whether I should look in on him-I’m Ruth Silverstein-I live across the hall. When I take Mark for a walk at four, he usually comes out to give us cookies. I didn’t see him this afternoon.”