Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  “O She-who-must-be-obeyed, to what do I owe the honor of your call? Or is it privilege? After you shouted vile words at me and slammed the phone in my ear last night?”

  I ate some of my sandwich while I tried to figure out how to get us away from hostilities and to the point.

  “You still there? Is this a new form of torture? You call up and then abandon the phone while I sit shouting into it like a fool?”

  I washed down the sandwich with a mouthful of coffee. “I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation before I picked up the phone. But someone said something so weird to me this morning that I thought we ought to try to overcome our mutual repugnance and talk.”

  “Weird, huh? It wasn’t a personal comment, like on your disposition or something?”

  I grinned to myself suddenly as I remembered Conrad Rawlings’s remarks on my orneriness. “Nah. Guys who aren’t strong enough to take me don’t worry me too much. This little comment had to do with the freedom of the press.”

  “We all know the truth about that, Warshawski—that the press is free to anyone rich enough to own one.”

  “So you don’t want to hear about it?”

  “Did I say that? I’m just warning you not to expect me to go off on a crusade because of something that’s bugging you.”

  “This is where I came in,” I complained. “You won’t listen to my stories, then you get offended when I won’t tell them to you on command.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said hastily. “Tell me about the threat to my livelihood. If I listen intently and make appropriately outraged remarks, will you tell me about going into the San the other night?”

  “It’s all tied together in one neat little package, babe.” I gave him a detailed account of my breakfast with Dick and Dick’s relief that Peter Felitti had been able to keep my exploits at Diamond Head out of the paper.

  “See? You thought it was me not talking to you that kept you from getting the scoop. Really, it was Felitti talking to your publisher,” I finished.

  Murray was quiet for a minute. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he finally said. “No, no, I’m not doubting the conversation took place. I just question whether Felitti is a heavy enough hitter to keep something out of the papers on request.”

  “His brother used to be a Du Page County commissioner and he’s still on the board of U.S. Metropolitan. Lots of little political connections run through that bank. Marshall Townley could well be approached that way.” Townley was the Herald-Star’s publisher.

  Murray thought it over some more. “Maybe. Maybe. I’ll poke around a little. Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because too many people have been yanking me around the last two weeks. And when Dick Yarborough let that remark fly this morning—that he could suppress any public report about what I’m trying to find out—it made me, well, pretty peeved.”

  “Pretty peeved, huh? Is anything left of the guy?”

  “He still has one working testicle,” I said primly.

  “You left one? Boy, you must be getting soft, Warshawski.… I guess it’s time for me to bite. What are you trying to find out?”

  I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my fruitless investigation into Mitch Kruger’s death, including my meeting with Ben Loring at Paragon Steel. “I’ve got to believe Mitch had nosed out something that was going on at Diamond Head. Maybe the theft of the copper wire, depending on how important it was to them to keep it quiet. It could have been something else, though. Interest in his meager papers has been running high, but I finally got hold of them last night and there’s nothing in them to show he knew about the theft. But there’s nothing in them to show he knew about anything else either.”

  Murray tried wheedling a look at Mitch’s papers from me, but I was keeping Eddie Mohr and the connection to Chicago Settlement to myself until after I’d talked to Mohr this afternoon. Murray hadn’t been supportive enough lately to get a free blue-plate special.

  “Okay, Warshawski,” he said at last. “Maybe there is a story in this. Although I can see Finchley’s point, that maybe they just don’t like you snooping around down at Diamond Head. I’ll talk to some people and get back to you.”

  “Gosh, Mr. Hecht, thanks. If it wasn’t for the hard-working, noble press, where would us poor working stiffs be?”

  “In the San, where you belong. Catch you later, Warshawski.”

  I finished my sandwich before dialing Max’s number at the hospital. Mr. Loewenthal was in a meeting; could his secretary take a message? I didn’t want to leave my phone number and play tag with Max all afternoon. His secretary finally allowed as how if I called back at four I could probably reach him.

  Thoughts of Max brought Lotty to the front of my mind from the back recesses where I’d been keeping her. I called over to the clinic and spoke to Mrs. Coltrain. Lotty was working with her new nurse in one of the examining rooms—not a good time to interrupt. Mrs. Coltrain assured me she would let her know I’d called.

  I walked slowly back to my bedroom. The longer Lotty and I went without speaking, the harder it was going to be to get back together.

  I changed the thin T-shirt I’d put on after my bath for a bra and a silk shirt in a dusky rose. A bra is almost as bad as a shoulder holster on a muggy day, but I didn’t want my elderly neighbors so startled that they wouldn’t talk to me. I started to put on the holster, then realized that meant a jacket, which meant I’d be a sodden wreck before I’d made it across the street. Surely I could walk around my own neighborhood in broad daylight without a weapon. I left the gun on the bed. On my way back out I started to knock on Mr. Contreras’s door, hesitated, then left without trying to rouse him. Peppy had let out a sharp bark as I stood there: if he wanted to see me he could open the door.

  It dawned on me that I hadn’t seen any Chicago cops patrolling my stretch of Racine today. Maybe Conrad Raw-lings was so annoyed by my comments last night that he had withdrawn his protective arm. My pleasure at having my ability to look after myself put to the test wasn’t as strong as it might have been. I almost headed back up the stairs for my gun.

  43

  High-Voltage Marketing Plan

  It took Mrs. Tertz so long to answer the bell that I thought she might be out. When she finally came to the door, her face flushed from the heat, she apologized, but said she’d been on her back porch writing letters. “It faces east, so by this time of day we get a bit of breeze back there. I practically live out there in the summer. What can I do for you, dear?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Frizell’s situation. Do you have a minute?”

  She laughed softly. “I suppose. But if you think a wave of your hand will solve Hattie Frizell’s problems, it only shows you have a lot of growing up to do. Come on in, though.”

  I followed her along a minute, highly polished hall to the kitchen. The air in the house, heavy with Pine Sol and furniture polish, thickened in the kitchen to an unbreathable density. Little beads of sweat were staining the neck of my blouse by the time Mrs. Tertz had the back door unlocked again. I followed her thankfully onto the porch.

  It was a wide, pleasant space, with furniture covered in a chintz whose flowers had faded from years of use. A rolling cart held a television, a hot plate, and a toaster oven. When Mrs. Tertz saw me looking at them she shook her head regretfully and explained that they had to be wheeled into the kitchen at night.

  “It used to be that Abe and I left them out here all summer long, but there are too many break-ins these days. We can’t afford to put walls up to make the porch secure, so we just do the best we can.”

  “You don’t keep a dog still? Mrs. Hellstrom told me you used to buy black Labs from Mrs. Frizell.”

  “Oh, my. Yes. And my grandchildren are playing with dogs descended from some of those Labs. But you know, it takes a lot of strength to walk a dog that energetic. When our last old boy died five years ago, Abe and I decided we just didn’t have the stamina for a new one. But we miss them. Sometimes I
wish—but Abe’s got arthritis, and my back’s not so good. We just couldn’t do it. How’s Hattie doing? Marjorie told me you’d been by to see her.”

  “Not well. She’s restless, but not responsive. I don’t know what will happen to her.” A few weeks in bed could be a death sentence for a woman her age, but Mrs. Tertz didn’t need me to spell that out.

  “One of the worrying things is her finances. She’s going to need long-term care if—when—she heals enough to leave Cook County. Chrissie and Todd want to mortgage her house, but they don’t know where the title is.”

  Mrs. Tertz shook her head again, worried. “I hate to think of Hattie losing that house on top of losing the dogs. I don’t think she’ll last too long if that happens—if she knows about it, I mean. But I can’t help you with money for her, dear, if that’s what you want: Abe and I just make ends meet every month on our social security as it is. And now with property taxes going up …” She clipped her lips together, too worried to talk about it.

  I reassured her hastily. “But the scary thing about her finances is how she has her money invested. That’s really what I wanted to ask you about. She sold her CDs at her old bank in February, took a loss, of course, because of the penalties, and put the money into some bonds. Very high-yield—but not paying anything these days. You wouldn’t know why she decided to do that, would you?”

  Mrs. Tertz shifted in her chair. “We never talked about money together, dear.”

  I eyed her steadily. “Chrissie Pichea and Vinnie Buttone have gone around the neighborhood offering people financial advice. They may have persuaded her to buy those bonds.”

  “I’m sure anything Chrissie did was with the best intentions. I know you two girls haven’t seen eye-to-eye on Hattie’s dogs, but Chrissie’s a very good-hearted neighbor. If she sees me struggling with my groceries she always races over to help me get them into the house.”

  I smiled, trying to keep hostility out of my face as well as my voice. “She probably thought she was doing Mrs. Frizell a good turn, getting her to trade in her CDs for something that would pay much better. Has she ever offered you a similar deal?”

  Mrs. Tertz was so loath to discuss the matter that I began to worry that she and her husband had sunk their savings into Diamond Head junk as well. As we continued to talk, though, it became clear that all she wanted to do was protect Chrissie.

  “I’m sure Chrissie is a wonderful person,” I said earnestly. “But she may not be very experienced with risky investments. I’ve been investigating financial fraud for almost ten years now. Someone could have—have pulled the wool over her eyes, so to speak—persuaded her they had a great product for old people. And in her desire to help her neighbors she might not have had the experience to see there was something wrong with the product.”

  It sounded too thick to me, but Mrs. Tertz was relieved to think that “you girls” only wanted to help each other out. Telling me she’d just be a minute she disappeared back into the murky air of her house.

  I wandered to the porch door and looked out at the yard. Either she or her husband shared the neighborhood mania for gardening: the tiny square of grass was lined with weed-less flower beds on one side and vegetables on the other. My father had liked to garden, too, but I hadn’t inherited a longing to dig around in the ground.

  Mrs. Tertz returned after about ten minutes, her face flushed and her gray curls changed into tiny corkscrews by the humidity. She held out a flyer to me.

  “I tried to call Chrissie to make sure she wouldn’t mind me showing it to you, but I couldn’t get hold of her. So I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

  My throat constricted with tension. That’s what I needed all right—for Chrissie to pop in at this moment. Although I’d already tipped my hand to Vinnie Buttone. What difference did it make if Mrs. Tertz called Chrissie?

  I took the brochure from Mrs. Tertz’s unwilling fingers and flipped through its four sides. She wouldn’t let me borrow it, even for the afternoon, so I studied it carefully while she breathed over my arm.

  IS YOUR MONEY DOING

  ENOUGH FOR YOU?

  the front cover asked in screaming type.

  The inside panel pointed out the woes of people living on fixed incomes.

  “Are your savings in certificates of deposit? Maybe your banker or your broker told you that was the best place for your money now that you’re past retirement age. No risk, they probably told you. But no return, either. Your banker may think because you’re past retirement you don’t deserve the same investments younger folks get. But those CDs he sold you aren’t going to grow fast enough to cover the cost of expensive nursing care if you need it. Or to take you on that dream vacation if you want it. What you need is risk-free money that provides great returns.”

  A photo of an old woman in a derelict nursing home bed stared grimly from the left panel, while an elderly couple with golf clubs gazed raptly at the ocean on the right.

  “Just as safe as federally insured funds,” the copy trumpeted. “U.S. Metropolitan can provide you with investments that pay up to 17 percent—and leave your worries behind.”

  “Just as safe as federally insured funds,” I repeated aloud. “An unsecured bond that isn’t paying jackshit and is trading at nineteen dollars on the hundred.”

  The bitterness in my voice startled Mrs. Tertz, who snatched the flyer from me. “If you’re going to be angry about it I just can’t let you look at it; it wouldn’t be fair to Chrissie.”

  I tried to smile, but I could feel my mouth twist sideways. “Chrissie may have meant it for the best, but she wasn’t very fair to Mrs. Frizell. I do hope not too many of you on the block here bought investments from her or Vinnie. Otherwise the two of them are going to own most of the street before long.”

  She bit her lips uncomfortably, but told me she thought it was time for me to go. As she shepherded me rapidly through the house to the front door, I could hear her bemoaning the mistake she’d made under her breath. I think she was talking more about letting me into the house than about buying junk bonds. At least I hoped so.

  The heat had lifted somewhat by the time I got outside, but my blouse still grew wet across the neck and armpits during the short walk to my own building. The perfect appeal to a recluse with a chip on her shoulder—your banker is cheating you just because you’re old. And your new investment is just as safe as federally insured funds.

  As I passed Vinnie’s apartment door I wanted to kick it in, to violate his home as he had decimated Mrs. Frizell’s. I’d been there several times last year; I knew it was filled with high-priced modern art. Almost as good an investment as a federally insured CD. Figure out how to replace that stuff, I thought, panting as I pictured myself trashing it. I actually gave the door a savage kick that left a scuff mark on the paneling. That alone would drive him into a frenzy: he had personally sanded and painted it an eggshell white. The rest of us were content with the dark varnish that came with the building.

  Up in my own place I undid the locks, forgetting my new electronic alarm until a high-pitched whistle interrupted me as I gulped down a glass of water. I sprinted down the hall to the front door and punched in the numbers to shut off the system. I hoped I’d been fast enough to forestall a visit from the cops.

  I went back to the kitchen and filled another glass under the tap. I drank it more slowly, carrying it with me as I walked to the living room to call Max. I took off my shoes and socks and massaged my toes. The loafers didn’t give enough support; my feet ached from walking around in them.

  Curling my legs under me, I leaned back in the armchair with my eyes shut. I needed to relax before I talked to Max. Get the image of Mrs. Frizell restlessly moving in her hospital bed out of my brain, let my anger with Vinnie and Chrissie work its way out of my shoulders and fingertips. I’ve never been too good at that kind of exercise; after a few fruitless minutes I sat up and dialed Max’s number.

  He had just emerged from one meeting and was on his way to a second
, but he agreed to talk to me for a few minutes. I exchanged greetings with him cautiously, in case he was angry with me again on Lotty’s account.

  “Lotty still won’t talk to me. How is she?”

  “She’s getting better. The crack is starting to heal and you can’t see the bruises now.” His tone was noncommittal.

  “I know she’s back at work—I keep just missing her when I call the clinic.”

  “You know Lotty. When she’s scared she gets angry—with herself for being weak. And when she’s angry she starts driving herself into a frenzy of action. It’s always been her best protection.”

  I grimaced at the phone; that was my armor as well. “I hear she’s hired a new nurse. Maybe that will ease some of the tension for her.”

  “She stole away one of our best pediatric nurses,” Max retorted. “I ought to disown her for that, but it seems to have cheered her up.”

  Everyone has problems when personal and professional lives cross, not just private eyes and cops. The thought reassured me.

  “I’ve been thrashing around in my own frenzy, trying to figure out what anyone cared so much about that they had to beat up Lotty over it. And it seems as though all I’m doing is pawing the earth, kicking up dirt, and not getting anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Victoria. I wish I could help, but you’re out of my areas of expertise.”

  “Your lucky day, Max. I called specifically because of your expertise. Do you know anything about Hector Beauregard at Chicago Settlement?”

  “Noo.” Max drew out the word slowly. “My wife was really the one who worked with the group. Since her death I’ve continued to support them financially, but I haven’t played an active role. Hector’s the executive director—that’s all I know about him. We both belong to a group of directors of nonprofit organizations, and I see him there occasionally. He seems to have expanded Chicago Settlement’s finances greatly, bringing in important corporate donors—I’ve been a little jealous of his fund-raising prowess, to tell you the truth.”