Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  “I’ve got to call this in,” Rawlings said sharply.

  “It’ll keep until morning,” I said as forcefully as I could. “I’m not tampering with the evidence tonight. But you’re going to have to pack me off to Elgin if I don’t get to bed. I just can’t cope with this right now.”

  “But that window—”

  “I’ve got a hammer and nails. There must be some boards in the basement.”

  “You can’t! There might be fingerprints.”

  “And then what? I’ve never known yet when you guys had the resources to spare to track down a residential B&E. Give me a break, Rawlings.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Oh, nuts, Vic. I could sleep in here on your couch, but there’d be hell to pay at the station for why I didn’t call in a team as soon as I saw it. Let alone why I spent the night here. I’ve got to call it in. Didn’t you say you’d crash at your neighbor’s?”

  “I said it, but I don’t want to do it. Look, call the boys in blue if you have to, but let me go to bed.”

  He agreed after an examination of the bedroom. My clothes had been turned out of their drawers, but no furniture was broken. I looked in the closet. They’d rifled the clothes, but had missed the little wall safe at the back. Amateurs. And angry, at that.

  “You know anything about this, Ms. W.? Why someone would go to all the trouble? You know, if they were just street punks they would’ve given up after they found they couldn’t trash the front door.”

  “My brain isn’t working, Sergeant. Call your pals if you want, but leave me alone.” My voice was cracking now, but I was past minding.

  Rawlings gave me a long look, seemed to decide he wouldn’t get anything more out of me even if he beat me, and walked back down the hall to the living room. I could hear his mike crackling as he went.

  Even so, I couldn’t go to bed until I’d stood under the shower for twenty minutes, washing the grime from the canal out of my pores. The troops were arriving as I returned to my bedroom. I ostentatiously slammed my door, then fell deeply and heavily asleep, into dreams of climbing walls, trying to reach a Buddha who sat always just out of my reach while giant men chased me in trucks. At one point I slipped and fell from a high scaffolding. Just before smashing into the concrete I woke with a jolt. It was twelve-thirty.

  I made a half-hearted effort to get up, but my legs and arms seemed too thick to move. I sank back against the mattress and watched sun motes dancing between the top of the curtains and the ceiling.

  If someone asked me to recommend a good private eye about now, I’d have to send them to one of the big suburban firms. I was trying to be an advocate for a woman sunk deep in senility whose life when sane had been pretty dreadful. After a week of prodding Diamond Head Motors to give me information on Mitch Kruger, the only thing I had to show for my pains was sore muscles, a rusty gun, and a busted-up apartment. Oh, no. Also a two-thousand dollar repair bill for the Trans Am. And Lotty Herschel hurt, scared, and angry up in Evanston.

  “What a tiger,” I said aloud in bitter mockery. “What a fucking useless waste of time you are. You ought to go back to serving subpoenas. At least that’s something you know how to do. Although you’d probably trip over your feet and break your neck going upstairs.”

  “You always talk that loud to yourself, Warshawski? No wonder the neighbors complain about you.” Conrad Rawlings appeared in the doorway.

  I had jumped out of bed when I first heard a voice, looking wildly around my bedroom for a defensive weapon. When I saw who it was, my cheeks burned. I grabbed a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts at random from the floor and pulled them on.

  “You always walk unannounced into people’s bedrooms? If my gun didn’t need cleaning, you might be dead. I should haul your ass into court.”

  Rawlings laughed and handed me a cup of coffee. “Officer of the law serving and protecting, Ms. W. Although after the way you failed to cooperate last night, I shouldn’t bother.”

  “Failed to cooperate? I give you guys a story on a platter and all you do is harass me over a stupid broken window.… You spend the night here, or just let yourself in first thing in the morning?”

  He sat on the end of the bed. “We finished up here around seven. I saw you had a set of spare keys; I was going to borrow them so I could lock up behind me. Then your old boy downstairs intercepted me on my way out. He cross-examined me pretty hard, and when he made up his mind I wasn’t a punk he gave me his version of the facts. We decided I should come back in. I slept on the couch. Wasn’t too uncomfortable, really. Besides, I already got four or five hours before the Finch woke me up. You can thank me later for picking up the papers and washing your dishes.”

  I curled my legs up under me on the bed. “I’ll put an extra five in your pay envelope. I take it your boys didn’t find much of anything?”

  He pulled a wry face. “Whoever came in was wearing gloves and size ten Reeboks—they found a print in the dust by the window. Maybe there’s something to be said for bad housekeeping.”

  I gave a tight smile. “I don’t need the commentary, Sergeant. What about the neighbors? They must have seen someone on a ladder.”

  He shook his head. “Whoever did it took a risk, but not too big a one. You left here when? Ten last night? So, after ten and before four. This is a quiet block. Anyway, that side isn’t very visible from the street—there’re trees that screen you from the north, and the fake front shields you if someone’s walking right by. What were they looking for, Vic?”

  “I wish I knew,” I said slowly. “I haven’t got a clue. I’ve been looking for some papers—Mitch Kruger had them at the boardinghouse he lived in. But Mrs. Polter says his son turned up the next day and took them. Anyone who’s talked to her knows I don’t have them.”

  Of course, I’d also been looking for papers at Mrs. Frizell’s, and Todd and Chrissie didn’t know whether I’d found them or not. It would be easy for them to know I was gone—but would they have had the enterprise to break in?

  “Any ideas about the ladder?” I asked.

  “New, probably. Its safety feet left a good impression and they still had the little grooves on them—hadn’t been used enough to wear them out.” He finished his coffee and put the cup on the floor. “I’m asking a squad car to drive by here every now and then. Just to make sure your visitors don’t come back.”

  “Thanks.” I hesitated, trying to pick my words. “I appreciate that—I really do. And you staying the night—I was dead to the world. But, well, I didn’t ask for a bodyguard, and I don’t think I need one. The day comes I can’t look after myself, I’m retiring to Michigan.”

  Light glinted on his gold front tooth. “That’s probably why I like you, Ms. W. Because you’re so ornery. I just love to watch you get on other people’s nerves.”

  “You didn’t seem to be liking it too much over at Lotty’s last week.”

  “I said other people’s, Warshawski, not my own.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “That your hobby?”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t had too much chance to practice it lately.”

  I put my own coffee cup on the bedside table and stretched an arm out to him. My muscles suddenly didn’t feel as heavy as they had ten minutes ago.

  “Thought you’d never ask, Ms. W.” He leaned across the bed and slid strong fingers under my sweatshirt. “I’ve been wanting to do this for three years.”

  “I never figured you for a shy guy, Sergeant.” I traced the long line of a scar across his torso up his back. “You don’t have a wife or girlfriend or someone I should know about, do you? I thought you were seeing a lot of Tessa Reynolds.”

  Tessa was a sculptor we both knew.

  Conrad made a face. “It’s been a while. She needed a shoulder to lean on after Malcolm’s death and mine was handy. I don’t know—maybe a cop isn’t classy enough for a lady artist. How about you? What’s with you and that newspaper boy I see you with every now and then?”

  “Murray Ryerson? He and I bar
ely speak these days. Nope. There’re a couple of guys I see—but no one special.”

  “Okay, Ms. W. Sounds okay to me.”

  We moved closer and kissed. We didn’t talk about much of anything for a while. I reached out an arm and fumbled in my nightstand for my diaphragm. Afterward I dozed off in Rawlings’s arms. My dreams must still have been haunting me, because I suddenly blurted out, “You’re not the Buddha, you know.”

  “Yeah, Ms. W. Someone already told me that.”

  His hand stroking my hair was the last thing I remembered for a while. When I woke up again it was close to two. Rawlings had left, but he’d propped a note by the coffeepot explaining that he’d gone to work. “I gave your spare keys back to the old man, so don’t be afraid I’ll come breaking in again uninvited. I’ve got a squad car coming around every so often looking for that Subaru you mentioned. Don’t go facing down any gangs without calling me first. P.S.: How about dinner tomorrow?”

  I found myself whistling Mozart under my breath as I got dressed. The Scarlett O’Hara syndrome. Rhett comes and spends the night and suddenly you’re singing and happy again. I pulled a face at myself in the mirror, but the thought didn’t dampen my spirits the way maybe it should have. Of course, on principle a private investigator should discourage close entanglements with the cops. On the other hand, where would I be if my mother hadn’t climbed in bed with a police sergeant? If it was good enough for her, it ought to do for me.

  I continued with “Mi tradi quell’alma ingrata” as I cleaned the Smith & Wesson. The melody is so buoyant that the aria often comes to me at happy moments, despite its despairing words. Later, though, as I scrubbed the oil from my fingers, I wondered who the ungrateful wretch might be. Certainly not Conrad Rawlings or Mr. Contreras. But that left a wide-open field including Jason Felitti, Milt Chamfers, and my good old ex-husband, Dick. Unlike Mozart’s heroine I didn’t feel too much pity for the crew at Diamond Head, but some spark of sentimentality made me hope Dick wasn’t up to his eyeballs in their muck.

  35

  Hangover from a Hard Day’s Night

  By the time the gun was clean and I was dressed, it was after four. I called Larry, the guy who puts my apartment back together when it’s been ransacked, and explained my problem. He wouldn’t be able to make it over until next Wednesday, but he referred me to an emergency glazier who agreed to take care of the window in the morning.

  After debating the matter I decided to call an alarm company to wire my doors and windows. I got their machine with instructions to call back Monday morning. I hate living in the middle of a fortress. It’s bad enough to seal the place up every night—although an alarm system might let me cut back on the hardware—but I just couldn’t afford to have people climbing in through the windows after me.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon nailing boards across the broken window and installing crude braces on the others. After that I felt restless, and to my dismay, forlorn. Solitude usually brings me a sense of peace, but right now I felt under siege. I didn’t think I could stand to spend a night in here with the boarded-over windows.

  I could call Conrad, but it would be a mistake to start a relationship in a state of dependency. After a few minutes hesitation I tracked Lotty down at Max’s.

  “I think I’ve found the people who attacked you,” I greeted her abruptly. “Or they found me.”

  “Oh?” Her tone was cautious.

  I explained what had happened last night, stressing that I’d given Finchley and Rawlings everything I knew about Mitch Kruger and Diamond Head. “But I don’t think they’re taking it very seriously. They think being chased into the San was my just deserts for breaking into the plant.”

  I took a deep breath. “Lotty, I know you’ve been upset with me because you were attacked in my stead. I don’t blame you. But … I just can’t be by myself tonight. There’s been too much—there are too many people trying …” To my dismay I found tears were choking me; I couldn’t go on.

  “Vic, don’t!” I flinched from the sharpness in her voice. “I just can’t help you right now. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry you had a rough night last night. I wish I could help you put your pieces back together—but I’m in too many pieces myself to be able to help you.”

  “I … Lotty …” but she had handed the phone back to Max.

  When he came on the line he was unexpectedly gentle, even apologizing for his harshness the night Lotty had been attacked. “You each expect the other to be invincible; when you aren’t you both suffer,” he added. “Lotty … well, she’s not in good shape right now. She’s not angry with you, but she needs to feel angry to keep herself in a semblance of functioning. Can you understand that? Give her some distance, some time?”

  “I guess I have to,” I said bitterly.

  When we’d hung up I stood in the middle of the room with my hands pressed against my head, trying to keep the boiling inside from spilling out through my temples. I could not stay in this apartment one more minute, that much was certain. Randomly stuffing clothes into an overnight bag, along with an extra clip, I headed downstairs. I’d take the el out to O’Hare and get on the first plane I came to with a spare seat.

  I thought about sneaking past Mr. Contreras’s place on the way out, but decided that would really be unfair to the old man. I needn’t have worried about it: he had the door open before I reached the bottom of the stairs.

  He surveyed me with his hands on his hips. “So you went and got yourself pushed into the San, huh? After letting me think you was just going off to lay low for a few days. I can’t take too many more nights like last one, and that’s a fact. Don’t think I’m gonna apologize for getting that Sergeant Rawlings to go back into your place, because I’m not. If you can’t share your plans with anyone, least I can do is get the cops to look after you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your care. Although I slept until noon without knowing there was a cop on my couch, I’m sure the subliminal knowledge was what enabled me to rest.”

  He grunted in exasperation. “Oh, don’t go using your tony vocabulary on me. I know you only do it when you’re pissed, but you got no call to be. I’m the one suddenly finding out at five in the morning you almost got yourself killed. Again.”

  “Don’t!” I cried more sharply than I’d meant. “I just can’t take any harassment right now.”

  He started to expostulate—that I’d have to learn to take it until I could pay attention to how he felt, left alone to worry—but my distress must have been writ large in my face. After a minute he broke off and asked me what the problem was.

  I tried to summon a smile. “Rough night last night and too many people on my ass right now.”

  “It’d be easier for me not to be one of those people if I knew what you was up to.”

  I closed my eyes a minute, as if that could make the world disappear. But the sooner I started my tale, the sooner I could get it over. “I broke into Diamond Head. To do that I had to take a flying leap through a window a good ten feet off the ground. Then I hung around on a spool of copper dangling from a crane, crawled down the gantry supports so I wouldn’t be crushed into the wall, and dove into the San to avoid being run over by a car. I know you’re a hell of a guy—you’re certainly wonderful to me—but if I’d told you my plans you would have insisted on coming along. And you’re just not up to the action. I’m sorry, but you’re not.”

  His eyes flooded unexpectedly. He turned his head so I couldn’t watch him dashing the tears away. Great. Now everyone I knew was crying in unison. Including me.

  “Ah, you don’t understand, doll. I care about you—ah, what the heck, you know I love you. I know I got Ruthie and my grandsons, but they ain’t part of my everyday life like you are.” He spoke with his head turned from me; I had to strain to catch the words.

  “I grew up in a different time than you. I know you like to look after yourself, but it hurts me to know I can’t take care of you, go along jumping through windows with you. Twenty yea
rs ago—oh, what’s the use of complaining, though. It’ll happen to you someday, too, and you’ll know what I mean. Least, it will if you don’t let someone knock you off first.”

  I shepherded him gently into the living room and sat him on the mustard-covered armchair. I knelt next to him, keeping a hand on his shoulder. Peppy, sensing his distress, briefly left her nurslings to come sniff at his knees. He stroked her absently. After a few quiet minutes he smiled with a heart-wrenching gallantry.

  “So, you was swinging from the gantry, huh? Wish I could’ve seen it. Who was there? What made you do it?”

  I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my evening. “Why would they be shipping so much copper out? Finchley says ‘normal business,’ but I can’t figure it; they’re not running a graveyard shift. And what they ought to be unloading are beautiful little motors, not big spools of copper.”

  “Yeah, they should. They don’t use that much copper, anyway. Sounds like someone’s warehousing it there. You know, that big old upper shelf where they cornered you, they haven’t used that for manufacturing since the war—the Second World War, I mean—when they was running three shifts trying to keep up. Anyone who knew the plant would know that upper deck would be available for storage. You know, if they was stealing something and wanting to keep it quiet for a while.”

  I chewed on a knuckle. It made as much sense as anything I’d thought of. “The spools were all labeled ‘Paragon.’ Where would those have come from?”

  “Paragon?” His bushy gray brows shot up. “Paragon used to own Diamond Head. They bought it just about the time I retired. Then they sold it a year or so ago to some guy. I remember reading about it in the Sun-Times, but none of it means anything to me anymore, so I didn’t keep track of the names.”