My only lightweight black dress has big silver buttons down the front. With black stockings and pumps I looked more as though I were on my way to the theater than a funeral, but I thought white stockings wouldn’t be much of an improvement. It would have to do.
While I was looking up the Callahan Funeral Home, the phone rang. It was Terry Finchley from the Violent Climes Unit.
“Miss Warshawski! I’ve been trying to reach you the last few days. Did you get my message?”
I thought of all the ringing phones I’d let go lately and realized I hadn’t checked in with my answering service for some time. “Sorry, Detective. What’s up? Any new evidence linking me to the Prairie Shores or Indiana Arms fires?”
I thought I heard him sigh. “Don’t make my life harder than it is, Vic, okay?”
“Okay, Terry,” I agreed meekly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you?”
“I-uh-discussed our interview with the lieutenant. You know, the talk Lieutenant Montgomery and I-”
“Yes, I remember that particular conversation.” I had sat on the piano bench with the phone book in my lap, but I stopped searching the Callahans.
“He, the lieutenant, Lieutenant Mallory, I mean, was- uh-quite astonished that Montgomery would suggest such a thing-linking you with the arson, you know-and he went and had a talk with him. I just thought you’d like to know that you probably won’t be hearing from him again.”
“Thank you.” I was pleased and surprised, both at Bobby’s going to bat for me and at Finchley’s taking the time to phone me about it. That took a little extra courage.
“Well, check in with your service in the future-don’t leave me sweating it out for three days. See you Saturday.”
Saturday. Oh, right. Bobby’s sixtieth birthday. Yet another item on my burgeoning to-do list-a present for him. I rubbed my tired eyes and forced myself back to the phone book. The Callahan Funeral Home was on north Harlem. I dug around in the accumulated papers on the coffee table for my city map. The address put it just north of the expressway there; it should be a pretty easy run across town.
I was packing up my good handbag when the phone rang again. I was going to let it go, but it might be someone else who’d been leaving messages for three days.
“Miss Warshawski. Glad I caught you in.”
“Mr. MacDonald.” I sat back down on the piano bench in astonishment. “What a surprise. I’m sorry I haven’t sent you a note yet for the flowers-I’m moving a little slowly with my convalescence.”
“That’s not what I hear, young lady-I hear you barely rose from your sickbed before you started prancing around town prying into business that’s no concern of yours.”
“And what business is that, old man?” I just cannot stand being called “young lady.”
“I thought we had an agreement that you’d leave Roz Fuentes alone.”
I put the receiver in my lap and stared at it hard. It could only be my invasion of Alma Mejicana that he was referring to. But he couldn’t know about that-my only link to them was a scarf that could scarcely be traced to me-no one had ever seen me wear it because I never did. So it was my trip to the construction site. But what was his connection with Alma Mejicana that he’d know about that so fast?
“Are you there?” His voice came scratchily from my lap.
I put the receiver back to my face. “Yeah, I’m here but I’m not with you. I don’t know what I’ve done that you think is harassing Roz. And I don’t know why you’re so protective of her, anyway.”
He laughed a little. “Come, come, young la-Miss Warshawski. You can’t go blundering all over the Ryan without people hearing about it. Construction’s a small community-word gets around fast. Roz is hurt that you’re looking at her cousin’s business behind her back. She mentioned it to Boots-he asked me to take the time to give you a call.”
“So all this stuff is going on at Boots’s command? You work for him or something, Ralph? Somehow I thought he and the whole county were in your back pocket.”
“All what stuff, young lady?” he demanded sharply.
I waved a vague hand. “Oh, arson, murder, attempted murder, that kind of thing. Boots says-go git me a dead alkie and you say, yessir, Chairman Meagher. And you find you someone to do it? Is that what’s been going on around town lately?”
“That would be offensive if it weren’t so ludicrous. Boots and I go way back. We’re involved in a lot of projects together. Over the years the press has decided on a prolonged smear campaign about our relationship and business methods that you apparently have bought into, I’m disappointed in you, Vic-you seemed like a sharp young lady to me.”
“Gosh, thanks, Ralph, And did you mastermind the fire that almost killed me last week? Was that how you and Boots decided to respond to Roz’s hurt feelings?”
His breath came in a little hiss in my ear, “For your information, not that I owe you a damned thing, the report in the Star was the first I knew about that fire. And I’d go on oath with that. But if you’ve been treating other people around town the way you’ve been behaving toward Roz, it wouldn’t surprise me that one of them tried to put you out.”
“That sounds strangely like a threat to me, Ralph. You’re sure, you’re absolutely positive, that you didn’t order that arson last week?”
“I said ‘on oath,’” he snapped. “But if I were you, I’d watch my step, young lady-you were lucky to get out of that alive, weren’t you?”
“No, I wasn’t, old goat,” I yelled, fear disguising itself as anger. “I was skilled. So go tell Roz or Boots or whoever is yanking your chain that I rely on my wits, not my luck, and that I’m still trucking.”
“‘Bulldozing’ would be a better word, young-Miss Warshawski, You don’t know what you’re doing, and you’re liable to cause a major mess if you don’t stop blundering around in the middle of things that don’t concern you.” He spoke in a crisp, no-nonsense tone that no doubt ended debate with subordinates.
“Is that supposed to make me snap a salute and shriek ‘Yes-sir, Mr. M.’? I’m going to the papers with what I’ve learned so far. If I don’t know what I’m doing, they’ve got the resources to look into it in a lot more detail.” I wasn’t going to tell him I’d noticed a striking absence of any minority workers at the Alma site-they could ship in a few dozen before Murray showed up with a photographer.
MacDonald thought this one over for a few minutes- it obviously hadn’t been in the script when he called. “Maybe we can change your mind on that one. What would it take?”
“Not money, I can assure you.” Or a new car, despite the ominous noises the Chevy was making. “But a complete story on Alma and Roz and what you all are so jumpy about could persuade me that you’re right-that I don’t know what I’m doing there.”
There was another long pause. Then MacDonald said slowly, “We might be able to arrange that. Just don’t go to the papers until we’ve talked again.”
I ground my teeth. “I’ll give you a day, Ralph. After that all bets are off.”
“I don’t like threats any better than you do.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “And I’m not scampering around to meet your timetable. You’ll wait until I have something to say and like it. And if you think you can go off to your friends at the Star or the Tribune in righteous indignation, just remember that both publishers are personal friends. It’s time someone in this town had the guts to stand up to you.”
“And you’re just the man to tame the wild mare, Ralph? Maybe it’s time someone taught you that playing Monopoly on Michigan Avenue doesn’t mean you own the world.” I slammed the receiver down hard enough to make my palm tingle.
35
Daughters in Mourning
One good thing about MacDonald’s call-getting angry had given me an adrenaline rush. I felt charged with energy as I drove up the street to Belmont.
It was past eight now. The September sky was completely dark, and in the dark, chilly. I should have picked up a jacket on my way out,
but I’d been too annoyed to think properly. Should have brought my gun, too, although I didn’t think Vinnie would follow me around hoping to ambush me.
I made it to the funeral home by a quarter to the hour. It was a small building, with a discreet sign identifying it as a chapel. A few cars still dotted the parking lot when I pulled in. I jogged to the front entrance in my pumps in case they were going to shut down the viewing at nine sharp.
The door shut with a faint whoosh. Beyond a small vestibule with a place for coats and umbrellas lay a larger reception area paved in thick lilac pile. Dark paneled walls hung with a few pious prints created an atmosphere of heavy Victorian mourning. I found myself walking on tiptoe even though my shoes made no sound on the dense lilac. No one came out to greet me, but they couldn’t have heard me come in.
A small square card behind a glass at the end of the reception room told me that the Donnelly visitation was in Chapel C. A hall to the right led to a series of rooms. I didn’t check their labels, but went to the door where light was showing.
A handful of women were sitting on folding chairs near the door talking, but softly, out of deference to the open coffin along the far wall. They looked at me, decided they didn’t know me, and went back to their conversation. I recognized Mrs. Donnelly’s daughters from the picture Mr. Seligman had given me, although I didn’t know which was Shannon and which Star.
A man materialized from one of the corners. “Are you here for the Donnelly viewing, miss?”
He was short, and his plump bald head made him look about fifty. Close up, though, I saw he must be younger than I, I nodded, and he took me over to look at Rita Donnelly. They had put her in a two-piece dress, white with a tasteful pattern of blues and greens on it, and her face was as carefully made up as she’d done it herself the times I’d spoken with her. Dressing the dead for burial, from brassiere to panty hose, robs them of dignity. The makeup, including shadow and eyeliner on her closed lids, made it impossible for me to think of her as anything but a china doll on display.
I shook my head, which the young man took as a sign of respect. He led me back to the front of the room and asked me to sign the guest register. At this point one of Mrs. Donnelly’s daughters detached herself from the chatting group and came over to shake my hand.
“Did you know my mother?” She spoke softly, but her voice had the unmistakable nasality of Chicago’s neighborhoods.
“We were business acquaintances. She talked a great deal about you and your sister-she was very proud of you. Of course, I know Barbara Feldman.”
“Oh. Uncle Saul’s daughter.” Her blue eyes, slightly protuberant like her mother’s, looked at me with greater interest. “She was too much older than us to play with when we were little. We knew Connie better.”
Her sister, seeing us talking at some length, got up to join us. Even with them standing side by side I couldn’t tell which was the elder-at thirty a year or two either way doesn’t show the way it does when you’re three.
I held out my hand. “I’m V.I. Warshawski, a business friend of your mother’s.”
She shook my hand without volunteering her name. The boorish manners of the younger generation.
“She knows Uncle Saul, too, Star.”
That solved the name problem-I’d been talking to the elder, Shannon, “I know your mother hoped to get you involved in Mr. Seligman’s business. Do you think you might want to now that she’s-gone?”
I’d started to say dead, the real word, but remembered in time that most people don’t like to use it. The two sisters exchanged glances that were part amused, part conspiratorial.
“Uncle Saul’s been very good to us,” Shannon said, “but his business is really too small these days. Mother only stayed on there out of affection for him. There really wasn’t even enough for her to do.”
I wasn’t sure what I was after, but something had made Mrs. Donnelly not want me to show pictures of her daughters to anyone connected with the Indiana Arms arson. I couldn’t ask them outright if they knew Vinnie Bottone, or if they were involved with arson for hire.
I tried a delicate probe, “But she got you interested in real estate, I understand.”
“Are you a buyer?” Shannon asked. “Is that how you knew Mother?”
“Really more of a seller,” I said. “Do you work for a firm that might be interested in buying?”
“I don’t, but Star might.”
Star blinked her blue eyes rapidly. “I don’t really work for a real estate firm, Shannon, you know that. It’s just a holding company.”
“Farmworks, Inc?” I asked casually.
Star stared open-mouthed at me. “Mother must have really liked you if she told you that, but I don’t remember ever hearing her mention your name.”
“Word gets around,” I said vaguely. “Was it through you that Farmworks hooked up with Seligman?”
“I don’t think it’s respectful to discuss business here at Mother’s viewing.” Star looked pointedly at Mrs. Donnelly’s open casket. “You can come by the office if you want, but I don’t think we do anything that you’d be interested in.”
“Thanks very much.” I shook hands with both sisters. “I’m sorry about your mother’s death. Call me if I can do something to help.”
I turned around as I left the chapel, hoping for signs of consternation, but the two had rejoined their small circle of friends. As I was wading through the lilac pile the bald young man caught up with me.
“You didn’t sign the register. Miss-the family would appreciate knowing who was here.”
I took the proffered pen. In a spirit of malice I signed “V. Bottone” in a large dark hand. The young man thanked me in a soft sober voice. I left him standing under a print of a Pietà.
It was ten by the time I got back to my own building. The Chevy behaved itself as long as I kept below fifty. Maybe nothing major was wrong.
It was kind of late for neighborly visits, but the lights were still on in Vinnie’s living room. I ran up the stairs two at a time, changing quickly into jeans before racing back down again. On my way out I thought of my gun. If Vinnie really was a pyromaniac, it might be a good idea not to talk to him unarmed. I dashed back in, stuck it in my waistband, and took off again.
I was panting by the time I got to the bottom, but fortunately it took Vinnie several minutes to answer my knocking. I was on my way to the lobby to ring his bell when I finally heard the lock turning back. He was in sandals and jeans with a Grateful Dead T-shirt-I hadn’t known he could dress for comfort.
When he saw me his round smooth face puckered up in a frown, “I might have known it could only be you disturbing me this late in the evening. If you’re trying to sell some coke or crack, or whatever you deal in, I’m not interested.”
“I’m buying, not selling.” I stuck my right leg between the jamb and the door in time to keep him from slamming it shut. “And you’d better have something very good to give me or the next people here will be police detectives.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said angrily.
From the living room behind him a man called out, asking who was at the door.
“If you don’t want your friend to listen to our conversation, you can come up to my place,” I offered. “But we’re going to keep talking until you explain why you were at the Prairie Shores Hotel last Wednesday.”
He tried shoving the door against my leg. I pushed back and slid into the vestibule. He glared at me, his brown eyes tiny specks of fury.
“Get out of my apartment before I call the cops!” he hissed at me.
A tail young man came out of the living room to stand behind Vinnie, topping him by a good four or five inches. It was the same guy I’d seen getting out of the RX7 with Vinnie a week or so ago.
“I’m V. I. Warshawski,” I said, holding out my hand. “I live upstairs, but I haven’t had a chance to get to know Mr. Bottone very well-we keep pretty different hours.”
“Don’t talk t
o her, Rick,” Vinnie said. “She pushed her way in and I want her to leave. She’s the one we-the one who conducts her business in the stairwells at three in the morning.”
Rick looked at me interestedly. “Oh! She’s the one we-”
Vinnie cut him off. “I don’t know what she’s doing butting in here, but if she doesn’t leave in ten seconds, I want you to call the cops.”
“Do that,” I urged with savage cordiality. “Only make it the Central District, not the local station. I want some of the guys who were at the Prairie Shores fire last week to come by and make an ID. Your friend Vinnie was there and I bet someone will recognize him.”
“You’re making this up,” Vinnie snapped.
I knew I was right, though-the anger had gone out of his face and he was looking worried.
I pushed my advantage. “In fact, I bet they could match his voice with the one on the tape calling the fire into 911.”
“You’re lying,” he blurted. “They don’t make tapes of those calls.”
“Sure they do, Vinnie. You gotta learn a few police procedures if you want a life of crime. What did you do- force Elena to phone me, then knock her out and wait for me in the dark? You call my name when I didn’t see her right off?”
“No!”
“Don’t lie to me, Vinnie-I can put you at that fire. The police have got you on tape. And Elena recognized you. She’s run away again, but she described you to a friend when she saw you hanging out at the Indiana Arms.”
“I don’t know who this Elena is!” he bellowed.
“You know, Vinnie, I think you ought to tell her what happened.” Rick looked at me. “Vinnie thinks you’ve been harassing him. If you two are going to be neighbors the best thing you can do is clear the air between you.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Vinnie muttered, but he didn’t offer any resistance when his friend took his arm and gently propelled him back to the living room.
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