Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

He shook his head. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. She explained it to each of us when we turned twenty-one, so we’d know why there wasn’t going to be much of an estate to inherit. Barbara doesn’t know yet. We don’t even discuss it among ourselves, although Cecelia’s a member.”

“But you’re not?”

He smiled ruefully. “I’m not like Agnes-haven’t lost my faith and turned my back on the Church. It’s just, with Mother so active, I’ve had too much opportunity to see the venality of the organization. It doesn’t surprise me-after all, priests and bishops are human, and they get their share of temptation. But I don’t want them managing my money for me.”

“Yes, I can see that. Someone like O’Faolin, for example, getting a chance to play ducks and drakes with the faithful’s money. Is he part of Corpus Christi?”

Phil shrugged.

“But Father Pelly is,” I said with calm certainty.

“Yeah, Pelly’s a good guy. He’s hot-tempered, but he’s a fanatic like Mother. I don’t think anyone could accuse him of working for his own self-interest.”

The room was starting to shimmer in front of me. Too much knowledge, rage, and fatigue made me feel as if I might faint.

With Farber’s and O’Faolin’s departure the room was thinning rapidly of people. I got up. “I need to get home.”

Phil reiterated his willingness to drive me. “You don’t look in any shape to be on the road, Vic… I see too many head and neck injuries in the Emergency Room-let me drive you.”

I declined firmly. “The air will wake me up. I always wear my seat belt, and I’m a careful driver.” I had too much to sort out. I needed to be alone.

Phil retrieved my boots and coat for me and helped me into them with anxious courtesy. He walked me to the entrance of the lot where I was parked and insisted on paying the ticket. I was touched by his good manners and didn’t try to override him. “Do me a favor,” he said, as I turned to go into the garage. “Call me when you get in. I’m catching a train to the South Side-should be at my place in an hour. I’d just like to know you got home safely.”

“Sure, Phil,” I called, and turned in to the garage.

The Omega was parked on the third level. I rode the elevator up, keeping a cautious eye out for prowlers. Elevators are nasty places at night.

As I bent to unlock the car door, someone grabbed my arm. I whirled and kicked as hard as I could. My booted foot rammed his shin and he gave a yelp of pain and fell back.

“You’re covered, Warshawski. Don’t try to fight.” The voice came from the shadows beyond my car. Light glinted on metal. I remembered in dismay that the farts in the Skokie police had my gun. But a fight is no time for regrets.

“Okay, I’m covered,” I agreed levelly. I let my Magli pumps slide to the ground and judged distances. He’d have a hard time killing me in the dark, but he could probably hit me.

“I could have killed you as you unlocked your car,” the man with the gun pointed out, as if reading my thoughts. He had a heavy, gravelly voice. “I’m not here to shoot you. Don Pasquale wants to talk to you. My partner will forgive you for kicking him-he shouldn’t have tried to grab you. We were told you were a good street fighter.”

“Thank you,” I said gravely. “My car or yours?”

“Ours. We’re going to blindfold you for the drive.”

I picked up my shoes and let the man take me to a Cadillac limousine waiting on the far side of the floor with its motor running. There was no point in fighting. They wrapped a large black silk scarf around my eyes. I felt like Julius Schmeese waiting for the firing squad.

Gravel Voice sat in the back with me, his gun held lightly against my side. “You can put that away,” I told him tiredly. “I’m not going to jump you.”

The metal withdrew. I leaned back in the well-sprung plush seat and dozed. I must have fallen asleep in earnest; Gravel Voice had to shake me awake when the car stopped. “We take the blindfold off when you’re inside.” He guided me quickly but not roughly along a stone path and up a flight of stairs, exchanged greetings with a guard at the entrance, and led me down a carpeted hallway. Gravel knocked at a door. A faint voice told him to come in.

“Wait here,” he ordered.

I leaned against the wall and waited. In a few moments the door opened. “Come in,” Gravel told me.

I followed his voice and smelled cigar smoke and a fire. Gravel untied the scarf. I blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. I was in a large room, decorated in crimson-carpet, drapes, and chairs all done in matching velvets and wools. The effect was opulent, but not unbearable.

In an armchair by a large fireplace sat Don Pasquale. I recognized him at once from his courtroom appearances, although he appeared older and frailer now. He might be seventy or more. He was thin, with gray hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a red-velvet smoking jacket and held an enormous cigar in his left hand.

“So, Miss Warshawski, you want to speak to me.”

I stepped up to the fire and took an armchair facing his. I felt a bit like Dorothy in Oz, finally getting to meet the talking head.

“You are a very courageous young lady, Miss Warshawski.” The voice was old, but heavy, like parchment. “No man has ever fallen asleep while being driven to see me.”

“You’ve worn me out, Don Pasquale. Your people burned down my apartment. Walter Novick tried to blind me. Someone stabbed poor Mr. Herschel. I’m short on sleep now, and I take it where I can.”

He nodded. “Very sensible… Someone told me you speak Italian. Can we converse in that language, please.”

“Certo,” I said. “I have an aunt, an old woman. Rosa Vignelli. Two weeks ago she phoned me in deep distress. The safe at the Priory of Albertus Magnus, for which she was responsible, was found to contain forged stock certificates.” I’d learned most of my Italian before I was fifteen, when Gabriella died. I had to scramble for some of the words, particularly a way to describe forgery. Don Pasquale provided a phrase.

“Thank you, Don Pasquale. Now owing to the Fascists and their friends the Nazis, my aunt has very little family left. In fact, only her son and I remain. So she turned to me for help. Naturally.”

Don Pasquale nodded gravely. In an Italian family, you turn first to one another for help. Even if the family is Rosa and me.

“Soon after that, someone telephoned me. He threatened me with acid, and told me to stay away from the priory. And eventually, in fact, someone did throw acid on me. Walter Novick.”

I picked my next words with utmost care. “Now naturally, I am curious about those forged securities. But to be truthful, if they are going to be investigated and the facts about them discovered, it will be the FBI that does it. I don’t have the money or the staff to do that kind of work.” I watched Pasquale’s face. Its expression of polite attention didn’t change.

“My main concern is for my aunt, even though she is a disagreeable old woman. I made a promise to my mother, you see, a promise as she was dying. But when someone attacks me, then my honor is involved, too.” I hoped I wasn’t overdoing it.

Don Pasquale looked at his cigar, measuring the ash. He puffed on it a few times and carefully knocked the ash into a bronze cube at his left hand. “Yes, Miss Warshawski. I sympathize with your tale. But still-how does it involve me?”

“Walter Novick has… boasted… of being under your protection. Now I am not certain, but I believe it was he who tried to stab Stefan Herschel two days ago. Because this man is old, and because he was helping me, I am obligated to seek out his assassin. That is two counts against Walter Novick.