Killing Orders

by Sara Paretsky

  During the slow drive home that night I pondered how to find someone who knew about forging securities. Forgers were engravers gone wrong. And I did know one engraver. At least I knew someone who knew an engraver.

  Dr Charlotte Herschel, Lotty to me, had been born in Vienna, grew up in London where she ultimately received her doctor of medicine degree from London University -and lived about a mile from me on Sheffield Avenue. Her father’s brother Stefan, an engraver, had immigrated to Chicago in the twenties. When Lotty decided to come to the States in 1959, she picked Chicago partly because her uncle Stefan lived here.

  I had never met him-she saw little of him, just saying it made her feel more rooted to have a relative in the area.

  My friendship with Lotty goes back a long way, to my student days at the University of Chicago when she was one of the physicians working with an abortion underground I was involved in. She knew Agnes Paciorek from that time, too.

  I stopped at a Treasure Island on Broadway for groceries and wine. It was six-thirty when I got home and phoned Lotty. She had just come in herself from a long day at the clinic she runs on Sheffield near her apartment. She greeted my offer of dinner enthusiastically and said she would be over after a hot bath.

  I cleaned up the worst ravages in my living room and kitchen. Lotty never criticizes my housekeeping, but she is scrupulously tidy herself and it didn’t seem fair to drag her out for a brain-picking session on such a cold night, then have her spend it in squalor.

  Chicken, garlic, mushrooms, and onions sautéed in olive oil, then flamed with brandy made an easy attractive stew. A cup of Ruffino finished the dish. By the time I had water hot for fettucine, the doorbell rang.

  Lotty came up the stairs briskly and greeted me with a hug. “A lifesaver that you called, my dear. It was a long, very depressing day: a child dead of meningitis because the mother would not bring her in. She hung an amulet around her neck and thought it would bring down a fever of forty-one degrees. There are three sisters; we put them in St Vincent ’s for observation, but my God!”

  I held her for a minute before we went into the apartment, asking if she wanted a drink. Lotty reminded me that alcohol is poison. For extreme situations she believes brandy is permissible, but she did not consider today’s woes extreme. I poured myself a glass of Ruffino and put on water for her coffee.

  We ate by candlelight in the dining room while Lotty unburdened herself. By the time we had finished the salad, she felt more relaxed and asked me what I was working on.

  I told her about Rosa and the Dominicans and Albert’s phoning me to tell me the whole thing was off.

  The candlelight was reflected in her black eyes as she narrowed them at me. “And what are you trying to prove by continuing?”

  “It was Albert who phoned. Rosa may not agree,” I said defensively.

  “Yes. Your aunt dislikes you. She’s decided-for whatever reason-to discontinue the effort to protect herself. So what are you doing? Proving that you are tougher, or smarter, or just plain better than she is?”

  I thought it over. Lotty is sometimes about as pleasant as a can opener, but she braces me. I know myself better when I talk to Lotty.

  “You know, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about Rosa. It’s not as though she’s an obsession; she doesn’t control my head that much. But I feel very protective of my mother. Rosa hurt her and that makes me angry. If I can show Rosa she was wrong to stop the investigation, that I can solve this problem despite failure by the FBI and the SEC, I’ll have proof that she was wrong about everything. And she’ll have to believe it.” I laughed and finished my glass of wine. “She won’t, of course. My rational self knows that. But my feeling self thinks otherwise.”

  Lotty nodded. “Perfectly logical. Does your rational self have any way of solving this problem?”

  “There are lots of things the FBI can do that I can’t because they have so much manpower. But one thing I could look into is who actually did the forgeries. Let Derek concentrate on who planted them and which ex-Dominicans are living in luxury.

  “I don’t know any forgers. But it occurred to me that a forger is really a species of engraver. And I wondered about your uncle Stefan.”

  Lotty had been watching me with an expression of shrewd amusement. Now her face changed suddenly. Her mouth set and her black eyes narrowed. “Is this an inspired guess? Or have you spent your spare time investigating me?”

  I looked at her in bewilderment.

  “You wondered why you never met my uncle Stefan? Although he is my only relative living in Chicago?”

  “No,” I said doggedly. “I never thought about it for a minute. You’ve never met my aunt Rosa. Even if she weren’t a virago, you’d probably never have met her-friends seldom have much in common with relatives.”

  She continued to stare searchingly at me. I felt very hurt but could think of nothing to say that would bridge the gulf of Lotty ’s suspicious silence. The last time I had felt this way was the night I realized the man I had married and thought I loved was as foreign to me as Yasir Arafat. Could a friendship evaporate in the same mist as a marriage?

  My throat felt tight, but I forced myself to talk. “Lotty. You’ve known me for close to twenty years and I’ve never done anything behind your back. If you think I’ve started now .“ That sentence wasn’t going in the right direction. “There’s something you don’t want me to know about your uncle. You don’t have to tell me. Carry it to the grave with you. But don’t act as though everything you know about me suddenly has no foundation.” A light bulb went on over my head. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me your uncle really is a forger?”

  The set look held in Lotty’s face for a few seconds, then cracked into a wry smile. “You are right, Vic. About my uncle. And about you and me. I’m truly sorry, my dear. I won’t try to make excuses-there are none. But Stefan.

  When the war ended, I found there was left of my family only my brother and the distant cousins who had taken us in during the war. Hugo-my brother-and I spent what time and money we had searching for relatives. And we found Papa’s brother Stefan. When Hugo decided to move to Montreal, I came to Chicago -I had an opportunity for a surgical residency at Northwestern, too good a chance to turn down.” She made a throwaway gesture with her left hand. “So I set out to find Uncle Stefan. And discovered him in a federal prison at Fort Leavenworth. Currency was his specialty, although he had a social conscience: He was also forging passports for sale to the many Europeans trying to come to America at the time.”

  She grinned at me, the old Lotty grin. I leaned across the table and squeezed her hand. She returned the pressure, but went on talking. Detectives and doctors both know the value of talking. “I went to see him. He’s likable. Like my father, but without the moral foundation. And I let him stay with me for six months when he was released-1959 that was; I was his only family, too.

  “He got a job, doing custom work for a jeweler-after all, he wasn’t a robber, so they weren’t afraid he’d lift the sterling. As far as I know, he’s never stepped over the edge again. But naturally I haven’t asked.”

  “Naturally not. Well, I will try to find a different engraver.”

  Lotty smiled again. “Oh, no. Why not call him? He’s eighty-two, but he still has all his wits and some besides. He might be the one person who could help you.”

  She would talk to him the next day and arrange a time when I could have tea with him. We had coffee and pears in the living room and played Scrabble. As usual, Lotty won.

  VII

  Christian Charity

  THE AIR WAS clear and cold the next morning and a bright winter sun cast a strong glare back from the drifts lining the roads. Halsted had not been plowed, at least not north of Belmont, and the Omega jumped skittishly from rut to rut on the way to the Kennedy Expressway and Melrose Park.

  I put on sunglasses and turned on WFMT. Satie. Unbearable. I turned it off again and started singing myself-nothing very noble, just the theme from Big John a
nd Sparky. “If you go down to the woods today you’d better not go alone.”

  It was a little after ten when I turned north on Mannheim and made my way to Rosa ’s. In Melrose Park, even the side streets had been carefully cleaned. Maybe there was something to be said for suburban living after all. The path leading to her side door had been shoveled neatly, not just a path half a person wide like my building super believed in. There was even something to be said for living with Albert. Which just went to show.

  Albert came to the door. The light was behind me and I could see his petulant face through the thick screen. He was surprised and angry. “What are you doing here?”

  “Albert. If Rosa has stressed it once, she’s stressed a hundred times the importance of families sticking together. I’m sure she’d be shocked to hear you greet me so ungraciously.”

  “Mama doesn’t want to talk to you. I thought I made that clear the other day.”

  I pulled the screen door open. “Nope. You made it clear you didn’t want me talking to her. That’s by no means the same thing.”

  Albert probably outweighs me by eighty pounds, which may be why he thought it would be easy to push me back out the door. I twisted his left arm up behind him and circled around past him. I hadn’t felt so good in weeks.

  Rosa ’s harsh voice wafted down the dim hail from the kitchen, demanding to know who was at the door and why Albert didn’t shut it. Didn’t he know what they were paying to heat this house?

  I followed the voice, Albert walking sulkily behind me. “It’s me, Rosa,” I said, walking into the kitchen. “I thought we ought to have a little talk about theology.”

  Rosa was chopping vegetables, presumably for soup, since a shinbone was browning in oil on the stove. The kitchen still had its old 1930s sink. The stove and refrigerator were old, too, small white appliances set against unpainted walls. Rosa put the pairing knife down on the counter with a snap, turned full face, and hissed angrily, “I have no wish to talk to you, Victoria!”

  I pulled a kitchen chair around and sat backward on it, leaning my chin on its back. “Not good enough, Rosa. I’m not a television that you turn on and off at whim. A week ago you called me and played a tremolo passage on the family violin and dragged me out here against my will. On Thursday, suddenly your morals or ethics got the better of you. You looked at the lilies of the field and decided that it was wrong to have me toiling and spinning over your innocence.” I looked at her earnestly. “ Rosa, it sounds beautiful. It just doesn’t sound like you.”

  She drew her thin mouth into a tight line. “How should you know? You were never even baptized. I would not expect you to know how a Christian behaves.”

  “Well, you could be right. The modern world offers few opportunities to see one in action. But you don’t understand. You tugged hard on my emotions to get me out here. It’s going to be even harder to get rid of me. If you had picked a private investigator out of the Yellow Pages, one who had no connection with you, it would be different. But you insisted on me and it’s me you’ve got.”

  Rosa sat down. Her eyes blazed fiercely. “I have changed my mind. That is my right. You should not do anything more.”

  “I want to know something, Rosa. Was this your own idea? Or did someone else suggest it to you?”

  Her eyes darted around the kitchen before she spoke. “Naturally I discussed it with Albert.”

  “Naturally. Your right-hand man and confidant. But who else?”

  “No one!”

  “No, Rosa. That little pause and the look around the room says the opposite. It wasn’t Father Carroll, unless he lied to me on Thursday. Who was it?”

  She said nothing.

  “Who are you protecting, Rosa? Is it someone who knows about these forgeries?”

  Still silence.

  “I see. You know, the other day I was trying to figure an approach that I was better equipped to handle than the FBI. I came up with one, but you’ve just offered me a better. I’ll get some surveillance on you and find out just who you talk to.”

  The hate in her face made me recoil physically. “So! What I should have expected from the daughter of a whore!”

  Without thinking I leaned forward and slapped her on the mouth.

  Slyness joined the hate in her face, but she was too proud to rub her mouth where I’d hit it. “You would not love her so much if you knew the truth.”

  “Thanks, Rosa. I’ll be back next week for another lesson in Christian conduct.”

  Albert had stood silently in the kitchen doorway throughout our altercation. He walked me to the outer door. The smell of burning olive oil followed us down the hall. “You really should knock it off, Victoria. She’s pretty worried.”

  “Why do you stick up for her, Albert? She treats you like a retarded four-year-old. Stop being such a goddamned Mama’s boy. Go get yourself a girlfriend. Get your own apartment. No one’s going to marry you while you’re living with her.”

  He mumbled something inaudible and slammed the door behind me. I got into the car and sat heaving for several minutes. How dared she! She had not only insulted my mother, she had manipulated me into hitting her. I couldn’t believe I’d done it. I felt sick from rage and self-disgust. But the last thing I would ever do was apologize to the old witch.

  On that defiant note, I put the car into gear and headed for the priory. Father Carroll was hearing confessions and would be busy for an hour. I could wait if I wanted. I declined, leaving a message that I would call later in the weekend, and headed back to the city.

  I was in no mood to do anything but fight. Back at the apartment I got out my December expenses but couldn’t keep my mind on them. Finally I gathered all my stale clothes and took them down to the washing machine in the basement. I changed the sheets and vacuumed and still felt terrible. At last I gave work up as a bad idea, dug my ice skates out of the closet, and drove over to the park at Montrose Harbor. They flood an outdoor rink there and I joined a crowd of children and skated with more energy than skill for over an hour. Afterward I treated myself to a late, light lunch at the Dortmunder Restaurant in the basement of the Chesterton Hotel.

  It was close to three when I got home again, tired but with the anger washed out of me. The phone was ringing as I started undoing the upper of the two locks on my door. My fingers were stiff with cold; I heard the phone ring eleven times but by the time I got the bottom lock open and sprinted across the hall to the living room, the caller had hung up.

  I was meeting Roger Ferrant for a movie and dinner at six. A short nap and a long bath would restore me and even leave a little time to work on my bills.

  Lotty called at four, just as I had the taps running, to ask if I wanted to go with her to Uncle Stefan’s tomorrow at three-thirty. We arranged for me to pick her up at three. I was lying well submerged and slightly comatose when the phone began to ring again. At first I let it go. Then, thinking it might be Ferrant calling to change plans, I leaped from the tub, trailing a cloud of Chanel bubbles behind me. But the phone had stopped again when I reached it.

  Cursing the perversity of fate, I decided I had put off work long enough, got a robe and slippers, and started in earnest. By five I had my year-end statement almost complete and December’s bills ready to mail to clients, and I went to change with a feeling of awesome virtue. I put on a full peasant skirt which hit me mid-calf, knee-high red cavalier boots, and a full-sleeved white blouse. Ferrant and I were meeting at the Sullivan for the six o’clock showing of Terms of Endearment.

  He was waiting for me when I got there, a courtesy I appreciated, and kissed me enthusiastically. I declined popcorn and Coke and we spent an agreeable two hours with half our attention on Shirley MacLaine and half on each other’s bodies, making sure that various parts abandoned on Thursday morning were still where they belonged. The movie over, we agreed to complete the survey at my apartment before eating dinner.

  We walked lazily up the stairs together arm in arm. I had just gotten the bottom lock unfastened w
hen the phone started to ring again. This time I reached it by the fourth ring.

  “Miss Warshawski?”

  The voice was strange, a neutral voice, no accent, a hard-to-define pitch.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad to find you home at last. You’re investigating the forged securities at St. Albert ’s, aren’t you?”

  “Who is this?” I demanded sharply.

  “A friend, Miss Warshawski. You might almost call me an amicus curiae.” He gave a ghostly, self-satisfied laugh. “Don’t go on, Miss Warshawski. You have such beautiful gray eyes. I would hate to see them after someone poured acid on them.” The line went dead.

  I stood holding the phone, staring at it in disbelief. Ferrant came over to me.

  “What is it, Vic?”

  I put the receiver down carefully. “If you value your life, stay away from the moor at night.” I tried for a light note, but my voice sounded weak even to me. Roger started to put an arm around me, but I shook it off gently. “I need to think this out on my own for a minute. There’s liquor and wine in the cupboard built into the dining-room wall. Why don’t you fix us something?”

  He went off to find drinks and I sat and looked at the phone some more. Detectives get a large volume of anonymous phone calls and letters and you’d be a quick candidate for a straitjacket if you took them very seriously. But the menace in this man’s voice had been very credible. Acid in the eyes. I shivered.

  I’d stirred a lot of pots and now one of them was boiling. But which one? Could poor, shriveled Aunt Rosa have gone demented and hired someone to threaten me? The idea made me laugh a little to myself and helped restore some mental balance. If not Rosa, though, it had to be the priory. And that was just as laughable. Hatfield would like to see me out of the case, but this wasn’t his kind of maneuver.

  Roger came in with a couple of glasses of Burgundy. “You’re white, Vic. Who was that on the phone?”

  I shook my head. “I wish I knew. His voice was so-so careful. Without accent. Like distilled water. Someone wants me away from the forgeries bad enough to threaten to pour acid on me.”