Brush Back (V.I. Warshawski Novels Book 17)

by Sara Paretsky

  My left eye began to throb. I lay on the cot in my back room with ice on my face, trying to imagine which of my cast of characters could have known my dad, which one of them would have known why he’d been flung to the hyenas.

  My cell phone woke me an hour later. I was disoriented, my hair and neck wet from the melted ice. I struggled upright in my dark back room and dug my phone out of my jeans.

  It was Bobby Mallory, my dad’s old friend. He’d been one of Tony’s protégés when he joined the force, but he was a savvy player and he was finishing his career at a command post in the shiny new headquarters building on Michigan Avenue.

  “Vicki, what happened last night? My secretary saw your name on an incident report and passed it on to me. Why were you tangling with the Insane Dragons?”

  Bobby is the only person on the planet who is allowed to call me Vicki. I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the old Stadium events, with a detour to talk about Bernie—Bobby had been a regular at the old Stadium when Boom-Boom and Pierre Fouchard skated together.

  “Bobby, I just had a threatening phone call, telling me to remember what happened to Tony when he made the wrong people angry, warning me that the same thing could happen to me. Tony never would tell me what had happened. Do you know?”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line, then Bobby said heavily, “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” I demanded.

  “Don’t ride me, Vicki. I was in my first command and your father was protecting me, not wanting me to know things that might make me think I had to act.”

  I didn’t say anything. Bobby was leaving something out; I could hear it in the silences, in the awkward ways he was choosing his words.

  “I got him out of Englewood as soon as I could, okay?” he said, close to shouting.

  “Okay,” I said, very quiet. “I always thought it was the Second Area torture ring that did him in, but my phone call was so specific to South Chicago. Did my dad do something that bent Rory Scanlon out of shape?”

  “Scanlon was helping your cousin get his career off the ground. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d had a beef with your dad, or vice versa,” Bobby said sharply.

  “Scanlon does a lot of youth work,” I said. “He likes adolescent boys who are involved in sports.”

  “A man can care about kids without there being anything dirty involved,” Bobby growled.

  “Tony wouldn’t have stood for it,” I said. “It’s the only thing I can think of—Scanlon’s the one person I’ve been talking to who knew Tony from the neighborhood—you know Tony never served at the South Chicago district, but of course people in the neighborhood came to him, used him as a kind of unofficial ombudsman with the Department.”

  “I called to see if you were all right, not to hear you digging up filth about a guy who has stayed in a neighborhood that most people with a choice ran away from. Including you.”

  “Yeah, I’m the original turncoat. Everyone is reminding me of it. What about Elgin Grigsby?”

  “Judge Grigsby?” Bobby sputtered. “Why not the governor? Why not the president? Why limit your accusations to local figures?”

  My nose started to bleed again. I tilted my head back, advice from Lotty, and walked to the hallway refrigerator I share with Tessa for more ice.

  “Or Ira Previn,” I said. “The priest at the local parish, he was cordial the first time I saw him, but now he’s eyeing me as if I were, I don’t know, Martina Luther. The guy who was found in the pet coke three days ago did odd jobs at the church, and he hung out with someone named Boris Nabiyev, who looks—”

  “Vicki! What the hell are you doing in that rat burrow? How do you know Fugher hung out with Nabiyev?”

  Bobby knew Fugher’s name, which was interesting: I hadn’t said it, but that meant it was a high-profile case. Or maybe it was the hideous and unusual circumstances of his death.

  “I saw them together,” I said.

  “Does Conrad Rawlings know that?” he demanded.

  “I might not have mentioned it to him,” I said, annoyed that my voice sounded small.

  “I’m hanging up. I’m hanging up so you can call the Fourth District and tell Lieutenant Rawlings. Nabiyev is one of the pieces of garbage the Russians tossed our way when the Iron Curtain rusted away. We’ve never been able to make anything stick against him, but I can name at least seven murders I am dead sure he committed. All of them as ugly or uglier as putting a man into a heap of coal dust to suffocate to death. You do not go near him. You stay far away from him and leave him to people who wear body armor and have thirteen thousand officers who will come to their aid if they’re in trouble.”

  He hung up. I called Conrad, who started the conversation with a genial question about my health after last night’s attack. However, when he heard about Nabiyev, and that I hadn’t told him when I saw him earlier in the week, he shouted that if the Insane Dragons hadn’t already broken my nose he’d drive up to Humboldt Park and do it for me.

  “I don’t know why you think you can say the first thing that comes into your head when you talk to me,” I said, “but threatening me or anyone with violence is vile. If you ever say anything like that to me again, we will never speak unless we are in court at the same time.”

  He paused. “I’m sorry, Vic, but—crap! Nabiyev! He’s Uzbeki Mob, he’s—”

  “No excuse for threatening me,” I snapped. “I didn’t know his name when you and I talked, nor that he was with the Mob—which I only just learned this second from Captain Mallory. Besides which, you were skating a pretty thin line with me, dragging me across town, treating me like a hostile witness, then dropping me twenty miles from home without a car but with a smart-assed comment. I’m tired of this behavior. It’s been eight years since you took a bullet that you wouldn’t have taken if you’d treated my investigation with respect. Get over it.”

  He apologized stiffly. “Can you prove that Nabiyev was with Fugher?”

  I texted him the photo I’d taken outside Wrigley Field.

  “Before you hang up, how are you involved with him, anyway?” Conrad asked.

  “I’m not. I’m looking for Fugher’s nephew, who’s been missing for over a week.”

  And whose path very easily could have crossed Nabiyev’s, since both worked at the same job site.

  “What are you talking about? The guy doesn’t have any living relatives.”

  I’d slipped there, forgetting Viola’s panicked pleas not to tell the police about Sebastian. “Everyone has some living relative, even if it’s a third cousin ten times removed. Speaking of which, the Insane Dragons who jumped Bernadine Fouchard and me last night—have you found the two that ran off?”

  “No, and the one you pounded has a broken jaw, so he isn’t saying much.”

  “I’d like to know who hired them.”

  “The Dragons maim and kill without needing anyone to hire them,” Conrad said.

  “That’s what I thought last night. But about half an hour ago someone called to tell me that if I didn’t want the same treatment my dad got, namely my face on shooting range targets, I should stop annoying powerful people.”

  “Did your caller tie the threat to last night’s attack?”

  “Not directly, but—”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  I played the recording for him. Aside from a dry reminder about how illegal that was, Conrad said, “That wasn’t Nabiyev—he has a pretty strong accent. You do annoy powerful people, Vic. What are you working besides Guzzo and this alleged nephew of Fugher?”

  “The only powerful person I work for is Darraugh Graham, and I’m not doing anything sensitive for him right now. But last night, right before we were assaulted, we were in a meeting with Rory Scanlon, Vince Bagby and the woman who runs the law office where Spike Hurlihey has ties. Father Cardenal was also the
re.”

  “If I saw Rory Scanlon breaking into the safe at Saint Eloy’s, I still wouldn’t believe he was a criminal,” Conrad said. “I’d know he had a good reason for it.”

  “Criminals always have a reason for breaking the law—usually because they think they’re better than the people whose lives they’re destroying.”

  “You cut a wide swath yourself, Warshawski, so careful who you sling mud at.” He hung up.

  FLORAL OFFERING

  Conrad hung up without remembering to ask about Fugher’s nephew. He wouldn’t forget, but if he dug up Fugher’s adoption, and his birth family, and found Viola, he might also find Sebastian. Which would be a relief. If the police took over the hunt for Sebastian I would for once get out of their way with a good grace.

  I looked again at the newsprint lists I’d made yesterday. I needed to figure out which of these players knew something about my dad, which of them might have called to threaten me. And had one of them orchestrated last night’s attack?

  It was a fact that my car had been disabled, forcing Bernie and me to take to the street. Which meant the personal attack was connected to the vandalism, whether thought up by the Dragons on their own, or egged to it by someone else.

  Joel Previn had told me about the head-butting Mandel and McClelland encouraged their associates to go through when they handed out cases. I’d also witnessed Ira’s contempt for his son. Would either father or son have been so angry or threatened by my questions that they’d sic thugs on me?

  Joel was passive enough to let someone else do his dirty work, but he’d spilled out his rage and self-loathing to me; I didn’t think he’d feel he had to maim or kill me.

  But what about his father? Ira, the hero of workers and civil libertarians, it was painful to believe he’d cross that line between civility and ferality. He was so highly regarded, especially on the South Side, that I couldn’t believe he’d risk his reputation to hire thugs. On the other hand, there was a connection between him and Rory Scanlon: Judge Grigsby, who’d presided over Stella’s murder trial, had huffed to me about his friendship with Ira.

  None of them would give me a convincing reason why the partners took on the defense of Annie’s killer. Was that the secret Ira, or Grigsby or Scanlon himself, was afraid I’d ferret out?

  It seemed far-fetched, but the whole situation was beyond my understanding. The order of protection I’d been served to keep me from Stella, and now, the addition of Betty and Frank and their children’s names to the order, was infuriating. I couldn’t talk to them, or pound some semblance of the truth out of Frank—maybe just as well, since my pounding muscles were wobbly today.

  My mechanic called as I was uselessly churning my mind. Luke Edwards makes Eeyore sound like Doris Day.

  “Vic, that Mustang of yours just arrived at my place. Why’d you leave it down south all night? It’s missing the hood, the battery, the wheels and the dashboard. Besides all that, the hoses need replacing, and you’ve got 132,000 miles on it. You ever hear the word ‘maintenance’?”

  The news made me feel so tired I rested my head on the desk. “You are a ray of sunshine, Luke, no matter what anyone tells you.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I’m merely telling you the story of your car. Why don’t you get something big and unbreakable, like, I don’t know, a decommissioned army tank. Since I’ve known you, you’ve totaled a Trans Am, an Omega, a Lynx and now this Mustang. You want me to try to repair it, it’s going to cost more than the car is worth. You gotta learn to drive a car in a way that keeps the engine—”

  I sat up again. “This car was parked at a curb when all this damage happened. Even if I was Danica Patrick, I couldn’t have kept punks from stripping it.”

  He grumbled that Danica Patrick wouldn’t have left her car overnight where vandals could attack it, but agreed to hold the Mustang until my insurance adjuster could get to his garage. I sometimes think Luke’s parents named him that because the sound makes you think “lugubrious,” but he’s a demon mechanic, and charges less than the dealer’s shop.

  I had hoped the Mustang would make it to 175,000, but maybe the adjuster would disagree with Luke and offer to fork over six or seven thousand for repairs. Or for scrap. I got up and hobbled around my office, working the stiffness out of my joints again. As I circled back to my desk, someone rang the outside door. Tessa wasn’t in today; I went to the intercom.

  Delivery for V. I. Warshawski, flowers. It was a big package, covered in florist paper. I told the delivery guy to unwrap it so I could see it on my camera feed. Sure enough, it was an elaborate arrangement of spring flowers, not a sawed-off shotgun or an RPG launcher.

  I went down the hall, smiling to myself: Jake had been feeling sorry for me. When I tipped the guy and brought the flowers back to my office, I was startled to see that they were from Vince Bagby. Startled and wistful. Jake had other ways of showing his love, but flowers would have made a nice gesture.

  Don’t let last night turn you against the South Side. Most of us are decent hardworking people. Sorry about your car—we can lend you a truck if you need wheels.

  I smiled again, but I also taped the card to the newsprint where I’d written Bagby’s name. Under it I’d noted that he’d shown up right after the cops last night, that he knew Nabiyev and Jerry Fugher but had pretended not to, that Nabiyev had been driving one of his trucks up by Wrigley Field. And he already knew my car had been stripped. A big bunch of peonies and iris did not make these facts go away.

  Is he attracted to me, or trying to distract me? I printed under the card.

  MIXING IT UP

  Sturlese Cement, Paving Illinois and the World, had their offices on the far northwest side of the city, a difficult destination on public transportation. I stopped at Luke’s garage, to look at the remains of my poor old Mustang, which was a heartbreaking sight, and to rent one of his loaners. He let me take a Subaru, with his usual animadversions on my driving. In addition to taking the wheels, the dashboard, the hood and the battery from my car, thieves had helped themselves to most of what was in it, except the towels I carry for my dogs. My hard hat was still in the backseat, as well. I put those into the Subaru, with Luke telling me the upholstery better not be covered in dog hair on my return, swallowed a few ibuprofen and headed north and west.

  Even without Lotty’s adjuration, I would have stuck to side streets: simply moving my head between the side mirrors started the throbbing in my eye again. Spenser never complained about pain, I reminded myself, nor Marlowe, let alone Kate Fansler. Suck it up, Warshawski, don’t let those WASPs show up the Pollacks.

  For the last few blocks, I followed a train of Sturlese trucks, with their distinctive blue lines weaving around their cement mixers. When we got to the Sturlese yard, the trucks peeled off to the left, where they could take on a fresh load, while I followed signs on the right to the office and visitors’ parking.

  Trucks dig heavy ruts. Even at five miles an hour, I bounced enough to make my nose start bleeding. I pulled into one of the visitors’ spaces and studied myself in the rearview mirror. Blood wasn’t gushing down my face, but a large red stain covered my upper lip. Fatigue and pain had turned my olive skin an unhealthy whitish-gray. The blood added a nice touch of color, but it might also distract people from anything I had to say. I blotted it away, combed my hair, fingered the purple around my eye. Ready as I’d ever be.

  On my way up the walk to the entrance I passed a silver Dodge SRT8. I squinted through the tinted windows. It had real gauges, not an iPad screen, satisfactory for a muscle car. Maybe if Frank Guzzo paid my outstanding bill I could afford a set of hubcaps.

  I sighed and went on into the nondescript building that housed the offices: a working plant doesn’t waste money on corporate frills. No one staffed the entrance, but a signboard listed offices by their function, from Information Technology to sales offices for private, indust
rial or commercial ventures. I found Human Resources, second floor, and climbed a flight of bare metal stairs.

  At the HR office, a man in a hard hat was arguing with a woman behind a gunmetal desk: he needed two more hours to round out a full workweek, but she wasn’t budging. “Sorry, Arnie, not my call, you know that. You gotta do it through dispatch.”

  “Mavis, I wouldn’t be here if Shep had given me the hours, but it’s the difference between coverage and the exchanges, you know that.”

  “I do know it, which is why I can’t fudge your hours: Mr. Sturlese audits those time sheets himself, and I cannot go into the computer—” She caught sight of me and broke off to ask what I needed.

  The man in the hard hat moved aside so I could approach the desk.

  “I’m looking for Sebastian Mesaline,” I said.

  “Not on our payroll,” Mavis said.

  “He was being considered for a job at Sturlese.”

  “I never heard of him. They never asked me to put him in the system.” Mavis crossed her arms, her mouth set in an uncompromising line: she was queen of her fief and questions about her rule were not welcome.

  “Could you look him up? Maybe someone else put him in without consulting you.”

  I spelled the name. Mavis’s nostrils flared—she didn’t like being challenged, but I leaned over the desk, trying to look authoritative. Maybe I just looked scary, because she typed in Mesaline, grumbling under her breath.

  “Told you!” She turned the monitor so I could see it, triumph in her face. No results for M-E-S-A-L-I-N-E. Make sure you are spelling the name correctly or start a new search.

  “Who are you?” a voice demanded behind me.

  I turned around to see a man about my age with a hard square face, white shirt and tie but no jacket—the uniform of managers or engineers at industrial plants.