The short one in brown polyester bared tiny teeth in a circle like a pike’s. “V. I. Warshki? Police. We have some questions for you.”
“Warshawski, not Warshki,” I said. “My neighbor said you were with the police, which is why I opened the door, but I need to see some proof. Like your badges. And then you can tell me why you’ve come calling.”
The tall one pulled his badge out of his coat pocket and flashed it for a nanosecond. I held his wrist so that I could inspect the badge. “Detective Palgrave. And your companion is? Detective Lemour. Thank you. You can sit in the living room while I finish dressing.”
“Uh, ma’am.” Palgrave spoke. “Uh, we don’t mind talking to you in your bare feet. We have a couple of questions about the female you came on last night.”
A door thudded shut at the bottom of the stairwell. Mitch and Peppy began to race upstairs, followed by Mr. Contreras’s heavy tread. The dogs barreled past the detectives to get to me, squeaking as if it had been twelve months instead of twelve hours since we were last together. Lemour kicked at Mitch but only connected with his tail. I grabbed both dogs by the collars before anything worse happened.
When they finished jumping up and kissing me, the dogs, especially Mitch, were eager to greet Lemour. Peppy’s a golden; Mitch, her son, is half black Lab and enormous. Like all retrievers, they are incurably friendly, but when they’re pawing the air and grinning they look ferocious to strangers; our visitor wasn’t going to try to muscle his way past them.
Mr. Contreras had reached the doorway in time to see Lemour kick at Mitch. “Listen here, young man, I don’t care if you’re a detective or a meter maid, but these dogs live here and you don’t. You got no call to be kicking them. I could have you up before the anticruelty society, policeman kicking man’s best friend, how’d your ma and your kids like to read that in the paper?”
The detective wasn’t the first person to be rattled by Mr. Contreras. “We’re here to talk to the lady about a hit–and–run she was involved in last night. Take your animals downstairs and leave us alone.”
“It so happens, young man, that the lady owns the golden. We share looking after them—not that it’s any of your business—so if she wants them up here it’s fine with me. And as for whatever questions you got, you’re way off base if you think she was involved in some hit–and–run. I’ve known her twelve years, and she would no more run over someone and leave ’em lay in the street than she’d prop up a ladder to climb to the moon. So you got some accident victim claiming otherwise, you been totally misinformed. Be a good idea if you called your boss and made sure you got the right address or license plate or whatever, otherwise I guarantee you’ll feel foolish wasting your time and everyone else’s on this—”
“Uh, sir.” Palgrave had been trying to cut the flow short for some minutes. “Uh, sir, we’re not accusing her of hitting someone. We only want to ask her some questions about the incident.”
“Then why didn’t you say that?” Mr. Contreras demanded in exasperation. “Your buddy here was carrying on like she ran over the pope and left him to bleed in the street.”
“We need to ascertain whether the Warshki woman hit the woman or not,” Lemour said.
“Warshawski,” I said. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I went back to the kitchen to turn the fire off under my pot; fortunately it had just reached the point where it sucked water up through the filter into the top, not the point where it started filling the house with the stench of scorched metal. Lemour, apparently fearing I might be going to hide or shred evidence, perhaps my car, followed me to the kitchen.
“It makes two cups,” I said. “Want one?”
“Listen, Princess Diana, don’t get smart with me. I want you to answer some questions.”
I poured out coffee and looked in the refrigerator. I’d been in Springfield testifying at Illinois House hearings into contracting scams the last few days. The only thing close to food was a dried heel of rye. I looked at it dubiously while Lemour foamed at the mouth behind me. I ignored him and took my coffee into the living room. Detective Palgrave was standing stiffly at attention while Mr. Contreras sat in my good armchair, holding Mitch’s collar.
“Detective, is there any word on the woman I stopped to help last night?” I said to Palgrave.
“She was taken to Beth Israel, but—”
His partner cut him off. “We ask the questions, Warshki; you give the answers. I want a complete description of the encounter you had in the road last night.”
“It’s Warshawski. It may be a sign of dyslexia when you can’t pronounce all the syllables in a long word, but you can get over it with speech therapy, even as an adult.”
“Uh, ma’am,” Palgrave said, “could I just ask you to describe what happened last night? We’re trying to investigate the incident, and we need to find someone who can tell us what happened.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about the woman—she was lying in the road. The streetlights are out on that stretch of Balmoral, so I didn’t see her until I was about ten feet from her. I stood on the brakes, swerved, hit a fireplug, but did not hit the woman. My passenger, who’s a ten–year veteran with the Chicago police, summoned an ambulance. We could see that the woman had a broken arm, and her breathing was labored; the front of her dress seemed bloody. I don’t know anything else about her. I don’t know her name, how she came to be there, or whether she’s still alive.”
“How much did you drink last night?” Lemour demanded.
“Three bottles of mineral water.”
“You’re sure you didn’t hit her and are trying to dress it up as a Good Samaritan act?”
“Uh, Doug, why don’t we talk to the passenger. Get some confirmation of Ms. Warshki’s—sorry, ma’am, what is it? Warshouski?—anyway, of her story.”
“She took so long answering the door, she was probably calling to feed the other woman her lines,” Lemour grumbled.
“You can talk to Ms. Neely,” I said, “but the officers on the scene took a complete report last night. They even breathalyzed me. Why don’t you look at that?”
Palgrave’s face became more wooden. “Uh, ma’am, did your passenger witness the breathalyzing? Because we were told it didn’t take place, that you refused.”
I stared at him. “I signed that report, and it included a statement that I had not been drinking. Let me see it.”
Palgrave shifted uncomfortably and said they didn’t have the report with them. Lemour was all in favor of arresting me for manslaughter on the spot; I was trying to weasel out of a DUI charge, he said. Palgrave told him to tone it down and asked if it was really true that Mary Louise was a ten–year veteran with the force.
“Yes, indeed. You can talk to Bobby Mallory—Lieutenant Mallory—at the Central District. She was under his command for quite a few years,” I said. “I’ll get him on the phone for you now. Or Terry Finchley. He was her immediate superior.”
“That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” Palgrave said. “We’ll talk to this Neely woman, but if she witnessed your—uh—breathalyzing that’s probably good enough. To be on the safe side, we’ll take a look at your car, make sure it wasn’t involved in the accident.”
“Who is the woman I stopped for, anyway?” I demanded. “Why does it matter so much to find someone to take the fall for her injuries?”
“We’re not trying to make you take a fall,” Palgrave said. “She’s an accident victim and you were on the scene.”
“Come on, Detective,” I said. “I happened on the scene after someone left her lying in the road. I didn’t put her there, didn’t hit her, didn’t do anything but wreck my car swerving to miss her.”
“In that case a look at your car will get us out of your hair,” Palgrave said. “We’ll tow it to the police lab and get back to you about when you can pick it up. Where is it now?”
“It wasn’t drivable. It’s where the accident took place—you can look up the addre
ss on the report when you get back to the station.”
That made Lemour start to boil over, but Palgrave calmed him down once more. When they finally left I felt limp. Who could the woman be to merit this much aggravation? But I couldn’t worry about that until I dealt with my car. If the cops were determined to find a perpetrator, I wanted the Trans Am to have a clean bill of health before it got into police hands.
I called the mechanic I go to when I have no other choice. Luke Edwards is one of the few guys out there who still knows what a carburetor does, but he’s so depressing I try to avoid him. He came to the phone now with his usual drooping tones. He identifies so totally with machines that it’s hard for him to talk to people, but our relations have been particularly strained since a car of his I borrowed got totaled by a semi. Before I could finish explaining what I needed, Luke cut me off, saying he didn’t want to hear my tale of woe, he’d known since I trashed the Impala that I couldn’t be trusted behind the wheel.
“I spent three months getting every bearing on that engine purring in unison. I’m not surprised you wrecked your Trans Am. You don’t know how to look after a car.”
“Luke, forget that for a minute. I want a private lab to inspect my car and certify that it didn’t hit a person. I’m not asking you to work on it today, just to tell me the name of a good private lab.”
“Everyone thinks they come first, Warshawski. You gotta wait in line along with all the working stiffs.”
I tried not to scream. “Luke, I need a civilian lab before the police get to my car. I ran into a fire hydrant swerving to miss an accident victim, and some cop is taking the lazy way out instead of running an investigation. I want to have a lab report to wave in his face in case he doesn’t do the rest of his homework.”
“Police after you, huh? About time someone called you on your reckless driving. Just kidding you. Calm down and I’ll help you out. Cheviot is the lab you want, out in Hoffman Estates. They’re pricey but they got a rock–solid rap in court. I and my friends have used ’em a couple of times—I can call for you and set it up if you want. Tell me where your baby is and I’ll send Freddie out with the truck, get him to take the Trans Am out to Cheviot. He sees a cop, should he run over him?”
Luke being funny is harder to take than his depression. I pretended to laugh and hung up. Mr. Contreras, watching with bright anxious eyes, told me I’d done the right thing but wanted me to do more.
I didn’t think there was much else I could do except call Mary Louise. She was trying to dress one of Emily’s young brothers, who was protesting loudly. When she realized what I was saying she let the kid go and gave me her full attention.
“I don’t know anyone named Lemour, but I’ll ask Terry,” she promised. “I read that report last night before I signed it, and it made crystal clear the fact that we had not hit that poor creature. There shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll certainly tell them that when they come around here. I have to get Nathan to day camp, but I’ll call Terry as soon as I get back.”
Mary Louise could make that phone call more easily than I. Terry Finchley, her commanding officer her last four years on the force, was a rising star in the violent crimes unit. When Mary Louise resigned, she was careful to do it in a way that left him on her side.
I’d actually met Mary Louise on cases where Terry Finchley and I had crossed paths. I’d always liked him, but since the end of Conrad’s and my affair he’s been rather stiff with me. He and Conrad are pretty close; even though it was Conrad who broke things off, Terry thinks I treated his friend shabbily. Still, he’s too honest a person to extend his stiffness to Mary Louise simply because she works for me.
“You gonna call the lieutenant and make a complaint?” Mr. Contreras asked, meaning my father’s old friend Bobby Mallory.
“I don’t think so.” Bobby was much more likely to chew me out for interfering with a police investigation than he was to phone the Rogers Park station and complain about Lemour. He would probably say, If I wanted to play cops and robbers, I’d have to be ready to take the heat that comes with it.
4 Searching for Wheels
“So whatcha going to do next, doll?” Mr. Contreras asked.
I frowned. “I’d like to find out who that woman is, so I can try to understand why the cops are so eager to find someone to take the fall for hitting her. In the meantime, I need to get hold of a car. Who knows how long it’ll be before the Trans Am is fit to drive again, especially if it ends up as police exhibit A.”
I called my insurance company, but they were useless. The Trans Am was ten years old; the only value it had to them was as scrap. They wouldn’t help me with a tow, the repairs, or a loaner. I snarled at the agent, who only said blandly that I shouldn’t carry property damage on such an old car.
I slammed down the phone. What was I doing sending good money to this idiot and the company of thieves he represented? I checked a few rental places, but if the Trans Am were tied up for weeks I’d be shelling out hundreds, maybe even a thousand, to rent something I’d have no equity in.
“Perhaps I should scrape together a few grand and buy something used. Something good enough that I could resell it when my car comes out of the shop. Or a motorcycle—you know—we’ll see the world from my Harley!”
“Don’t go buying a Harley,” Mr. Contreras begged. “One of my buddies, before your time, old Carmen Brioni, he used to ride a big old Honda 650 around town, thought he was a teenager all over again, until a semi run him off 55 down by Lockport. After that he never talked again, lived like an eggplant for seven years before the good Lord was kind enough to pull the plug.”
We studied the ads in the paper together, which left me more discouraged: anything roadworthy seemed to run three or four thousand. And would take a good day out of my life to hunt down.
“Why don’t you leave car–hunting to me?” Mr. Contreras said. “I sold mine when I moved here because I figured I couldn’t afford all that extry for insurance and whatnot on my pension. In fact, you know that’s why I moved out of the old neighborhood when Clara died, besides, most of my friends had got scared and left the city, so it wasn’t like I was missing my pals. Here I figured I’d be close by the L and walking distance to the stores. And of course it saves me all that parking aggravation, but I still can tell whether an engine runs good or not. What do you have in mind?”
“A Jaguar XJ–12,” I said promptly. “There’s one here for only thirty–six thousand. Standard shift, convertible, the old body before the Ford engineers got their hands on it.”
“That ain’t practical. Those ragtops don’t have any backseat to speak of, and where would the dogs sit?” He startled me into laughing, which made him beam with pride.
“Oh, yeah, the dogs,” I said. “You know, it’s going to have to be a beater. Unless I decide to junk the Trans Am. But I only want to buy something if it’s a reasonable alternative to renting.”
He started running a black fingernail down the page, whispering the words under his breath as he read, his eyes bright with interest. He has his own friends, and he tends a garden in our tiny backyard with painstaking care, but he doesn’t really have enough stimulation in his life—it’s why he gets overinvolved in my affairs.
I skimmed the news sections, trying to see if our accident victim had made the morning edition, while Mr. Contreras worked the ad pages. Commonwealth Edison’s inability to provide the city with power got a tiny mention, as did wildfires in Florida, but Global’s television debut took up most of the front page.
Murray had a byline, describing his interview with Lacey Dowell. It was the first time he’d been on the front page in ten months. First time in the paper in three. “Just haven’t been covering the right stories until now, Murray,” I muttered. First the paper spends four days hyping Global’s new television network. Then the network makes its debut. Then they write up what they showed on television. It made a neat loop, but was it news?
Even Regine Mauger’s column had been moved to a p
rominent spot because she was covering the television launch. Teddy Trant was glowing last night, and not only from the soft lights of Sal Barthele’s original Tiffany lamps, she cooed. With House Speaker Jean–Claude Poilevy on one side and Lacey Dowell on the other he has every right to be pleased with the impression he’s making on Chicago.
Regine went on to describe the other players, including members of the Illinois Commerce Commission, the mayor and his wife, whom I’d missed in the throng, and of course the denizens of the town’s TV studios, whose feelings get hurt if they’re overlooked.
Murray Ryerson, whose trademark red beard disappeared for the occasion, took to the camera like a duck to water. His chosen escort—or did she choose him?—was Alexandra Fisher from Global’s front office, stunning in an Armani evening ensemble. But don’t let that cleavage fool you: when she puts on her power suits she’s as invincible as Dick Butkus.
Of course some problems always erupt at occasions like this. A bird tells us that Lucian Frenada, from Lacey’s old neighborhood, finagled an invitation in the hopes of holding Lacey to a boy–girl romance, but Officer Mooney, on loan from Chicago’s finest, muscled him outside before he could make a full–scale scene. Lacey had no comment, but Alex Fisher says the star is troubled by the misunderstanding. Other hangers–on, like Chicago investigator V. I. Warshawski, who used to be an item with Ryerson, probably were hoping for crumbs to drop from one of the richest tables to be set in town for years.
That last sentence jolted me out of my chair so fast that Peppy barked a warning. Damned scrawny bitch with her fifty face–lifts, annoyed because I’d tripped on her Chanel trousers. Me, hoping for crumbs from a Hollywood table? And still pining for Murray? I didn’t know which suggestion offended me more.
Hard Time Page 3
