Guardian Angel

by Sara Paretsky

  Fred Roper, the night guard, was triumphant. “I knew there couldn’t be something wrong with the air-conditioning. Not without them telling me about it when I came on duty.”

  “It only took you five hours to figure it out,” Mr. Contreras said. “What’d you have to do—take off your shoes and socks and think it through with your toes?”

  We hadn’t actually been arrested yet, just taken to one of the small side offices for questioning. Mr. Contreras’s adrenaline level was about high enough to send the Galileo probe hurtling past Mars. I kept hoping he would calm down before the charges against us multiplied—illegal entry and snoopery were bad enough. Although we’d managed to get most of the evidence packed up in time, Mr. Contreras was still rewinding coils of wire when the cops showed up.

  His last comment was certainly justified. It miffed Fred Roper no end. He explained for the third time, in detail, how he started getting suspicious when the last of the Crawford, Mead, employees left—around one-thirty—and we were still up there. He finally made up his mind that we might not be up to any good and called his boss. The security firm’s night manager phoned the building engineers’ night manager, and confirmed that all the appliances and wiring were functioning smoothly. On his boss’s instruction, Roper called the cops.

  Roper’s dull, nasal voice, and his excited repetitions made me want to jump up and strangle him. The police were no doubt using him as a weapon to torment me into confessing.

  “What were you doing here, anyway?” the senior member of the patrol demanded. “And no more of this shit about you being an electrician and this being your neighbor helping you out. The unions don’t operate like that. And your normal neighbors don’t carry guns or PI licenses.”

  Officer Arlington was a thickset man in his late fifties, with a bald spot that he tried to drape his few lingering hairs across. As soon as he’d pushed us into a conference room—before saying a word—he’d taken off his cap and combed his hair.

  “No, I know,” I said quickly, before Mr. Contreras could step to the mat again. “Mr. Contreras is just trying to protect me, which is really sweet of him. The truth is, well, this is painful to have to talk about to strangers.”

  “Get used to it, girlie—you’re going to see a lot of strangers before you finish telling your tale.” Officer Miniver, a younger black man, shared his partner’s menacing attitude toward suspects.

  “Well, it’s like this.” I spread my hands in a pantomime of feminine helplessness. “The man whose office we were in, he’s my ex-husband. And I can’t get him to keep up with his child-support payments. I don’t have any money, I can’t afford to take him to court—and anyway, how could I win against a big lawyer like him?”

  “Lots of ladies can’t get their child-support payments, but they don’t go breaking into their husbands’ offices. What was that supposed to do for you?”

  “I was hoping to find, well, evidence, I guess, of his ability to pay. That’s what he keeps telling me, that he can’t afford it because of his mortgage and his new family and everything in Oak Brook.”

  “And you needed a gun for that?” Miniver said derisively.

  “He’s threatened me in the past. Maybe it was foolish of me, but I didn’t want to be beaten up again.”

  “He’s a terrible man, terrible,” Mr. Contreras confirmed. “How he could treat a sweet girl like Vic here so mean I’ll never understand.”

  I could see neither Arlington nor Miniver’s heart was going to break over this. They seemed pleased to think Dick was clever enough to evade his obligations. They asked me a series of questions about our decree and how Dick had managed to avoid paying me anything for years.

  In the end, Arlington whistled admiringly. “Guess all that legal education gets you something after all.… Too bad you didn’t spend your money on a lawyer sooner, girlie, instead of breaking in here. Because you’re sure going to have to come up with the dough for one now that we’re arresting you.”

  “Why don’t we call Richard Yarborough first? He’s the one who has to press charges in the end.”

  “Yeah, but a guy who won’t pay child support sure isn’t going to be very understanding about you digging through his personal papers,” Arlington said.

  “Let him decide that. The one thing I know about Richard Stanley Yarborough is that he hates other people making up his mind for him.”

  It was four-thirty now. They felt they couldn’t possibly bother such an important lawyer in the middle of the night. Anyway, they were panting to take Mr. Contreras and me to the station and stuff us in holding cells for the remainder of the night.

  “I do get the one phone call,” I said. “And I don’t have any scruples about bothering a big man at home. So I’ll call him. You can listen in on the extension, but your watch commander won’t have to know you disturbed him.”

  Before either Miniver or Arlington could object I went to the phone standing in the corner and dialed his home. It’s one of those mental perversities that I know Dick’s number by heart.

  He answered on the fifth ring, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Dick, it’s V.I.”

  “Vic! What the fuck are you doing calling now? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Four-thirty-five. I’m down at your office and a couple of cops want to arrest me for illegal entry. I thought you’d like to put your two cents in first.”

  There was no extension in the room. Arlington had sent Miniver scurrying down the hall to find a line he could listen in on. I heard a click just then as he came on.

  “Damn right I do. What the hell are you doing in my office?”

  “I felt so bad about spoiling your shirt this morning that I just couldn’t sleep. I thought if I could take it home and wash it for you, you might forgive me. Of course, ironing isn’t my strong suit, but maybe Teri would do that.”

  “Damn you, Vic!” I heard a muffled voice in the background, and then Dick, softly, saying, “No, it’s all right, sweetheart. Just a client who’s gotten herself in over her head. Sorry to wake you up.”

  “The lady says you won’t pay her child support,” Miniver interjected on his line.

  “I won’t what?”

  “Dick, if you keep shouting like that, poor old Teri’s never going to get back to sleep. You know, the back payments you owe me for little Eddie and Mitch. But I looked in your Diamond Head file, and found that you had more cash than I ever dreamed of. I haven’t been able to buy myself new shoes because every dime I make goes to feeding your two little boys, but if you could spare something out of Diamond Head, well, it would make a big difference.”

  There was a long silence, then Dick demanded to talk to the officer without my being on the phone. Miniver, to make sure it stuck, had me bring Arlington onto the line. Dick seemed to be asking if I had been searched, because Arlington said all they’d found was a gun.

  “He wants to talk to you again.” Arlington jerked his head at me.

  “You don’t have any proof,” Dick said peremptorily when I was back on the line.

  “Sweetheart, you’re always underestimating me. I smuggled it out of the building before the cops showed up. Believe me, I could be showing it to my newspaper friends by this time tomorrow.”

  He was so quiet I could hear the Oak Brook birds begin to tweet behind him. “You still there, Officer?” he said at last. “You can let her go. I don’t think I want to press charges at this time.”

  Miniver and Arlington were so disappointed at not being able to arrest us that we cleared the building as fast as possible. I didn’t want them to dream up some secondary charge, like impersonating an electrician. The police followed us to the Nova, and then tailed me closely until I had passed the LaSalle exit on Lake Shore Drive. They finally got off at Fullerton.

  We rode up to Belmont, where I turned into the harbor and cut the engine. The eastern sky was already rosy with the coming dawn.

  We grinned at each other, then suddenly both began laughin
g. We laughed until our ribs ached and the tears streamed down our cheeks.

  “What do we do now?” Mr. Contreras asked when he’d recovered from the fit.

  “Sleep. I can’t do anything else without a few hours in bed.”

  “You know, doll, I’m so … I don’t know what the word is. I don’t think I can sleep.”

  “Wired,” I supplied. “Yeah, but you’ll crash pretty soon and then you won’t be good for anything. Besides, Peppy needs you. What I think …”

  I squinted at my watch. Five-fifteen. It was early to call anyone, but I didn’t want to go back into our building alone right now. My own apartment should be secure, but if Vinnie was tied in to Chamfers at all, he could let a whole gang into the building to waylay me. Or worse yet, my neighbor. I was damned if I was going to cry for help to Conrad Rawlings. That meant I needed to turn to my friends the Streeter Brothers. They ran a furniture-moving business, but did a little security work on the side.

  As it turned out, I didn’t wake Tim Streeter. He and his brother Tom were already up, getting ready for an early breakfast before starting a moving job. If I could wait until six he’d be able to bring a crew of five over to my building on their way to the move.

  I was ravenous. We whiled away the time at the all-night diner where we’d stopped last night. Mr. Contreras, who hadn’t thought he was hungry, packed away three fried eggs, hash browns, a side of ham, and four pieces of toast. I stopped after two eggs and the hash browns. I hoped no one was going to jump us: a full stomach isn’t the best preparation for battle.

  Tim and Tom Streeter showed up at ten after six, whistling lightly and joking with their crew. The Streeter boys are both enormous, topping six-four and muscled to move pianos down five flights of stairs. The three other men weren’t exactly tiny either.

  Leaving two of the crew out front, the rest of us went around to the back. If someone was hanging out on the stairs there, we’d be able to spot them before walking into a trap. The sun was well up now; it was obvious that the area was clear. We checked behind the garbage cans in the basement entry just to be sure, then went up to my place. No one had penetrated my security system.

  We were cautious in moving through the front door into the main stairwell, but it was clear too. I used my flash. Someone had been here last night: they’d left a crumpled McDonald’s bag on the floor. And urinated on the stairs. For some reason that enraged me more than the idea of people lying in wait for me.

  “It’s just punks, cookie,” Mr. Contreras reassured me. “You can’t let yourself get so wound up over a bunch of punks. I’ll come up and clean it for you.”

  “You go take care of Peppy. I’ll worry about this.”

  Tim asked if I wanted someone to spend the day—they could manage the move with four men if they had to. I rubbed my eyes, trying to think. Exhaustion was beginning to encase my brain in concrete.

  “I don’t think so. We should be okay during the day. Can I check with you tonight? Would you have someone if we need an extra body in a fight?”

  Tim agreed readily—business had been light lately. With the recession, fewer people were buying new places and moving into them. We went downstairs together, to make sure Mr. Contreras’s place was clear. I barely had the energy left at that point to make it back up the three flights to my own apartment. I knew I should scrub the stairwell, but couldn’t force the extra action on my body. I just remembered to take off the shoulder holster and unhook my bra before collapsing across the bed.

  49

  When Top Management Talks …

  My sleep was punctuated by dreams of the worst job I’d ever held, trying to sell Time-Life books by phone in the early seventies, except in my dreams I was being pursued by a relentless telemarketer. At one point I thought I’d actually picked up the phone and yelled “I don’t want to buy anything now” into it. I slammed it down only to have it start ringing again.

  I sat up in bed. It was one-thirty and my mouth felt like a cotton-ball factory. The phone was ringing. I eyed it malevolently, but finally picked it up.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this V. I. Warshawski? Why in hell did you hang up on me just now? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  “I’m not on your payroll, Mr. Loring. I’m not worried about jumping high enough fast enough to keep you happy.”

  “Don’t give me that crap, Warshawski. You yanked pretty hard on my chain Monday, warned me Paragon’s affairs would be in the papers if I didn’t talk to you. You can’t pull a stunt like that, then leave me hanging.”

  I made a sour face at the phone. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

  “Not over the phone. You can meet me in Lincolnwood in half an hour if you leave now.”

  “Yes, but I’m not leaving the city today. You can be here in half an hour if you leave now.” He hated it. All executives hate it when you don’t leap the first moment they bark out an order. But I couldn’t stray from my base, even assuming my stiff body would start moving. Between Vinnie and Dick something was going to happen soon. I wanted to be here for it.

  The conversation ended with my giving Loring directions on how to find my apartment. “And by the way, how did you get my home number? It’s not listed.”

  “Oh, that. I called some people to find out about you and they sicced me onto Daraugh Graham at Continental Lakeside. He gave it to me.” The old executive network strikes back.

  I staggered into the bathroom to scrub my teeth clean of lint. If I only had half an hour, I needed a workout more than I did coffee. Since I still hadn’t replaced my running shoes I put everything I had into my exercises, working a lot more with my handweights than usual. It took a full forty minutes but my brain felt looser, as if it might be willing to do a little work if called on.

  I showered and dressed. I dug through the mess on the floor of my hall closet and unearthed an old pair of running shoes. They dated back five or six years and were worn too thin for serious running, but they made getting around easier than the loafers I’d been wearing.

  Since Loring still hadn’t shown, I made coffee and a snack. After fried eggs at six this morning it was time to get back to a healthier regimen. I sautéed tofu with spinach and mushrooms and took it into the living room with the Smith & Wesson. I didn’t seriously expect Loring to attack me, but I didn’t want to be really stupid at this point either. I tucked the gun under a stack of papers on the couch and curled up cross-legged next to them.

  I was halfway through my tofu when Luke Edwards called to tell me the Trans Am was ready. He gave me a lugubrious account of the patient’s near-death and her survival, due solely to his heroic efforts.

  “You can come get it today, Warshawski. In fact, I wish you would—I need the Impala back. I’ve got someone who wants to buy it.”

  With a guilty jolt I remembered leaving the Impala around the corner from Barney’s on Forty-first Street. With all the truck traffic in and out of the warehouses there, I sincerely hoped Luke’s baby was in one piece. I calculated times. If Loring arrived soon I’d be able to leave by four, but I’d have to go south on public transportation—otherwise I’d just have to fetch Rent-A-Wreck’s Nova back later.

  “I don’t think I can make it before six, Luke.”

  “I got plenty to keep me busy here, Warshawski. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  When he’d hung up I looked at my watch again. It was close to three now—I guess Loring had to prove he could keep me waiting, since I had made him come south. Corporate egos are a much more disagreeable feature of my job than the occasional thug.

  I called a friend of mine who was a senior counsel for the Department of Labor, and was lucky enough to find him in his office.

  “Jonathan: V. I. Warshawski.”

  It had been some months since we’d last spoken. We had to go through the ritual of discussing baseball—Jonathan, who’d grown up in Kansas City, had a regrettable affection for the Royals—before I could ask what I needed to know. I sketched it as a hypoth
etical scenario: a company wants to convert a union’s pension fund to an annuity and pocket the cash. They get the duly elected officers of the collective bargaining unit to sign on to the plan.

  “Now, suppose the officers sign on without putting it to a vote of the rank and file. Would the courts see that as legal?”

  Jonathan thought a bit. “Tough one, Vic. There’ve been some related cases under ERISA, and I think they hinge on how the local conducts its business. If the officers make other financial decisions for the local without a vote, I think they’d probably find that it was legal.”

  ERISA was a twelve-year-old law supposedly designed to protect pension and other retirement programs. It had already generated more volumes of federal case law than the Talmud.

  “What if the officers received, well, substantial cash for signing onto the plan?”

  “A bribe, in fact? I don’t know. If there was evidence of intent to defraud the union … but if it was just to convert a pension to an annuity, it’s possible ERISA would find it unethical but not illegal. Is it important enough that I should check up on it?”

  “It’s pretty important, yes.”

  He promised to look into it by Friday. When we’d hung up I wondered what position Dick was really in. He must have looked into the legal angle before getting Eddie Mohr to sign over the pension fund. Surely he hadn’t been so blinded by greed that he’d exposed himself to a federal prison sentence.

  My spinach was too cold now to be appetizing. I took the plate back to the kitchen. Presumably the folks at Diamond Head killed Mitch Kruger because he saw Eddie living well and wormed out of him how he’d got the money from the company. And when Mitch came around trying to get them to ante up for him, they conked him on the head and pushed him into the San. Did that mean they knew what they’d done was illegal? Or just that they were afraid it might be? People panic at the thought of exposure when they’ve done something shameful. And if the bosses let their panic be felt by underlings whom they’ve hired strictly for brute muscle, anything can happen. Still, Dick was walking a mighty fine line here.