Indemnity Only

by Sara Paretsky

  “Beats the hell out of me, Murray,” I said, and hung up.

  I went back and watched the rest of the movie, The Guns of Navarone, with Lotty, Jill, and Paul. I felt restless and on edge. Lotty didn’t keep Scotch. She didn’t have any liquor at all except brandy. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a healthy slug. Lotty looked questioningly at me, but said nothing.

  Around midnight, as the movie was ending, the phone rang. Lotty answered it in her bedroom and came back, her face troubled. She gave me a quiet signal to follow her to the kitchen. “A man,” she said in a low voice. “He asked if you were here; when I said yes, he hung up.”

  “Oh, hell,” I muttered. “Well, nothing to be done about it now… My apartment will be ready tomorrow night-I’ll go back and remove this powder keg from your home.”

  Lotty shook her head and gave her twisted smile. “Not to worry, Vic-I’m counting on you fixing the AMA for me someday.”

  Lotty sent Jill unceremoniously off to bed. Paul got out his sleeping bag. I helped him move the heavy walnut dining-room table against the wall, and Lotty brought him a pillow from her bed, then went to sleep herself.

  The night was muggy; Lotty’s brick, thick-walled building kept out the worst of the weather, and exhaust fans in the kitchen and dining rooms moved the air enough to make sleep possible. But the air felt close to me anyway. I lay on the daybed in a T-shirt, and sweated, dozed a bit, woke, tossed, and dozed again. At last I sat up angrily. I wanted to do something, but there was nothing for me to do. I turned on the light. It was 3:30.

  I pulled on a pair of jeans and tiptoed out to the kitchen to make some coffee. While water dripped through the white porcelain filter, I looked through a bookcase in the living room for something to read. All books look equally boring in the middle of the night. I finally selected Vienna in the Seventeenth Century by Dorfman, fetched a cup of coffee, and flipped the pages, reading about the devastating plague following the Thirty Years War, and the street now called Graben-“the grave”-because so many dead had been buried there. The terrible story fit my jangled mood.

  Above the hum of fans I could head the phone ring faintly in Lotty’s room. We’d turned it off next to the spare bed where Jill was sleeping. I told myself it had to be for Lotty-some mother in labor, or some teen-ager-but I sat tensely anyway and was somehow not surprised when Lotty came out of her room, wrapped in a thin, striped cotton robe.

  “For you. A Ruth Yonkers.”

  I shrugged my shoulders; the name meant nothing to me. “Sorry to get you up,” I said, and went down the short hallway to Lotty’s room. I felt as if all the night’s tension had had its focus in waiting for this unexpected phone call from an unknown woman. The instrument was on a small Indonesian table next to Lotty’s bed. I sat on the bed and spoke into it.

  “This is Ruth Yonkers,” a husky voice responded. “I talked to you at the UWU meeting tonight.”

  “Oh. yes,” I said calmly. “I remember you.” She’d been the stocky, square young woman who’d asked me all the questions at the end.

  “I talked to Anita after the meeting. I didn’t know how seriously to take you, but I thought she ought to know about it.” I held my breath and said nothing. “She called me last week, told me about finding Peter’s-finding Peter. She made me promise not to tell anyone where she was without checking with her first. Not even her father, or the police. It was all rather-bizarre.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Do you?” she asked doubtfully.

  “You thought she’d killed Peter, didn’t you,” I said in a comfortable tone. “And you felt caught by her choosing you to confide in. You didn’t want to betray her, but you didn’t want to be involved in a murder. So you were relieved to have a promise to fall back on.”

  Ruth gave a little sigh, half laugh, that came ghostily over the line. “Yes, that was it exactly. You’re smarter than I thought you were. I hadn’t realized Anita might be in danger herself-that was why she sounded so scared. Anyway, I called her. We’ve been talking for several hours. She’s never heard of you and We’ve been debating whether we can trust you.” She paused and I was quiet. “I think we have to. That’s what it boils down to. If it’s true, if there really are some mob people after her-it all sounds surreal, but she says you’re right.”

  “Where is she?” I asked gently.

  “Up in Wisconsin. I’ll take you to her.”

  “No. Tell me where she is, and I’ll find her. I’m being followed, and it’ll just double the danger to try to meet up with you.”

  “Then I won’t tell you where she is,” Ruth said. “ My agreement with her was that I would bring you to her.”

  “you’ve been a good friend, Ruth, and you’ve carried a heavy load. But if the people who are after Anita find out you know where she is, and suspect you’re in her confidence, your own life is in danger. Let me run the risk-it’s my job, after all.”

  We argued for several more minutes, but Ruth let herself be persuaded. She’d been under a tremendous strain for the five days since Anita had first called her, and she was glad to let someone else take it over. Anita was in Hartford, a little town northwest of Milwaukee. She was working as a waitress in a café. She’d cut her red hair short and dyed it black, and she was calling herself Jody Hill. If I left now, I could catch her just as the café opened for breakfast in the morning.

  It was after four when I hung up. I felt refreshed and alert, as if I’d slept soundly for eight hours instead of tossing miserably for three.

  Lotty was sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading. “Lotty, I do apologize. You get little enough sleep as it is. But I think this is the beginning of the end.”

  “Ah, good,” she said, putting a marker in her book and shutting it. “The missing girl?”

  “Yes. That was a friend who gave me the address. All I have to do now is get away from here without being seen.”

  “Where is she?” I hesitated. “My dear, I’ve been questioned by tougher experts than these Smeissen hoodlums. And perhaps someone else should know.”

  I grinned. “You’re right.” I told her, then added, “The question is, what about Jill? We were going to go up to Winnetka tomorrow-today, that is-to see if her father had any papers that might explain his connection with Masters and McGraw. Now maybe Anita can make that tie-in for me. But I’d still be happier to get Jill back up there. This whole arrangement-Paul under the dining-room table, Jill and the babies-makes me uncomfortable. If she wants to come back for the rest of the summer, sure-she can stay with me once this mess is cleared up. But for now-let’s get her back home.”

  Lotty pursed her lips and stared into her coffee cup for several minutes. Finally she said, “Yes. I believe you’re right. She’s much better-two good nights of sleep, with calm people who like her-she can probably go back to her family. I agree. The whole thing with Paul is too volatile. Very sweet, but too volatile in such a cramped space.”

  “My car is across from the Conrad Hilton downtown. I can’t take it-it’s being watched. Maybe Paul can pick it up tomorrow, take Jill home. I’ll be back here tomorrow night, say good-bye, and give you a little privacy.”

  “Do you want to take my car?” Lotty suggested.

  I thought it over. “Where are you parked?”

  “Out front. Across the street.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to get away from here without being seen. I don’t know that your place is being watched-but these guys want Anita McGraw very badly. And they did call earlier to make sure I was here.”

  Lotty got up and turned out the kitchen light. She looked out the window, concealed partly by a hanging geranium and thin gauze curtains. “I don’t see anyone… Why not wake up Paul? He can take my car, drive it around the block a few times. Then, if no one follows him, he can pick you up in the alley. You drop him down the street.”

  “I don’t like it. You’ll be without a car, and when he comes back on foot, if there is someone out there, they’ll b
e suspicious.”

  “Vic, my dear, it’s not like you to be so full of quibbles. We won’t be without a car-we’ll have yours. As for the second-” She thought a minute. “Ah! Drop Paul at the clinic. He can finish his sleep there. We have a bed, for nights when Carol or I have to stay over.”

  I laughed. “can’t think of any more quibbles, Lotty. Let’s wake up Paul and give it a try.”

  Paul woke up quickly and cheerfully. When the plan was explained to him, he accepted it enthusiastically. “Want me to beat up anyone hanging around outside?”

  “Unnecessary, my dear,” said Lotty, amused. “Let’s try not to attract too much attention to ourselves. There’s an all-night restaurant on Sheffield off Addison-give us a call from there.”

  We left Paul to dress in privacy. He came out to the kitchen a few minutes later, pushing his black hair back from his square face with his left hand and buttoning a blue workshirt with the right. Lotty gave him her car keys. We watched the street from Lotty’s dark bedroom. No one attacked Paul as he got into the car and started it; we couldn’t see anyone follow him down the street.

  I went back to the living room and dressed properly. Lotty watched me without speaking while I loaded the Smith & Wesson and stuck it into the shoulder holster. I was wearing well-cut jeans and a blouson jacket over a ribbed knit shirt.

  About ten minutes later Lotty’s phone rang. “All clear,” Paul said. “There is someone out front, though. I think I’d better not drive down the alley-it might bring him around to the rear. I’ll be at the mouth of the alley at the north end of the street.”

  I relayed this to Lotty. She nodded. “Why don’t you leave from the basement? You can go down there from inside, and outside the door is hidden by stairs and garbage cans.” She led me downstairs. I felt very alert, very keyed up. Through a window on the stairwell we could see the night clearing into a predawn gray. It was 4:40 and the apartment was very quiet. A siren sounded in the distance, but no traffic was going down Lotty’s street.

  Lotty had brought a flashlight with her, rather than turn on a light that might show through the street-side window. She pointed it down the steps so I could see the way, then turned it off. I padded down after her. At the bottom she seized my wrist, let me around bicycles and a washing machine, and very slowly and quietly drew back the dead bolts in the outside door. There was a little click as they snapped open. She waited several minutes before pulling the door open. It moved into the basement, quietly, on oiled hinges. I slipped out up the stairs in crepe-soled shoes.

  From behind the screen of garbage cans I peered into the alley. Freddie sat propped against the back of the wall at the south end of the alley two buildings down. As far as I could tell, he was asleep.

  I moved quietly back down the stairs. “Give me ten minutes,” I mouthed into Lotty’s ear. “I may need a quick escape route.” Lotty nodded without speaking.

  At the top of the stairs I checked Freddie again. Did he have the subtlety to fake sleep? I moved from behind the garbage cans into the shadow of the next building, my right hand on the revolver’s handle. Freddie didn’t stir. Keeping close to the walls, I moved quickly down the alley. As soon as I was halfway down, I broke into a quiet sprint.

  15

  The Union Maid

  Paul was waiting as promised. He had a good head-the car was out of sight in the alley. I slid into the front seat and drew the door closed. “Any trouble?” he said, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb.

  “No, but I recognized a guy asleep in the alley. You’d better call Lotty from the clinic. Tell her not to leave Jill alone in the apartment. Maybe she can get a police escort to the clinic. Tell her to call a Lieutenant Mallory to request it.”

  “Sure thing.” He was very likable. We drove the short way to the clinic in silence. I handed him my car keys, and reiterated where the car was. “It’s a dark blue Monza.”

  “Good luck,” he said in his rich voice. “Don’t worry about Jill and Lotty-I’ll take care of them.”

  “I never worry about Lotty,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “She’s a force unto herself.” I adjusted the side mirror and the rearview mirror, and let in the clutch: Lotty drove a small Datsun, as practical and unadorned as she was.

  I kept checking the road behind me as I drove across Addison to the Kennedy, but it seemed to be clear. The air was clammy, the damp of a muggy night before the sun would rise and turn it into smog again. The eastern sky was light now, and I was moving quickly through the empty streets. Traffic was light on the expressway, and I cleared the suburbs to the northbound Milwaukee toll road in forty-five minutes.

  Lotty’s Datsun handled well, although I was out of practice with a standard shift and ground the gears a bit changing down. She had an FM radio, and I listened to WFMT well past the Illinois border. After that the reception grew fuzzy so I switched it off.

  It was six in clear daylight when I reached the Milwaukee bypass. I’d never been to Hartford, but I’d been to Port Washington, thirty miles to the east of it on Lake Michigan, many times. As far as I could tell, the route was the same, except for turning west onto route 60 instead of east when you get twenty miles north of Milwaukee.

  At 6:50 I eased the Datsun to a halt on Hartford’s main street, across from Ronna’s Café-Homemade Food, and in front of the First National Bank of Hartford. My heart was beating fast. I unbuckled the seat belt and got out, stretching my legs. The trip had been just under 140 miles; I’d done it in two hours and ten minutes. Not bad.

  Hartford is in the beautiful moraine country, the heart of Wisconsin dairy farming. There’s a small Chrysler plant there that makes outboard motors, and up the hill I could see a Libby’s cannery. But most of the money in the town comes from farming, and people were up early. Ronna’s opened at 5:30, according to the legend on the door, and at seven most of the tables were full. I bought the Milwaukee Sentinel from a coin box by the door, and sat down at an empty table near the back.

  One waitress was taking care of the crowd at the counter. Another covered all the tables. She was rushing through the swinging doors at the back, her arms loaded up with plates. Her short, curly hair had been dyed black. It was Anita McGraw.

  She unloaded pancakes, fried eggs, toast, hash browns, at a table where three heavyset men in bib overalls were drinking coffee, and brought a fried egg to a good-looking young guy in a dark blue boiler suit at the table next to me. She looked at me with the harassment common to all overworked waitresses in coffee shops. “I’ll be right with you. Coffee?”

  I nodded. “Take your time,” I said, opening the paper. The men in the bib overalls were kidding the good-looking guy-he was a veterinarian, apparently, and they were farmers who’d used his services. “You grow that beard to make everyone think you’re grown up. Doc?” one of them said.

  “Naw, just to hide from the FBI,” the vet said. Anita was carrying a cup of coffee to me; her hand shook and she spilled it on the veterinarian. She flushed and started apologizing. I got up and took the cup from her before any more spilled, and the young man said good-naturedly, “Oh, it just wakes you up faster if you pour it all over yourself-especially if it’s still hot. Believe me, Jody,” he added as she dabbed ineffectually at the wet spot on his arm with a napkin, “this is the nicest stuff that’s likely to spill on this outfit today.”

  The farmers laughed at that, and Anita came over to take my order. I asked for a Denver omelette, no potatoes, whole-wheat toast, and juice. When in farm country, eat like a farmer. The vet finished his egg and coffee. “Well, I hear those cows calling me,” he said, put some money on the table, and left. Other people began drifting out, too: It was 7:15-time for the day to be under way. For the farmers this was a short break between morning milking and some business in town. They lingered over a second cup of coffee. By the time Anita brought back my omelette, though, only three tables had people still eating, and just a handful were left at the counter.

  I ate half the omel
ette, slowly, and read every word in the paper. People kept drifting in and out; I had a fourth cup of coffee. When Anita brought my bill, I put a five on it and, on top of that, one of my cards. I’d written on it: Ruth sent me. I’m in the green Datsun across the street.”

  I went out and put some money in the meter, then got back in the car. I sat for another half hour, working the crossword puzzle, before Anita appeared. She opened the passenger door and sat down without speaking. I folded up the paper and put it in the backseat and looked at her gravely. The picture I’d found in her apartment had shown a laughing young woman, not precisely beautiful, but full of the vitality that is better than beauty in a young woman. Now her face was strained and gaunt. The police would never have found her from a photograph-she looked closer to thirty than twenty-lack of sleep, fear, and tension cutting unnatural lines in her young face. The black hair did not go with her skin, the delicate creamy skin of a true redhead.

  “What made you choose Hartford?” I asked.

  She looked surprised-possibly the last question she’d expected. “Peter and I came up here last summer to the Washington County Fair-just for fun. We had a sandwich in that cafe, and I remembered it.” Her voice was husky with fatigue. She turned to look at me and said rapidly, “I hope I can trust you-I’ve got to trust someone. Ruth doesn’t know-doesn’t know the kind of people who-who might shoot someone. I don’t either, really, but I think I have a better idea than she does.” She gave a bleak smile. “I’m going to lose my mind if I stay here alone any longer. But I can’t go back to Chicago. I need help. If you can’t do it, if you blow it and I get shot-or if you’re some clever female hit man who fooled Ruth into giving you my address-I don’t know. I have to take the chance.” She was holding her hands together so tightly that the knuckles were white.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Your father hired me last week to find you, and I found Peter Thayer’s body instead. Over the weekend, he told me to stop looking. I have my own guesses as to what all that was about. That’s how I got involved. I agree that you’re in a pretty tough spot. And if I blow it, neither of us will be in very good shape. You can’t hide here forever, though, and I think that I’m tough enough, quick enough, and smart enough to get things settled so that you can come out of hiding. I can’t cure the pain, and there’s more to come, but I can get you back to Chicago-or wherever else you want so that you can live openly and with dignity.”