“Don’t touch anything else, Miss Warshawski.” McGonnigal’s voice was kind. “I’m going to call Lieutenant Mallory and get some fingerprint experts over here. They probably won’t find anything, but We’ve got to try. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave things the way they are.”
I nodded. “The phone is next to the couch-what used to be the couch,” I said, not looking up. Jesus, what next? Who the hell had been in here, and why? It just couldn’t be a random burglar. A pro might take the place apart looking for valuables-but rip up the couch? Dump china onto the floor? My mother had carried those glasses from Italy in a suitcase and not a one had broken. Nineteen years married to a cop on the South Side of Chicago and not a one had broken. If I had become a singer, as she had wanted, this would never have happened. I sighed. My hands were calmer, so I picked up the little shards and put them in a dish on the table.
“Please don’t touch anything,” McGonnigal said again, from the doorway.
“Goddamnit, McGonnigal, shut up!” I snapped. “Even if you do find a fingerprint in here that doesn’t belong to me or one of my friends, you think they’re going to go all over these splinters of glass? And I’ll bet you dinner at the Savoy that whoever came through here wore gloves and you won’t find a damned thing, anyway.” I stood up. “I’d like to know what you were doing when the tornado came through-sitting out front reading your newspaper? Did you think the noise came from someone’s television? Who came in and out of the building while you were here?”
He flushed. Mallory was going to ask him the same question. If he hadn’t bothered to find out, he was in hot water.
“I don’t think this was done while I was here, but I’ll go ask your downstairs neighbors if they heard any noise. I know it must be very upsetting to come home and find your apartment destroyed, but please, Miss Warshawski-if we’re going to have a prayer of finding these guys We’ve got to fingerprint the place.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. He went out to check downstairs. I went to the bedroom. My canvas suitcase was lying open but fortunately had not been cut. I didn’t think canvas would take fingerprints, so I put it on the dismantled box springs and packed, going through the array of clothes and lingerie on the floor. I put the wrapped box from Riley’s in, too, and then called Lotty on the bedside phone.
“Lotty, I can’t talk right now, but my apartment has been ravaged. Can I come and stay a few nights?”
“Naturally, Vic. Do you need me to come get you?”
“No, I’m okay. I’ll be over in a while-I need to talk to the police first.”
We hung up and I took the suitcase down to the car. McGonnigal was in the second-floor apartment; the door was half open and he was talking, with his back to the hallway. I put the suitcase in my trunk and was just unlocking the outer door to go back upstairs when Mallory came squealing up to the curb with a couple of squad cars hot behind him. They double-parked, lights flashing, and a group of kids gathered at the end of the street, staring. Police like to create public drama-no other need for all that show.
“Hello, Bobby,” I said as cheerily as I could manage.
“What the hell is going on here, Vicki?” Bobby asked, so angry that he forgot his cardinal rule against swearing in front of women and children.
“Not nice, whatever it is: someone tore my place up. They smashed one of Gabriella’s glasses.”
Mallory had been charging up the stairs, about to muscle me aside, but that stopped him-he’d drunk too many New Year’s toasts out of those glasses. “Christ, Vicki, I’m sorry, but what the hell were you doing poking your nose into this business anyway?”
“Why don’t you send your boys upstairs and we’ll sit here and talk. There’s no place to sit down up there and frankly, I can’t stand to look at it.”
He thought about it for a minute. “Yeah, why don’t we go sit in my car, and you answer a few questions. Finchley!” he bellowed. A young black cop stepped forward. “Take the crew upstairs and fingerprint the place and search it if you can for any clues.” He turned to me. “Anything valuable that might be missing?”
I shrugged. “Who knows what’s valuable to a ransacker. A couple of good pieces of jewelry-my mother’s; I never wear them, too old-fashioned-a single diamond pendant set in a white gold filigree with matching earrings. A couple of rings. There’s a little silver flatware. I don’t know-a turntable. I haven’t looked for anything-just looked and looked away.”
“Yeah, okay,” Bobby said. “Go on.” He waved a hand and the four uniformed men started up the stairs. “And send McGonnigal down to me,” he called after them.
We went to Bobby’s car and sat together in the front seat. His full, red face was set-angry, but not, I thought, with me. “I told you on Thursday to butt out of the Thayer case.”
“I heard the police made an arrest yesterday-Donald Mackenzie. Is there still a Thayer case?”
Bobby ignored that. “What happened to your face?”
“I ran into a door.”
“Don’t clown, Vicki. You know why I sent McGonnigal over to talk to you?”
“I give up. He fell in love with me and you were giving him an excuse to come by and see me?”
“I can’t deal with you this morning!” Bobby yelled, top volume. “A kid is dead, your place is a wreck, your face looks like hell, and all you can think of is getting my goat. Goddamnit, talk to me straight and pay attention to what I say.”
“Okay, okay,” I said pacifically. “I give up: why did you send the sergeant over to see me?”
Bobby breathed heavily for a few minutes. He nodded, as if to affirm that he’d recovered his self-control. “Because John Thayer told me last night that you’d been beaten up and you didn’t believe that Mackenzie had committed the crime.”
“Thayer,” I echoed, incredulous. “I talked to him yesterday and he threw me out of his house because I wouldn’t accept his word that Mackenzie was the murderer. Now why’s he turning around telling you that? How’d you come to be talking to him, anyway?”
Bobby smiled sourly. “We had to go out to Winnetka to ask a few last questions. When it’s the Thayer family, we wait on their convenience, and that was when it was convenient… He believes it was Mackenzie but he wants to be sure. Now tell me about your face.”
“There’s nothing to tell. It looks worse than it is-you know how it is with black eyes.”
Bobby drummed on the steering wheel in exaggerated patience. “Vicki, after I talked to Thayer, I had McGonnigal go through our reports to see if anyone had turned in anything on a battered woman. And we found a cabbie had stopped at the Town Hall Station and mentioned picking up a woman at Astor and the Drive and dropping her at your address. Quite a coincidence, huh? The guy was worried because you looked in pretty bad shape, but there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it-you weren’t filing a complaint.”
“Right you are,” I said.
Mallory tightened his lips but didn’t lose his temper. “Now, Vicki,” he continued. “McGonnigal wondered what you were doing down at Astor and the Drive looking so bloody. It’s not really a mugger’s spot. And he remembered how Earl Smeissen owns a condo down there on Astor, in from State Street-or Parkway they call it when it gets into the tony part of town. So now we want to know why Earl wanted to beat you up.”
“It’s your story. You’re saying he beat me up, you give me a reason why.”
“He probably had a bellyful of your clowning,” Bobby said, his voice rising again. “For two cents, I’d black your other goddamn eye for you.”
“Is that why you came over, to threaten me?”
“Vicki, I want to know why Earl beat you. The only reason I can think of is that he’s tied to the Thayer boy-maybe had him shot when someone else fingered him.”
“Then you don’t think that Mackenzie is responsible? “ Mallory was silent. “You make the arrest?”
“No,” Mallory said stiffly. I could see this hurt. “Lieutenant Carlson did.”
“Captain Vespucci,” Mallory said shortly.
I raised my eyebrows. “Vespucci?” I was beginning to sound like a parrot. Vespucci had been a colleague my father was ashamed to talk about. He’d been implicated in a number of departmental scandals over the years, most of them having to do with police bought off by the mob, or turning the other cheek to mob activities in their territory. There’d never been enough evidence to justify throwing him off the force-but that, too, the rumors said, was because he had the kind of connections that made you keep quiet.
“Carlson and Vespucci pretty close?” I asked.
“Yes,” Bobby bit off.
I thought for a minute. “Did someone-like Earl, say-bring pressure on Vespucci to make an arrest? Is Donald Mackenzie another poor slob caught in a trap because he was wandering around the wrong part of town? Did he leave any prints in the apartment? Can you find the gun? Has he made a confession?”
“No, but he can’t account for his time on Monday. And we’re pretty sure he’s been involved in some Hyde Park burglaries.”
“ But you don’t agree that he’s the killer?”
“As far as the department is concerned, the case is closed. I talked to Mackenzie myself this morning.”
“And?”
“And nothing. My captain says it’s a defensible arrest.”
“Your captain owe anything to Vespucci?” I asked.
Mallory made a violent motion with his torso. “Don’t talk like that to me, Vicki. We’ve got seventy-three unsolved homicides right now. If we wrap one up in a week, the captain has every right to be happy.”
“All right, Bobby.” I sighed. “Sorry. Lieutenant Carlson arrested Mackenzie, and Vespucci told your captain, who told you to lay off, the case was closed… But you want to know why Earl beat me up.” Mallory turned red again. “You can’t have it both ways. If Mackenzie is the killer, why would Smeissen care about me and Peter Thayer? If he beat me up-and I mean if-it could have been for lots of reasons. He might’ve made a heavy pass I turned down. Earl doesn’t like ladies who turn him down, you know-he’s beaten a couple before. First time I ever saw Earl was when I was a starry-eyed rookie attorney on the Public Defender’s roster. I was appearing for a lady whom Earl beat up. Nice young prostitute who didn’t want to work for him. Sorry, I just committed slander: she alleged that Earl beat her up, but we couldn’t make it stick.”
“You’re not going to ask for charges, then,” Mallory said. “Figures. Now tell me about your apartment. I haven’t seen it, but take it as read that it was torn apart-McGonnigal gave me a brief description. Someone was looking for something. What?”
I shook my head. “Beats me. None of my clients has ever given me the secret to the neutron bomb or even a new brand of toothpaste. I just don’t deal with that kind of stuff. And anytime I do have volatile evidence, I leave it in a safe in my office…” My voice trailed off. Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner? If someone had torn the apartment apart looking for something, they were probably down in my office now.
“Give me the address,” Bobby said, I gave it to him and he got on the car radio and ordered a patrol car to go up and check. “Now, Vicki, I want you to be honest with me. This is off the record-no witnesses, no tapes. Tell me what you took out of that apartment that someone, call him Smeissen, wants back so badly.” He looked at me in a kindly, worried, fatherly way. What did I have to lose by telling him about the picture and the pay stub?
“Bobby,” I said earnestly, “I did look around the apartment, but I didn’t see anything that smacked remotely of Earl or any other person in particular. Not only that, the place didn’t look as though anyone else had searched it.”
Sergeant McGonnigal came up to the car. “Hi, Lieutenant-Finchley said you wanted me.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Who came in and out of the building while you were watching it?”
“Just one of the residents, sir.”
“You sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. She lives in the second-floor apartment. I was just talking to her-Mrs. Alvarez-said she heard a lot of noise about three this morning, but didn’t pay any attention to it-says Miss Warshawski often has strange guests and wouldn’t thank her-Mrs. Alvarez-for interfering.”
Thanks, Mrs. Alvarez, I thought. The city needs more neighbors like you. Glad I wasn’t home at the time. But what, I wondered, was whoever ransacked my place looking for so desperately? That pay stub linked Peter Thayer to Ajax, but that was no secret. And the picture of Anita? Even if the police hadn’t connected her to Andrew McGraw, the picture didn’t do that, either. I had put them both in my inner safe at my office, a small bomb- and fireproof box built into the wall at the back of the main safe. I had kept current case papers in there ever since the chairman of Transicon had hired someone to retrieve evidence from my safe two years ago. But I just didn’t think that was it.
Bobby and I discussed the break-in for another half hour, touching occasionally on my battle wounds. Finally I said, “Now you tell me something, Bobby: Why don’t you believe it was Mackenzie?”
Mallory stated through the windshield. “I’m not doubting it. I believe it. I’d be happier if we had a gun or a fingerprint, but I believe it.” I didn’t say anything. Bobby continued to look forward with unseeing eyes. “I just wish I’d found him,” he said at last. “My captain got a call from Commissioner Sullivan Friday afternoon saying he thought I was overworked and he was asking Vespucci to assign Carlson to help me out. I went home under orders-to get some sleep. Not off the case. Just to sleep. And next morning there was an arrest.” He turned to look at me. “You didn’t hear that,” he said.
I nodded agreement, and Bobby asked me a few more questions about the missing evidence, but his heart wasn’t in it. At last he gave up. “If you won’t talk, you won’t. Just remember, Vicki: Earl Smeissen is a heavy. You know yourself the courts can’t nail him. Don’t try to play hardball with him-you’re just not up to his weight at all.”
I nodded solemnly. “Thanks, Bobby. I’ll keep it in mind.” I opened the door.
“By the way,” Bobby said casually, “we got a call last night from Riley’s Gun Shop down in Hazelcrest. Said a V. I. Warshawski had bought a small handgun down there and he was worried-she looked rather wild. That wouldn’t be anyone you’d know, would it, Vicki?”
I got out of the car, shut the door, and looked in through the open window. “I’m the only one by that name in my family, Bobby-but there are some other Warshawskis in the city.”
For once Bobby didn’t lose his temper. He looked at me very seriously. “No one ever stopped you when you had your mind set on something, Vicki. But if you’re planning on using that gun, get your ass down to City Hall first thing tomorrow morning and register it. Now tell Sergeant McGonnigal where you’re going to be until your place is fixed up again.”
While I was giving McGonnigal my address, a squawk came in on Mallory’s radio about my office: the place had been ransacked. I wondered if my business-interruption insurance would cover this. “Remember, Vicki, you’re playing hardball with a pro,” Bobby warned. “Get in, McGonnigal.” They drove off.
9
Filing a Claim
When I got to Lotty’s it was afternoon. I had stopped on the way to call my answering service-a Mr. McGraw and a Mr. Devereux had both phoned, and left numbers. I copied them into my pocket phone book but decided not to call until I got to Lotty’s. She greeted me with a worried head shake. “Not content with beating you, they beat your apartment. You run with a wild crowd, Vic.” But no censure, no horror-one of the things I liked in Lotty.
She examined my face and my eye with her ophthalmoscope. “Coming along nicely. Much less swelling already. Headache? A bit? To be expected. Have you eaten? An empty stomach makes it worse. Come, a little boiled chicken-nice Eastern European Sunday dinner.” She had eaten, but drank coffee while I finished the chicken. I was surprised at ho
w hungry I was.
“How long can I stay?” I asked. “I’m expecting no one this month. As long as you like until August tenth.”
“I shouldn’t be more than a week-probably less. But I’d like to ask the answering service to switch my home calls here.”
Lotty shrugged. “In that case, I won’t switch off the phone by the guest bed-mine rings at all hours-women having babies, boys being shot-they don’t keep nine-to-five schedules. So you run the risk of answering my calls and if any come for you, I’ll let you know.” She got up. “Now I must leave you. My medical advice is for you to stay in, have a drink, relax-you’re not in good shape and you’ve had a bad shock. But if you choose to disregard my professional advice, well, I’m not liable in a malpractice suit”-she chuckled slightly-”and keys are in the basket by the sink. I have an answering machine by my bedroom phone-turn it on if you decide to go out.” She kissed the air near my face and left.
I wandered restlessly around the apartment for a few minutes. I knew I should go down to my office and assess the damage. I should call a guy I knew who ran a cleaning service to come and restore my apartment. I should call my answering service and get my calls transferred to Lotty’s. And I needed to get back to Peter Thayer’s apartment to see if there was something there that my apartment smashers believed I had.
Lotty was right: I was not in prime condition. The destruction of my apartment had been shocking. I was consumed with anger, the anger one has when victimized and unable to fight back. I opened my suitcase and got out the box with the gun in it. I unwrapped it and pulled out the Smith & Wesson. While I loaded it, I had a fantasy of planting some kind of hint that would draw Smeissen-or whomever-back to my apartment while I stood in the hallway and pumped them full of bullets. The fantasy was very vivid and I played it through several times. The effect was cathartic-a lot of my anger drained away and I felt able to call my answering service. They took Lotty’s number and agreed to transfer my calls.
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