Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  “Have you ever thought he might have done something, well, unethical, to raise money?” I rubbed my toes again as I spoke, as if to squeeze the answer I wanted from them.

  “Do you have some evidence he’s done so?” Max’s voice was suddenly sharp.

  “No. I told you I’m just pawing the earth. His name is the only unusual thing I’ve turned up.” Besides the spools of copper from Paragon Steel, but how could those be connected to the head of a big charity? Maybe that was how he got big companies to contribute? Sell each other goods they didn’t need, then load them on trucks in the middle of the night and sell them on the sly and collect the proceeds? Too farfetched.

  “Could a not-for-profit collect money illegally?” I asked.

  “Anyone running an institution as strapped for cash as mine has fantasies,” Max said. “But whether you could really execute them without the IRS catching on? I suppose you could do something with stock—get it donated at a high price so your donor could claim it on his income tax, then sell it at a low price so you could claim a loss, but still collect the income. But wouldn’t the IRS find that out?”

  I felt a little catch of excitement in my diaphragm, the lurch that a hot idea can give. “Can you find out something for me? Who’s on Chicago Settlement’s board?”

  “Not if it means one of them is going to get beaten up for being involved in your shenanigans, Victoria.” Max’s voice wasn’t altogether jocular.

  “I don’t think even you will be beaten up. And I hope I won’t either. I want to know if—let’s see—Richard Yarborough, Jason or Peter Felitti, or Ben Loring sits on their board.”

  Max repeated the names to me, getting the spelling right. I realized I didn’t have the CEO of Paragon Steel—he would be more likely than his controller to sit on an important board. My Who’s Who in Chicago Commerce and Industry was down in my office, but my old Wall Street Journals were in front of me on the coffee table. While Max made impatient noises about needing to get to his next meeting I thumbed through the back issues until I found the story on Paragon Steel.

  “Theodore Bancroft. Any of those five. Can I call you at home tonight?”

  “You’re ready to jump into action, so everyone else has to too?” Max grumbled. “I’m on my way to another meeting and when I get out of that I’m going home to unwind. I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

  When Max hung up I continued rubbing my toes absent-mindedly. Stock parking. Why not bond parking? What if Diamond Head was getting Chicago Settlement to take its junk at face value, then letting them sell it—at a steep loss, but still, they’d have money they didn’t have before?

  It was a nice, neat idea. But how had Mitch Kruger stumbled onto it? It was way too sophisticated for him. But maybe not for Eddie Mohr, the old president of the local. Time to go see him and ask.

  I sat up and pulled my socks back on, thin pink anklets with roses up the side, pretty to look at but not providing much padding for the feet. I slipped my loafers on and went to my bedroom to collect the Smith & Wesson. Going down the hall I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My silk shirt looked as though I’d slept in it. I pulled it off and sponged myself under the bathroom tap.

  I hadn’t done any laundry for two weeks. It was hard to find a clean shirt that looked respectable enough to go interrogating in. I finally had to pull a dressy black top from a dry-cleaning bag. I could only hope the shoulder holster wouldn’t tear into the delicate fabric—I wasn’t going out of the neighborhood without my gun. A black houndstooth jacket sort of made the top into an outfit, and sort of covered the gun. It was cut a little snugly for total concealment.

  Mr. Contreras had been so subdued behind his door that I phoned downstairs before leaving to make sure he was really there. He answered on the sixth ring, sounding like a man on his way to face a firing squad, but determined to accompany me. When I got downstairs he spent several minutes fondling Peppy and her nurslings, as if this were their last good-bye.

  “I’ve got to get going,” I said gently. “You really don’t have to come.”

  “No, no. I said I would and I will.” He finally tore himself from the dogs and followed me into the hall. “You don’t mind my saying so, doll, it’s kind of obvious that you’re carrying a gun. I hope you’re not planning on shooting Eddie.”

  “Only if he shoots at me first.” I unlocked the Impala and held the passenger door for him.

  “If he sees you’re carrying a gun, and only an idiot could ignore it, he ain’t going to feel too much like talking. Not that he’s likely to say much, anyway.”

  “Oh?” I steered the Impala onto Belmont, toward the Kennedy. “What makes you think that?”

  He didn’t say anything. When I glanced at him he turned a dull red under his leathery tan and turned to look out the passenger window.

  “Why does it bother you so much, my going to see him?”

  He didn’t answer, just continued staring out the window. We’d been on the Kennedy for twenty minutes, inching our way past the Loop exits, when he suddenly burst out, “It just doesn’t seem right. First Mitch goes and gets himself killed, and now you want to pin it on the president of my local. I feel like I’m betraying the local, and that’s a fact.”

  “I see.” I let a semi move in front of me before starting my crawl across lanes to the Stevenson exit. “I don’t want to pin anything on Eddie Mohr. But I can’t get your old management to talk to me. If I don’t speak to somebody connected with Diamond Head pretty soon, I’m going to have to stop my investigation. I just can’t get a lever anywhere.”

  “I know, doll, I know,” he muttered miserably. “I understand all that. I still don’t like it.”

  44

  Terminal Call

  Neither of us spoke again until we left the Stevenson at Kedzie. We were in an area where warehouses and factories jostled residential streets. Kedzie was badly pitted here from the semis that roared along it. We bounced south between two fast-moving sixty-tonners. I kept the Impala close to fifty, gritting my teeth against the jolts and hoping no one had to stop fast.

  Mr. Contreras roused himself from his worries to direct me to Eddie Mohr’s house on Albany near Fortieth Street. I managed to exit without being run over. We suddenly found ourselves in an oasis of bungalows with well-tended yards, one of those pockets of tidiness that make the city look like a small, friendly town.

  In neighborhoods like these the garages are approached from the alleys that run behind the houses. I pulled up in front, wondering if the Oldsmobile that had been used in the attack on Lotty was out back. I’d like to sneak a look at it before we left. A spotless Riviera sat in front of the house—presumably that was Mrs. Mohr’s car. I moved the Impala up behind it.

  Mr. Contreras took his time getting out of the car. I watched his unhappy maneuvering for a minute, then turned and marched briskly up the walk to the front door. I rang the doorbell without waiting for him to catch up with me—I didn’t want to turn this into an all-night vigil while he decided whether or not he was scabbing by bringing me down to meet the guy.

  The house itself was blanketed with thick curtains. It felt like a place empty of inhabitants. After a long few minutes, in which I debated going around to the back or just sitting in the Impala until someone showed up, I caught a movement in the thick shroud next to the door. Someone was inspecting me. I tried to look earnest and sincere and hoped that Mr. Contreras, now standing behind me, didn’t look too woebegone for conversation.

  A woman of about fifty opened the door. Her faded blond hair was matted in uneven clumps, as though glued to her head by an inexpert wigmaker. She stared at us through protuberant, lackluster eyes.

  “We’ve come to see Eddie Mohr,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Mohr?”

  “I’m his daughter, Mrs. Johnson. He won’t be ready for viewing until next week, but you can talk to Mother if you’re old friends of his.”

  “Ready for viewing?” My jaw dropped slackly. “Is he—he isn’t dead,
is he?”

  “Isn’t that why you came? I wondered how you knew so fast. I thought maybe that was your father with you.”

  Mr. Contreras clutched my arm, his legs suddenly unsteady. “I just talked to him this morning, doll. He—he was expecting us. I … He sounded fine to me then.”

  I turned to look at him, but none of the things I wanted to say were appropriate at such a moment. No wonder he’d been so subdued: he knew I wanted to try to catch Eddie unawares. He may have felt he was betraying the local, but he probably thought he was betraying me too.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Mrs. Johnson. “Sorry to intrude at such a time. This must have come as a terrible shock. I didn’t know he was ill.”

  “It wasn’t his heart, if that’s what you’re thinking. Someone shot him. Just as he was walking up Albany. Shot him in cold blood and drove on up the street. Damned niggers. Not satisfied with tearing up Englewood and shooting each other up. They have to come up and kill people in McKinley Park. Why can’t they just stay where they are and mind their own business?” Her face turned red with anger, but tears were swimming in the protuberant eyes.

  “When did this happen?” I kept my voice gentle, but only by digging my nails into my palms.

  “About one this afternoon. Mother called me, and of course I came right over, even though it meant turning the register over to Maggie, which is always a mistake. It’s not that she’s dishonest—she just can’t add or subtract. Chicago schools just don’t do the job they did when I was growing up.”

  It’s the little things that worry us at moments of great loss. Maggie at the cash register … you can get your mind around it. Father shot dead on the street.… No, leave that one alone.

  Mr. Contreras was stirring restively behind me, not wanting me to probe like a ghoul. I ignored him and asked Mrs. Johnson if anyone had seen the niggers in question.

  “There were only two people on the street—Mrs. Yuall and Mrs. Joyce were coming back from the store. They didn’t pay any attention to the car. You don’t expect to see someone shot down in broad daylight in your own community, do you? Then they heard the shots and saw Daddy fall over. At first they thought he’d had a heart attack. It was only later they realized they’d been hearing shots.”

  She stopped talking and turned her head, listening to someone behind her. “I’ll be right there, Mother. It’s one of Daddy’s old friends. He called this morning. Do you want to see him? … Excuse me a minute,” she added to us, going back into the house.

  “This is terrible, doll, terrible,” Mr. Contreras whispered urgently. “We can’t intrude on these people.”

  I gave him a tight smile. “I think it would be a good idea if we found out what he was doing out on the street. After all, he had two cars. Why was he walking instead of driving? And why were you calling him to let him know we were coming?”

  Mr. Contreras turned red. “It was only fair. I couldn’t have you barging in, trying to pin Mitch’s death on the union, without giving him some notice—”

  Mrs. Johnson came back to the door and he cut himself off in mid-sentence. “Mother’s lying down. She’s with a friend, but she’d like to know if Daddy said anything special this morning when he talked to you. Can you come on in?”

  Mr. Contreras, beet-colored at the idea of talking to Mrs. Mohr while she was lying down, tried excusing himself. I grabbed his arm and propelled him forward.

  The bedroom scene was actually as chaste as could be. Instead of the normal pint-sized bungalow room, Mrs. Mohr occupied a master suite. A ruffled duvet hid the bed. Mrs. Mohr was slumped in a large chintz armchair, her feet on a matching footstool. She was dressed for day, in stockings and heels, her face fully made-up, so that the furrows cut by tears and terror emphasized her age. The neighbor sat next to her in a straight-backed chair. A pitcher of iced tea and a glass were at Mrs. Mohr’s elbow.

  The curtains, done in the same bright floral pattern, were pulled back so that only white gauze covered the windows. A set of French doors led to a patio. Beyond it I could see a swimming pool. A remarkable addition for a South Side home.

  “Here are some more friends for you, Gladys,” the neighbor said, getting up. “I’m going to go home for a while, but I’ll bring some supper over to you later.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Judy,” Mrs. Mohr said in the thread of a voice. “Cindy here can take care of me.”

  Cindy, Kerry, Kim—all those cute, girlish names parents love to bestow on their daughters, which don’t suit us when we’re middle-aged and grief-stricken. I thanked my mother’s memory for her fierce correction of anyone who called me Vicky.

  When Judy left I moved over to Mrs. Mohr’s side. “I’m V. I. Warshawski, Mrs. Mohr, and this is Mr. Contreras, who used to work with your husband. I’m so sorry about his death. And sorry we have to bother you.”

  Mrs. Mohr looked at me apathetically. “That’s all right. It doesn’t matter, really. I just wanted to know what the two of them talked about this morning. It seemed like afterward he was angry and upset, and I hate to have to remember him like that.”

  “It looks as though you have a lot to remember him by,” I said, indicating the room and the pool beyond with a sweep of my hand. “He seems to have been a wonderful provider.”

  “It was when he retired,” Mrs. Mohr explained. “He worked hard all his life and earned himself a good pension. Young people complain nowadays. Like all those niggers, they just want something for nothing. They don’t understand you have to work hard, the way Eddie and I did, to earn the nice things in life.”

  “Yes, indeed,” I said enthusiastically. “I know Mr. Contreras here, who worked with Eddie for—was it thirty years?—would love to put a pool in our backyard, but our co-op board won’t let him.”

  “Come on, doll,” Mr. Contreras said indignantly. “You know I don’t want to do anything like that. And even if I did, I don’t have the money for it.”

  “You don’t?” I said, reproachful. “I thought you worked hard all your life, just like Eddie Mohr. I know you said you could afford a car if you wanted one, although not necessarily a Buick Riviera along with an Oldsmobile.”

  A shade of alarm crossed Mrs. Mohr’s face. “Eddie was the president of the local for a long time. He did a lot for them at Diamond Head, and he got a special—special agreement when he retired. We didn’t want to say anything to any of the other men on the floor, because we knew it might not seem fair. We only could afford all this when he retired. They just finished work on the room here and the kitchen two months ago. But there was never anything dishonest about it. Eddie was a very honest man. He was with the Knights of Columbus and he was on the parish council. You can ask anyone.”

  “Of course.” I sat in the chair Judy had vacated and patted Mrs. Mohr’s hand in a soothing way, wondering if I was being as big a scab as I felt. “What kinds of special things did he do for them at Diamond Head?”

  She shook her head. “Eddie was a decent man. He left his work at work and never bothered me with it. When we were starting out, when it was the two of us with Cindy and her brothers, I had to work too. I baked cakes at Davison’s. It’s too bad we couldn’t have had some of this money back then.”

  “It’s only because the neighborhood went down so much that Dad could afford to do this,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Lots of houses standing empty. He could have moved away. He should have moved away. But he wanted to stay here because he grew up here, so he bought the lot behind us and added the pool. He was only helping the neighborhood and then they had to go and shoot him.”

  In the distance we heard the doorbell ring. Cindy Johnson moved off to answer it, patting her matted hair without seeming to feel it.

  Tears welled in Mrs. Mohr’s large eyes. She looked past me to Mr. Contreras. “What did he say to you? Or you to him? After he hung up he went back to his den—we turned the old kitchen into a den for him when we put the new one on last winter—and called some people. He wouldn’t tell me what the probl
em was, just went out and left me and I never saw him again. What did you say to him?”

  Despite the air-conditioning, Mr. Contreras was wiping sweat from his neck, but he answered manfully. “Him and me—we were never very close when we was working. He hung with a different crowd, you know how that goes. But I heard from one of the boys that he was giving a lot of money to a charity. I never heard of the outfit, but Vic here has some friends who played the piano or violin or something at one of their benefits. I told him we wanted to come talk to him about it. I don’t know why it got him so upset, and that’s a fact.”

  “What did he say to you?” Mrs. Mohr asked painfully.

  “He thanked me. Thanked me for calling him in advance, I guess was how he put it. If I’d known … I sure wish I hadn’t made that call.”

  “You think he went out to meet someone?” I asked Mrs. Mohr.

  She plaited and unplaited her fingers. “I … yes, I guess he must have. He said he was going to Barney’s—that’s a bar, but you can get sandwiches there—that he had to talk to a man and he wouldn’t be eating lunch with me.”

  “Is Barney’s where he went when he needed to talk to people privately?”

  “Men need a place where they can go and be with other men. You young girls don’t always understand that. But you can’t keep them tied to your apron strings all day long, it doesn’t do your marriage any good. And I know Barney; we grew up together. His father used to own the saloon before him. They’ve been there on the corner of Forty-first and Kedzie for sixty years now. They serve good sandwiches, good corned beef, none of that packaged stuff they sell you at these fast-food places. It was a good place for Eddie to go. He could shoot a little pool too. He always liked that. But I wish I hadn’t let him go today. If I’d kept him here, found out what made him so upset, he wouldn’t have been walking down the street when that car drove by. He’d be with me still.”