Bitter Medicine

by Sara Paretsky

  Dick wrapped up the press conference quickly after that. He bustled Humphries into the Mercedes. They headed north to the expressways. I had to strain the Chevy to the limit to keep up with his fast-cruising sports car. Once on the Kennedy, headed toward O’Hare, he picked up speed, weaving in and out of traffic. It was almost completely dark now, a difficult time of day for tailing. Only the distinctive spacing of the sports car’s taillights helped me keep him in view.

  As we joined the tollway and headed on beyond O’Hare, I realized that a brown Buick Le Sabre had become my permanent escort. It held back behind me until I’d dropped my four dimes into the toll basket, then pulled in front of me. It paced the Mercedes for a few miles, pulled in front of it around Algonquin Road, then dropped back behind me, where it hung closely.

  We were going over seventy by then. The little car was vibrating. If I had to stop suddenly, the Buick would run right over me. My hands were sweating on the steering wheel.

  Dick took the I-290 exit without signaling. I swerved right, felt the wheels lose traction briefly as I turned, saw the Buick slide past two honking, braking cars to keep up with me, then was miraculously back in control, picking up the Mercedes taillights about a half mile up the road.

  I patted the steering wheel. “Come on, old girl. Show that damned Kraut car what a Yankee can do. Come on, babe. Just because you cost forty thousand less doesn’t mean you aren’t as good.” The Chevy continued to vibrate, but climbed up to eighty and closed the gap.

  The Buick continued to hang about a hundred yards in back of me. My gun was in the glove compartment where I’d locked it before going into court. I didn’t dare take one hand off the steering wheel to fiddle with the lock and get at it. I couldn’t believe the state police were letting the three of us cruise this fast this far.

  My hair was wet, my armpits dripping, when we slowed to fifty-five and turned onto the Northwest Highway. After that, progress was more sedate, interrupted by periodic traffic lights, with suburban police cruising ostentatiously in between. On one stop I was able to remove the glove-compartment key from my key chain. At the next I unlocked it, quickly pulled out my gun, and stuck it into my jacket pocket.

  Humphries lived in Barrington Hills, a good fifty miles from the Loop. Thanks to Dick’s driving, we pulled up in front of his driveway only seventy minutes after leaving the criminal courts. Dick turned in; the Buick and I moved on past. As soon as the Mercedes had disappeared, the Buick put on a rush of speed and pulled around past me, disappearing up the road.

  I moved over to the shoulder where I sat with my head on the steering wheel, my arms wobbling. I needed food. It had been more than twelve hours since I’d last eaten, and the intervening time had used up all my blood sugar. If I had a partner, I’d be able to send her off for food while I continued to watch. As it was, I had to take a chance. I retraced our route until I came to a strip with takeout joints. I had a double hamburger, a chocolate shake, and fries. By then I was ready for sleep, not action.

  ” ‘When duty whispers low, Thou must, the youth replies, I can,’ “ I muttered encouragingly to myself, heading back for Humphries’s house.

  He had a good two- or three-acre spread. Nestled far back among the trees, the house was only partly visible from the road. In the dark, all I could see was the limestone front where a spotlight shone on it. I pulled over, waiting for—I wasn’t sure what.

  I leaned back in the driver’s seat and shut my eyes briefly. When I opened them again, it was because a set of headlights had flashed in my eyes—the Buick, headed back up the road. It was pitch-black, with no streetlights to mark the way. I was cold and my muscles were stiff; I was barely able to turn the Chevy around and pick up the Buick before it turned back onto the main road.

  We’d gone several miles when I realized we were heading for the hospital. I slowed down—no point in getting a ticket when I knew the destination, and my arms were too sore to relish another Grand Prix driving demonstration.

  It was midnight on my dashboard clock when I pulled into the visitors’ lot at Friendship. As I moved toward the entrance I kept one hand on the automatic in my pocket, scanning the rows of cars for the Buick but not seeing it.

  The brightly lit, deserted hallways were becoming as familiar to me as my own office. I half expected the janitor leaning on his mop in the corner to greet me, or to find that the nurses walking down the corridor wanted to consult me about some patient’s condition.

  No one tried to talk to me as I made my way to the administrative wing. This time, the outer door was unlocked. I opened it cautiously, but the hallway in front of me was empty. I moved quietly down the passage, straining to hear but catching no sounds. The handle to Jackie’s antechamber door also tuned in my hand. No lights were on, but the parking-lot lamps shone brightly enough into the room that I could make out the furniture. Humphries’s door fit flush with the floor; I couldn’t tell if anyone was behind it or not.

  Holding my breath, I slowly turned the knob and pushed enough to crack the door. I couldn’t see anything, but now I could hear. A husky voice was speaking.

  “What we want to know, man, is what you’re telling the cops. We don’t give a fuck about your doctor pal and what he said. He’s dead—that don’t count. But my informant said, man, you were fingering me. Now tell me about it.”

  That was Sergio. I would know his voice anywhere. I thought frantically. I ought to call the police, but getting them to listen to me would be hard enough, let alone getting them to come without enough fanfare to announce the Second Coming. With the other half of my mind I was trying to figure out why Humphries had come back to the hospital to meet Sergio instead of settling it all on a deserted country road. And if that had been Sergio in the Buick, why hadn’t he killed me while I lay asleep behind my steering wheel?

  Humphries was answering. “I don’t know who your informant is, or why he would know anything about the matter. But I can assure you that I have said nothing to the police. As you can see, they released me.”

  He gasped. Someone had hit him. Or they were holding his arms back, giving them a twist when he didn’t say what they wanted to hear.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, man. You don’t walk on a murder rap. You walk when you tell the cops what they want to hear. And they be real glad to hear some spic taking the rap, letting a rich honky businessman off the hook. You dig?”

  “I think we could talk more easily if you’d take that knife away from my neck.”

  I had to hand it to Humphries—he was cool under pressure.

  “We have a slight problem, you see,” he went on. “After all, you did kill Malcolm Tregiere—I didn’t.”

  “Maybe we did, maybe not. But if we did, man, you ordered the hit. And that’s conspiracy to commit murder. You go up for a lotta years on a rap like that, man. And believe me, we gonna take you down with us if we go. Besides that, there’s a little matter of my man Fabiano. Oh, yeah. I know you offed him, man. Just the kind of dumb shit a honky like you would pull. So before you talk to cops about anything, dig, just remember we ain’t laying down and playing dead for you.”

  Humphries didn’t say anything. Then he gave a small gasp.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Ah, my man. Now we’re talking. What I want. I want to hear you say those magic words: I shot Fabiano Hernandez.”

  Silence, then another gasp.

  “Come on, man. We got all night. Nobody’s gonna hear you if you scream.”

  Finally Humphries said in a choked voice, “Okay. I shot the guy, but he was a punk, a loser, a wastrel. If you’ve come out here to avenge his death, you’re wasting your lives on a worthless heap of shit.”

  I took a breath, pulled the gun out, pushed the door open, and rolled in behind it.

  “Freeze!” I yelled, pointing it at Sergio.

  He was standing in front of Humphries, his knife in his hand. Tattoo was behind Humphries, holding his arms. Two other Lions were lounging on the sideline
s, holding guns. The long window behind the desk was shattered—they’d apparently broken in and surprised Humphries when he showed up.

  “Drop your guns,” I barked.

  Instead of obeying, they turned them on me. I fired. One went down, but I missed the other. I rolled as he shot and the bullet went into the floor where I’d been kneeling. Sergio left Humphries. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his arm go back to throw the knife. A gun barked and he crumpled across the leather desk. I fired again at the other gunman. He dropped his weapon as soon as Sergio fell.

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he screamed in a falsetto.

  Rawlings picked his way past the broken window glass into the room. “Goddamn your eyes, Warshawski. Why in hell did you break in when you did?”

  I sank back on my heels, arms shaking. “Rawlings! That was you in the Buick! I thought—thought Sergio— And didn’t you drive a Chevy this morning?”

  The gold gleamed briefly. “Buick’s my own car—didn’t think you’d recognize it. I figured you for the action type—thought I’d better come along to see which way you jumped. Why do you think you got by with doing eighty on the tollway? Police escort… Okay, Humphries. Mr. Humphries, I mean. I think we got enough to make it stick this time. Like I said a few hours ago, you got the right to remain silent. But if you give up that right—”

  Humphries shook his head. Blood was trickling from the cuts Sergio had made on his neck. “I know the patter. Knock it off. If you’ve been outside all this time, why in hell didn’t you come in when that damned spic was threatening to cut my throat?”

  “Don’t worry, Humphries—much as I’d have liked to, I wouldn’t let the guy kill you. I’m just like him, though—I wanted to hear you say those magic words. That you killed Fabiano Hernandez. Ms. W. heard them, too. So I think we got enough to please the judge.”

  I went over to Sergio. Rawlings had hit him in the shoulder. A .38 in the shoulder creates a major mess, but the boy would live. The Lion I’d shot was lying on the Persian rug, moaning pathetically and spoiling the wool. Tattoo and the other guard were standing sullenly to one side.

  “I don’t know, Humphries,” Rawlings said. “Maybe just as well you’ll be in jail—it’d probably break your heart to have to look at all those bloodstains on your rug and your desk every day. Now is there a doctor in the house?”

  35

  Last Swim of the Summer

  The late-summer sun blazed in glory, heating the sand, dancing on the water. Children screamed wildly, knowing this was their last day of summer vacation. Husbands and wives shared picnic baskets, and enjoyed their final weekend on the beach. In the background, some had radios tuned to the Cubs, some to the local rock frequencies. Harry Caray and Prince fought with each other to control the airwaves. I stared blindly in front of me.

  “What’s the problem, doll? Why don’tcha go in the water? Might be your last chance before the weather changes.”

  Mr. Contreras lay on a plastic lounge chair under a large umbrella. He had come with me to Pentwater, a little town on the Michigan side of the lake, on the strict understanding that he would stay in the shade at all times. I’d hoped he’d been sleeping. As a convalescent, he was even more exhausting than he had been when he was healthy.

  “You ain’t still eating your heart out over that doc, are you, doll? Believe me, he ain’t worth it.”

  I turned to face him, gestured with my right hand, but didn’t speak. I couldn’t put feelings into words. I hadn’t known Peter well enough to be eating my heart out for him. His bones and brains on the desktop flashed into my mind. Horrifying, yes. But not my personal burden.

  By rights I should be on top of the world. Humphries and Sergio were both being held without bond, Sergio in the prison wing of county hospital while his shoulder healed. The weekend Herald-Star had had a field day with Dick, showing him at his most pompous. He had called to chew me out after we got Humphries down to Twenty-sixth and California for the second time in twenty-four hours. Maybe, as Lotty said, my reaction to him was childish, but I’d had a good time—he was in way over his head with criminal law and didn’t want to admit he didn’t know as much about it as I did.

  Tessa had come to visit me Saturday morning before I left for the country, grateful I’d cornered Malcolm’s murderers and contrite she’d ever doubted me. She’d arrived at the same time as Rawlings, who wanted to check up on me and work on our statements. I’d half hoped to take him up on his dinner offer, but he and Tessa left together to get lunch. That didn’t really trouble me, either—Rawlings was amusing, but it’s not good for a PI to get too sociable with the police. So why did I feel wrapped in a cocoon of lethargy, barely able to keep awake?

  Mr. Contreras was looking at me anxiously. “Life goes on, doll. When Clara died, I thought, Boy, this is it. And we’d been married fifty-one years. Yep. We were high-school sweethearts. Course, I dropped out, but she wanted to finish and we waited to have the wedding until she did. And we had some fights, cookie, fights like you never saw the like of. But we always had the good times, too.

  “That’s what you need, doll. You need someone tough enough to fight with you, but good enough to give you the good times. Not like that ex of yours. How you ever came to marry a guy like that I’ll never know. No, nor that doctor, neither. I told you he was a lightweight. Told you the first time I laid eyes on him… .”

  I stiffened. If he thought not having a husband was troubling me… Maybe I was just burned out. Too much city, too much time spent in the sewer with people like Sergio and Alan Humphries. Maybe I should get out of the detective business—sell my co-op, retire to Pentwater. I tried picturing myself in this tiny town, with twelve hundred people who all knew each other’s business. A quart of Black Label a day might make it tolerable. The idea made me give a little snort of laughter.

  “That’s right, doll. You gotta be able to laugh at yourself. I mean, if I laid down and cried for every mistake I ever made, I’d a drowned to death by now. And look at the good side. We got a dog. At least, you got a dog, but who’s going to walk her and feed her when you’re out to all hours, huh? She’ll be company—long as she don’t pee on my tomatoes, huh, girl?”

  When Peppy realized he was talking to her, she dropped the stick she’d been gnawing to lick his hand. Then she bounded back to the stick, picked it up, and dropped it next to me, her tail making a great golden circle in the sun. She nudged me hard with her wet nose, slapping me with her tail to make sure I got the point. I pushed myself up to standing. While the dog danced herself into a crescendo of ecstasy, I picked up the stick and hurled it into the setting sun.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mr. Barry Zeman, executive director of the Staten Island Hospital, supplied invaluable technical help for this book. In addition to a comprehensive tour of the hospital’s obstetrical services, from emergency admitting procedures through perinatal and neonatal support, he suggested the mortality conference in Chapter 32. Ms. Lorraine Wilson, director of Medical Records, and Dr. Earl Greenwald, head of Obstetrics, were also most generous with their time and expertise. I am grateful, too, to an anonymous woman ten days past her delivery date who allowed me to watch her ultrasound scan.

  Despite the advice of these gracious and knowledgeable people, errors have inevitably filled the text—needless to say, these are my own; no debt for mistakes should be levied on the Staten Island Hospital. In no way should any of the staff of Friendship V Hospital be taken to resemble those at Staten Island, or any other hospital—in existence or in bankruptcy. Indeed, were it possible for a layperson to describe a well-run hospital where nurses, doctors, technicians, and volunteers all were humanists with unmistakable dedication to their callings, that place would be the Staten Island Hospital.

  On the legal points raised in this book, the list of creditors is well-nigh overwhelming; to list them all would double the length of the manuscript. Professor William Westerbeke of the University of Kansas was helpful on tort law and the heritable p
roperties of malpractice suits. Ms. Faith Logsden, manager of medical underwriting with the CNA Insurance Companies, was most generous with time and advice on the course that a malpractice claim follows. Again, any faults in facts are due to my poor interpretation, not their ignorance.

  And finally, a word of thanks to Capo, Peppy, and all the other golden retrievers of the world for making it a better place in which to be a human being.

  About the Author

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  Praise

  “No other modern crime writer has so powerfully and effectively combined a well-crafted detective story with the novel of social realism and protest.”

  —P. D. James, in The Spectator

  Praise for the V. I. Warshawski Series

  Fire Sale

  “Another gripping chapter in the ongoing adventures of the Chicago private investigator… tightly written.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “A compelling case. Snappy and satisfying, as always.”

  —People

  “Vintage V.I.”

  —The Kansas City Star

  “Paretsky is as much a social critic as a mystery author, and Fire Sale shows her considerable gifts for keeping the two roles in balance… a book with heart.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “The great thing about Sara Paretsky’s novels is that they have meat on their bones, burrowing down to explore issues… without taking anything away from the thrills and suspense… a cleverly constructed novel that serves a dual purpose of providing first-class entertainment and at the same time reminding us just how brutal man’s inhumanity to man can be.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  “Warshawski is among the most intriguing of detective characters, and Paretsky among the smoothest of stylists.”