Indemnity Only

by Sara Paretsky

  The report from Tony’s shot had brought Ralph back to life. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him move over on the couch toward the phone and lift the receiver. Masters saw it, too, and turned and shot him. In the second he turned, I made a rolling fall into the corner of the room and got the Smith & Wesson. As Masters turned to fire at me, I shot him in the knee. He wasn’t used to pain: he fell with a great cry of surprised agony and dropped the gun. Earl, who’d been dancing in the background, pretending he was part of the fight, moved forward to get it. I shot at his hand. I was out of practice and missed, but he jumped back anyway.

  I pointed the Smith & Wesson at Tony. “Onto the couch. Move.” Tears were running down his cheeks. His right arm hung in a funny way: I’d broken the ulna. “You guys are worse than trash and I’d love to shoot the three of you dead. Save the state a lot of money. If any of you goes for that gun, I’ll kill you. Earl, get your fat little body over on the couch next to Tony.” He looked like a two-year-old whose mother has unexpectedly spanked him; his whole face was squashed up as if he, too, were about to burst into tears. But he moved over next to Tony. I picked up the Browning, continuing to cover the two on the couch. Masters was bleeding into the carpet. He wasn’t in any shape to move. “The police are going to love this gun,” I said. “I bet it fired the bullet that shot Peter Thayer, didn’t it, Tony?”

  I called to Jill, “You still alive back there, honey? ”

  “Yes, Vic,” she said in a little voice.

  “Good. You come on out now and call the number I’m going to give you. We’re going to call the police and have them collect this garbage. Then maybe you’d better call Lotty, get her over here to look at Ralph.” I hoped there was something left of him for Lotty to work on. He wasn’t moving, but I couldn’t go to him-he’d fallen on the far side of the room, and the couch and phone table would block me if I went over to where he lay.

  Jill came out from behind the big armchair where she’d been crouching. The little oval face was still very white, and she was shaking a bit. “Walk behind me, honey,” I told her. “And take a couple of deep breaths. In a few minutes you can relax and let it all out, but right now you’ve got to keep on going.”

  She turned her head away from the floor where Masters lay bleeding and walked over to the phone. I gave her Mallory’s office number and told her to ask for him. He’d gone home for the day, she reported. I gave her the home number. “Is Lieutenant Mallory there, please?” she asked in her clear, polite voice. When he came on the line, I told her to bring the phone over to me, but not to get in front of me at all.

  “Bobby? Vic. I’m at two-oh-three East Elm with Earl Smeissen, Tony Bronsky, and a guy from Ajax named Yardley Masters. Masters has a shattered knee, and Bronsky a broken ulna. I also have the gun that was used to shoot Peter Thayer.”

  Mallory made an explosive noise into the phone. “Is this some kind of joke, Vicki?”

  “Bobby, I’m a cop’s daughter. I never make that kind of joke. Two-oh-three East Elm. Apartment seventeen-oh-eight. I’ll try not to kill the three of them before you get here.”

  18

  Blood is Thicker Than Gold

  It was ten, and the short black nurse said, “You shouldn’t be here at all, but he won’t go to sleep until you stop by.” I followed her into the room where Ralph lay, his face very white, but his gray eyes alive. Lotty had made a good job of bandaging him up and the surgeon at Passavant had only changed the dressing without disturbing her work. As Lotty said, she’d done a lot of bullet wounds.

  Paul had come with Lotty to Ralph’s apartment, frantic. He’d gotten to Winnetka and forced his way past Lucy about twenty minutes after Masters had picked up Jill. He went straight from there to Lotty’s. The two of them had called me, called the police to report Jill missing, but fortunately had stayed at Lotty’s close to the phone.

  Jill ran sobbing into Paul’s arms when they arrived and Lotty had given a characteristic shake of the head. “Good idea. Get her out of here, get her some brandy,” then turned her attention to Ralph, who lay unconscious and bleeding in the corner. The bullet had gone through his right shoulder, tearing up a lot of bone and muscle, but coming out clean on the other side.

  Now I looked down at him on the hospital bed. He took hold of my right hand with his left and squeezed it weakly; he was pretty drugged. I sat on the bed.

  “Get off the bed,” the little nurse said.

  I was exhausted. I wanted to tell her to go to hell, but I didn’t feel like fighting the hospital on top of everything else. I stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” Ralph said, his words slightly slurred.

  “Don’t worry about it. As it turned out, that was probably the best thing that could have happened. I couldn’t figure out how to get Masters to show his hand.”

  “No, but I should have listened to you. I couldn’t believe you knew what you were talking about. I guess deep down I didn’t take your detecting seriously. I thought it was a hobby, like Dorothy’s painting.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Yardley shot me. I worked for him for three years and didn’t see that about him. You met him once and knew he was that kind of guy.” His words were slurred but his eyes were hurt and angry.

  “Don’t keep hitting yourself with that,” I said gently “ I know what it means to be a team player. You don’t expect your teammates, your quarterback, to do that kind of thing. I came at it from the outside, so I was able to see things differently.”

  He was quiet again, but the hold on my fingers tightened, so I knew he wasn’t sleeping. Presently he said, “I’ve been falling in love with you, Vic, but you don’t need me.” His mouth twisted and he turned his head to one side to hide some tears.

  My throat was tight and I couldn’t get any words out. “That’s not true,” I tried to say, but I didn’t know if it was or not. I swallowed and cleared my throat. “I wasn’t just using you to get Masters.” My words came out in a harsh squawk. “I liked you, Ralph.”

  He shook his head slightly; the movement made him wince. “It’s not the same thing. It just wouldn’t work out.”

  I squeezed his hand painfully. “No. It would never work out.” I wished I didn’t feel so much like crying.

  Gradually the hold on my fingers relaxed. He was asleep. The little nurse pulled me away from the bed; I didn’t look around before leaving the room.

  I wanted to go home and get drunk and go to bed or pass out or something but I owed Murray his story, and Anita should be let out of captivity. I called Murray from the Passavant lobby.

  “I was beginning to wonder about you, Vic,” he said. “The news about Smeissen’s arrest just came in, and my gofer at the police station says Bronsky and an Ajax executive are both in the police ward at Cook County.”

  “Yeah.” I was bone tired. “Things are mostly over. Anita can come out of hiding. I’d like to pick her up and take her down to see her dad. That’s something that’s got to be done sooner or later, and it might as well be now.” Masters was sure to squeal on McGraw as soon as he started talking, and I wanted to see him before Mallory did.

  “Tell you what,” Murray said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at the Ritz, and you can tell me about it on the way down. Then I can get a few heartrending shots of the crusty old union guy being reunited with his daughter.”

  “Bad idea, Murray. I’ll meet you in the lobby and fill you in on the broad outline. If Anita wants you to come along, you can, but don’t bet on it. Don’t worry about your story, though: you’ll still scoop the town.”

  I hung up and walked out of the hospital. I was going to have to talk to Bobby myself. I’d gone with Lotty and Ralph when the ambulance came, and Mallory had been too busy to do more than shout, “I need to talk to you!” at me as I went out the door. I didn’t feel like doing it tonight. Jill was going to be okay, that was one good thing. But poor Anita-Still, I owed it to her to get her down to her father before the police got to him.

  It was o
nly four blocks from the hospital to the Ritz. The night was clear and warm and caressing. I needed a mother just now, and mother night felt like a good companion, folding dark arms around me.

  The lobby of the Ritz, plush and discreet, hovered twelve stories above the street. The rich atmosphere jarred on my mood. I didn’t fit in too well with it, either. In the mirrored walls of the elevator riding up, I’d seen myself disheveled, with blood on my jacket and jeans, my hair uncombed. As I waited for Murray, I half expected the house detective. Murray and he arrived at the same time.

  “Excuse me, madam,” he said urbanely, “I wonder if you’d mind coming with me.”

  Murray laughed. “Sorry, Vic, but you earned that.” He turned to the house detective. “I’m Murray Ryerson, with the Star. This is V. I. Warshawski, a private investigator. We’ve come to pick up a guest of yours, and then we’ll be gone.”

  The detective frowned over Murray’s press card, then nodded. “Very well, sir. Madam, I wonder if you would mind waiting near the desk.”

  “Not at all,” I said politely. “I understand that most of your guests never see any more blood than is contained by the average steak tartare… Actually, maybe I could wash up while Mr. Ryerson waits for Miss McGraw?”

  The detective ushered me happily to a private washroom in the manager’s office. I scrubbed off the worst of the mess and washed my face. I found a brush in the cabinet over the sink and got my hair shaped up. On the whole I looked a lot better. Maybe not material for the Ritz, but not someone to be thrown out on sight.

  Anita was waiting with Murray in the lobby when I got back. She looked at me doubtfully. “Murray says I’m out of danger?”

  “Yes. Smeissen, Masters, and Smeissen’s gunman have been arrested. Do you want to talk to your dad before he’s arrested, too?” Murray’s mouth dropped open. I put a hand on his arm to keep him from talking.

  Anita thought for a minute. “Yes,” she finally said. “I’ve been thinking it over today. You’re right-the longer I put it off the worse it will be.”

  “I’m coming along,” Murray announced.

  “No,” Anita said. “No, I’m not showing all that to the newspapers. Vic will give you the story later. But I’m not having reporters hanging around for this.”

  “You got it, Murray,” I said. “Catch up with me later on tonight. I’ll be-I don’t know. I’ll be at my bar downtown.”

  Anita and I started for the elevator. “Where’s that?” he demanded, catching up with us.

  “The Golden Glow on Federal and Adams.”

  I called a cab to take us back to my car. A zealous officer, possibly one who’d been left guarding the lobby, had put a parking ticket on the windshield. Twenty dollars for blocking a fire hydrant. They serve and protect.

  I was so tired I didn’t think I could drive and talk at the same time. I realized that this was the same day that I’d made the three-hundred-mile round trip to Hartford, and that I hadn’t slept the night before. It was all catching up with me now.

  Anita was preoccupied with her private worries. After giving me directions on how to get to her father’s Elmwood Park house, she sat quietly, staring out the window. I liked her, I felt a lot of empathy with her, but I was too drained to reach out and give her anything at the moment.

  We were on the Eisenhower Expressway, the road that runs from the Loop to the western suburbs, and had gone about five miles before Anita spoke. “What happened to Masters?”

  “He showed up with his hired help to try to blow me and Ralph Devereux away. They had Jill Thayer with them-they were using her as a hostage. I managed to jump the gunman and break his arm, and disable Masters. Jill is all right.”

  “Is she? She’s such a good kid. I’d hate like hell for anything to happen to her. Have you met her at all?”

  “Yes, she spent a few days with me. She’s a great kid, you’re right.”

  “She’s a lot like Peter. The mother is very self-centered, into clothes and the body beautiful, and the sister is incredible, you’d think someone made her up for a book. But Jill and Peter both are-are…” She groped for words. “… Self-assured, but completely turned out on the world. Everything always is-was-so interesting to Peter-what makes it work, how to solve the problem. Every person was someone he might want to be best friends with. Jill’s a lot the same.”

  “I think she’s falling in love with a Puerto Rican boy. That should keep things stirred up in Winnetka.”

  Anita gave a little chuckle. “For sure. That’ll be worse than me-I was a labor leader’s daughter, but at least I wasn’t black or Spanish.” She was quiet for a while. Then she said, “You know, this week has changed my life. Or made it seem upside-down. My whole life was directed to the union. I was going to go to law school and be a union lawyer. Now-it doesn’t seem worth a lifetime. But there’s a big empty hole. I don’t know what to put there instead. And with Peter gone-I lost the union and Peter all at the same time. I was so busy last week being terrified that I didn’t notice it. Now I do.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s going to take a while. All mourning takes a long time, and you can’t rush it along. My dad’s been dead ten years now, and every now and then, something comes up that lets me know that the mourning is still going on, and another piece of it is in place. The hard part doesn’t last so long. While it is going on, though, don’t fight it-the more you poke away the grief and anger, the longer it takes to sort it out.”

  She wanted to know more about my dad and our life together. The rest of the way out I spent telling her about Tony. Funny that he should have the same name as that stupid gunman of Earl’s. My father, my Tony, had been a bit of a dreamer, an idealist, a man who had never shot another human being in all his years on the force-warning shots in the air, but no one killed because of Tony Warshawski. Mallory couldn’t believe it-I remember that, as Tony was dying. They were talking one evening, Bobby came over a lot at night those days, and Bobby asked him how many people he’d killed in his years on the force. Tony replied he’d never even wounded a man.

  After a few minutes of silence, I thought of a small point that had been bothering me. “What’s with this fake-name business? When your father first came to me he called you Anita Hill. Up in Wisconsin you were Jody Hill. I can see he gave you a false name in a not-too-bright effort to keep you out of things-but why’d you both use Hill?”

  “Oh, not collusion. But Joe Hill has always been a big hero of ours. Jody Hill just came to me subconsciously. He probably picked it for the same reason.”

  We had reached our exit, and Anita started giving me detailed directions. When we pulled up in front of the house, she sat for a bit without speaking. Finally she said, “I couldn’t decide whether to ask you to come in with me or not. But I think you should. This whole thing got started-or your involvement got started-because he came to you. Now I don’t know whether he’ll believe it’s over without your story.”

  “Okay.” We walked up to the house together. A man was sitting outside the front door.

  “Bodyguard,” Anita murmured to me. “Daddy’s had one as long as I can remember.” Aloud she said, “Hi, Chuck. It’s me, Anita-I’ve dyed my hair.”

  The man was taken aback. “I heard you ran off, that someone was gunning for you. You okay?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine. My dad home?”

  “ Yup, he’s in there alone.”

  We went into the house, a small ranch house on a large plot. Anita led me through the living room to a sunken family room. Andrew McGraw was watching television. He turned as he heard us coming. For a second he didn’t recognize Anita with her short black hair. Then he jumped up.

  “Annie?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said quietly. “Miss Warshawski here found me, as you asked her to. She shot Yardley Masters, and broke the arm of Earl Smeissen’s hired gunman. They’re all three in jail now. So we can talk.”

  “Is that true?” he demanded. “You disabled Bronsky and shot Masters?”

 
“Yes,” I said. “But your troubles aren’t over, you know: as soon as Masters has recovered somewhat, he’s going to talk.”

  He looked from me to Anita, the heavy square face uncertain. “How much do you know?” he finally said.

  “I know a lot,” Anita said. Her voice wasn’t hostile, but it was cold, the voice of someone who didn’t know the person she was talking to very well and wasn’t sure she’d want to. “I know you’ve been using the union as a front for collecting money on illegal insurance claims. I know that Peter found that out and went to Yardley Masters about it. And Masters called you and got the name of a hit man.”

  “Listen, Annie,” he said in a low, urgent tone, much different from the angry bluster I’d heard before. “you’ve got to believe I didn’t know it was Peter when Yardley called.”

  She stayed in the doorway to the room, looking down at him as he stood in his shirt-sleeves. I moved over to one side. “Don’t you see,” she said, her voice breaking a little, “it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether you knew who it was or not. What matters is that you were using the union for fraud, and that you knew a killer when Masters needed one. I know you wouldn’t have had Peter shot in cold blood. But it’s because you knew how to get people shot that it happened at all.”

  He was silent, thinking. “Yes, I see,” he said finally, in that same low voice. “Do you think I haven’t seen it, sitting here for ten days wondering if I’d see you dead, too, and know that I had killed you?” She said nothing. “Look, Annie. You and the union-that’s been my whole life for twenty years. I thought for ten days that I’d lost both of you. Now you’re back. I’m going to have to give up the union-are you going to make me do without you as well?”