Blood Shot

by Sara Paretsky

  The minister was a short, plump man whose remaining black hair was combed in two neat rows on either side of a wrinkled dome. He looked like the kind of TV preacher who makes your stomach turn, but as he spoke I realized I’d made the dread mistake of judging by appearances. He clearly had known Nancy well and spoke of her with eloquent forcefulness. I felt my throat tighten again and leaned back in the pew to inspect the ceiling beams. The wood had been painted in the blue and orange stencils popular in Victorian churches. By focusing on the intricate lacy patterns I was able to relax enough to join in the final hymn.

  I kept glancing at young Art. He spent the service perched on the edge of his pew, gripping the back of the bench in front of him. When the last chords of “In Heavenly Love Abiding” had finally been wrenched painfully from the organ, he slid out of his seat and headed for the exit.

  I caught up with him on the porch, where he was moving nervously from foot to foot, unable to free himself from a drunk panhandler. When I touched Art’s arm he jumped.

  “I didn’t know you and Nancy were friends,” I said. “She never mentioned you to me.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like “knew her slightly.”

  “I’m V. I. Warshawski. Nancy and I played high school and college basketball together. I saw you at the Tenth Ward office last week. You’re Art Jurshak’s son, aren’t you?”

  At that his chiseled-marble face turned even whiter; I was afraid he might faint. Even though he was a slender young man, I wasn’t sure I could break his fall.

  The drunk, who’d been listening interestedly, sidled closer. “Your friend looks pretty sick, lady. How about fifty cents for coffee-cup for him, cup for me.”

  I turned my back on him firmly and took Art’s elbow. “I’m a private detective and I’m trying to look into Nancy’s death. If you were friends with her, I’d like to talk to you. About her connections with your father’s office.”

  He shook his head dumbly, his blue eyes dark with fear. After a long internal debate he seemed to be on the brink of forcing himself to speak. Unfortunately as he opened his mouth the other mourners began emerging from the church. As soon as people started passing us Art wrenched himself from my grip and bolted down the street.

  I tried to follow, but tripped over the drunk. I cursed him roundly as I pulled myself back to my feet. He was reviling me in return, but broke off suddenly as McGonnigal appeared-years of living around the police gave him a sixth sense about them even in plainclothes.

  “What’s the redhead so scared of, Warshawski?” the sergeant demanded, ignoring the panhandler. We watched Art get into his car, a late-model Chrysler parked at the end of the street, and tear off.

  “I have that effect on men,” I said shortly. “Drives them mad. You find your murderer?”

  “I don’t know. Your male model here was the only person acting suspiciously. Why don’t you show what a helpful citizen you are and give me his name?”

  I turned to face him. “It’s no secret-the name is real well known down in these parts. Art Jurshak.”

  McGonnigal’s lips tightened. “Just because Mallory’s my boss doesn’t mean you have to jerk me around the way you do him. Tell me the kid’s name.”

  I held up my right hand. “Scout’s honor, Sergeant. Jurshak’s his old man. Young Art just joined his agency or his office or something. If you catch up with him, don’t use a rubber hose-I don’t think he’s got too much stamina.”

  McGonnigal grinned savagely. “Don’t worry, Warshawski. He’s got stronger protection than a thick skin. I won’t mess up his curly locks… You going over to the Cleghorn place for coffee? I heard some of the ladies talking about what they were bringing. Mind if I slide in with you?”

  “We little Polish detectives live to help the cops. Come along.”

  He grinned and held the car door open for me. “That get under your skin, Warshawski? My apologies-you’re not all that little.”

  A handful of mourners were already at the house on Muskegon when we got there. Mrs. Cleghorn, her makeup streaked with dried tears, greeted me warmly and accepted McGonnigal politely. I stood in the little entryway talking with her for a minute while the sergeant wandered into the back of the house.

  “Kerry took the children to her house, so things will be a little calmer today,” she said. “Maybe when I retire I’ll move to Oregon.”

  I hugged her. “Go across the country to avoid being a grandmother? Maybe you could just change the locks-it’d be less drastic.”

  “I guess it proves how upset I am, Victoria, talking like that-I’ve never wanted anyone to know how I felt about my sons’ children.” She paused a moment, then added awkwardly, “If you want to talk to Ron Kappelman about-about Nancy or anything, he’s in the living room.”

  The doorbell rang. While she moved to answer it I crossed the little hall to the living room. I’d never seen Ron Kappelman, but I didn’t have any trouble recognizing him-he was the only man in the room. He was about my age, perhaps a bit older, stocky, with dark brown hair cut close to his head. He wore a gray tweed jacket, which was frayed at the lapels and cuffs, and corduroy pants. He was sitting by himself on a round Naugahyde hassock, flipping idly through the pages of an old National Geographic.

  The four women in the room, the ones from church I’d assumed were Mrs. Cleghorn’s co-workers, were murmuring together in the other corner. They glanced over at me, saw they didn’t know me, and went back to their gentle buzzing.

  I pulled up a straight-backed chair next to Kappelman. He glanced at me, made a bit of a face, then tossed the magazine back to the coffee table.

  “I know,” I said sympathetically. “It’s a pain to talk to strangers at an affair like this. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think you could help me.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I doubt it, but you can try me.”

  “My name’s V. I. Warshawski. I’m an old friend of Nancy’s. We played basketball together a while back. A long while back.” I can’t get over how fast the years started zipping by after my thirtieth birthday. It just didn’t seem that long since Nancy and I had been in college.

  “Sure. I know who you are. Nance talked about you a number of times-said you kept her from going mad when the two of you were in high school. I’m Ron Kappelman, but you seemed to know that when you came in.”

  “Nancy tell you I’m a private investigator these days? Well, I hadn’t seen her for quite some time, but we got together for a basketball reunion a week or so ago.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he cut in. “We went to a meeting together right after. She talked about it.”

  A swarm of people buzzed into the room. Even though they were keeping their voices subdued, there wasn’t enough space to absorb the bodies or the sound. Someone standing over me lighted a cigarette and I felt hot ash land on the round neck of my bolero jacket.

  “Could we go somewhere to talk?” I asked. “Nancy’s old bedroom or a bar or something? I’m trying to look into her death, but I can’t seem to get a thread to pull on. I was hoping you could tell me something.”

  He shook his head. “Believe me, if I thought I had any hot dope, I’d’ve been to the cops like a rocket. But I’d be glad to get out of here.”

  We pushed our way through the crowd, paying affectionate respects to Mrs. Cleghorn as we left. The warmth with which she spoke to Kappelman seemed to indicate that he and Nancy had remained on good terms. I wondered vaguely what had happened to McGonnigal, but he was a big cop, he could look after himself.

  Outside, Kappelman said, “Why don’t you follow me down to my place in Pullman? There isn’t any coffee shop nearby that’s clean and quiet. As you surely know.”

  I trailed his decrepit Rabbit down side streets to 113th and Langley. He stopped in front of one of the tidy brick row houses that line Pullman’s streets, houses with sheer fronts and stoops that make you think of pictures of Philadelphia when the Constitution was signed.

  The neat, well-kept exterior didn’t rea
lly prepare me for the meticulous restoration inside. The walls were papered in bright Victorian floral designs, the paneling refinished to a glow of dark walnut, the furniture and rugs beautifully maintained period pieces set on well-finished hardwood floors.

  “This is gorgeous,” I said, overwhelmed. “Did you fix it up yourself?”

  He nodded. “Carpentry is kind of my hobby-makes a good switch from mucking about with the stunads I spend my days with. The furniture is all stuff I picked up at area flea markets.”

  He led me into a little kitchen with Italian tile on the floor and countertops and gleaming copper-bottomed pots on the walls. I perched on a high stool at one side of a tiled island while he made coffee at the burners on the other.

  “So who asked you to investigate Nancy’s death? Her mother? Not sure the cops will buck the politicos down here and see that justice runs its inexorable course?” He cocked an eye at me while deftly assembling an infusion pot.

  “Nope. If you know Mrs. Cleghorn at all, you must realize her mind doesn’t run to vengeance.”

  “So who’s your client?” He turned to the refrigerator and laid out cream and a plate of muffins.

  I absentmindedly watched the seat of his trousers tighten across his rear while he bent over. The seam was fraying; a few more deep bends could create an interesting situation. I nobly refrained from dropping a plate at his feet, but waited to answer until he was facing me again.

  “Part of what my clients buy when they hire me is confidentiality. If I blabbed their secrets to you, I could hardly expect you to blab yours to me, could I?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t got any secrets. At least not relating to Nancy Cleghorn. I’m the counsel for SCRAP. I work for a number of community groups-public interest law’s my specialty. Nancy was great to work with. She was organized, clearheaded, knew when to fight and when to drop back. Unlike her boss.”

  “Caroline?” It was hard to picture Caroline Djiak as any-one’s boss. “So all your dealings with Nancy were purely professional?”

  He pointed a coffee spoon at me. “Don’t try to trip me up, Warshawski. I play ball with the big boys. Cream? You ought to, you know-binds with the caffeine and keeps you from getting stomach cancer.”

  He set a heavy porcelain mug in front of me and stuck the plate of muffins into the microwave. “No. Nance and I had a brief fling a couple of years back. When I started at SCRAP. She was getting over a heavy thing and I’d been divorced about ten months. We cheered each other up, but we didn’t have anything special to offer each other. Besides friendship, which is special enough that you don’t screw it up. Certainly not by banging your friends on the head and dropping them in a swamp.”

  He took the muffins out of the oven and climbed onto a stool at the end of the counter on my left. I drank some of the rich coffee and took a blueberry muffin.

  “I’ll let the cops take you through your paces. Where were you Thursday afternoon at two P.M. and so on. What I really want to know, though, is who Nancy thought was following her. Did she think she’d got Dresberg’s back up? Or did it really have anything to do with the recycling plant?”

  He grimaced. “Little Caroline’s theory-which makes me want to trash it. Not a good attitude for her outfit’s counsel to take. Truth is, I don’t know. We were both pissed as hell after the hearing two weeks ago. When we talked on Tuesday, Nance said she’d cover the political angle, see if she could find out if and why Jurshak was blocking it. I was working on the legal stuff, wondering if we could finesse the MSD-Metropolitan Sanitary District-to get the permit. Maybe get the state and U.S. EPA departments involved.”

  He absentmindedly ate a second muffin and buttered a third. His bulging waistline made me shake my head when he offered me the plate.

  “So you don’t know who she talked to in Jurshak’s office?”

  He shook his head. “I had the impression, nothing concrete to go on, but I think she had a lover there. Someone she was a little ashamed of seeing and didn’t want her pals to know about, or someone she thought she had to protect.” He stared into the distance, trying to put his feelings into words. “Canceling dinner plans, not wanting to go to the Hawks games, which we shared season tickets to. Stuff like that. So she could’ve been getting information from him and not wanting me to know about it. The last time we spoke-a week ago today it must have been-she said she thought she was onto something but she needed more evidence. I never talked to her again.” He stopped abruptly and busied himself with his coffee.

  “Well, what about Dresberg? Based on what you know of the situation down there, would you think he might’ve been against this recycling center?”

  “God, I wouldn’t think so. Although with a guy like that you never know. Look.”

  He set down his coffee cup and leaned intently across the counter, sketching Dresberg’s operations with sweeping gestures. The garbage empire included hauling, incinerating, storage-container and landfill operations. Within his domain Dresberg was protective of any perceived encroachments-even any questioning. Hence the threats a year before when Caroline and Nancy had tried to oppose a new PCB incinerator that didn’t meet code standards.

  “But the recycling center didn’t have anything to do with any of his operations,” he finished. “Xerxes and Glow-Rite are just dumping into their own lagoons right now. All SCRAP would do is take the wastes and recycle them.”

  I thought about it. “He could see expansion potential cutting into his business down the road. Or maybe he wants SCRAP to use his trucks to do the hauling.”

  He shook his head. “If that was the case, he’d just be putting an arm on them to use his trucks, not offing Nancy. I’m not saying it’s impossible he was involved. The plant’s certainly in his sphere. But it doesn’t leap out at me on the surface.”

  We let the talk drift after that, to friends we had in common at the Illinois bar, to my cousin Boom-Boom, whom Kappelman used to watch at the Stadium when he was with the Hawks.

  “There’s never been another player like him,” Kappelman said regretfully.

  “You’re telling me.” I got up and put on my coat. “So if you come across something strange-anything, whether it seems to have a direct bearing on Nancy’s death or not-give me a call, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” His gaze seemed a little unfocused. He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind, shook my hand, and escorted me to the door.

  18

  In His Father’s Shadow

  I didn’t disbelieve Kappelman. I didn’t believe him, either. I mean the guy made a living persuading judges and commissioners to support community groups instead of the industrial or political heavyweights they usually favored. Despite his frayed trousers and jacket, I suspected he was pretty convincing. And if Nancy and he were the good buddies he claimed they’d been, was it really credible that she hadn’t given him the ghost of an idea about what she’d learned from the alderman’s office?

  Of course it was a little pat on my part looking for Dresberg to be the fall guy. Just because he had made threats in the past and had a lot of muscle and was interested in waste disposal.

  I meandered across side streets and headed into East Side, to the ward offices on Avenue M. It was a little after three and the place was hopping. I passed a couple of patrol cops coming out. When I got into the main office my old pals with the paunches were hard at it with a half-dozen or so favor-seekers. Another couple, maybe patronage workers through with street cleaning for the day, were playing checkers in the window.

  Nobody really looked at me, but the conversations quieted down, “I’m looking for young Art,” I said amiably in the direction of the bald man who’d been the spokesman on my first visit.

  “Not here,” he said briefly, without looking up.

  “When do you expect him?”

  The three office workers exchanged the silent communication I’d observed earlier and agreed that my question warranted a slight chuckle.

  “We don’t,” Baldy
said, going back to his client.

  “Do you know where else I could find him?”

  “We don’t keep tabs on the kid,” Baldy expanded, thinking perhaps of the claim drafts they were expecting from me. “Sometimes he shows up in the afternoon, sometimes he don’t. He hasn’t been in today so he might turn up. You never know.”

  “I see.” I picked up the Sun-Times from his desk and sat in one of the chairs lining the wall. It was an old wooden one, yellow and scuffed, extremely uncomfortable. I read “Sylvia,” skimmed the sports pages, and tried interesting myself in the latest Greylord trial, shifting my pelvis around on the hard surface in an unsuccessful search for a spot that wouldn’t rub against my bones. After about half an hour I gave it up and put one of my cards on Baldy’s desk.

  “V. I. Warshawski. I’ll try back in a bit. Tell him to call me if I miss him.”

  Except for the blueberry muffin Ron Kappelman had given me, I hadn’t really eaten today. I went down to the comer of Ewing, where a neighborhood bar advertised submarines and Italian beef, and had a meatball sub with a draft. I’m not much of a beer drinker, but it seemed more suited to the neighborhood than diet soda.

  When I got back to the ward office the visitors had pretty well cleared out except for the checker players in the comer. Baldy shook his head at me to indicate-I think-that young Art hadn’t been in. I felt proud of myself-I was beginning to seem like a regular.

  I pulled a little spiral notebook from my bag. To entertain myself while I waited I tried calculating the expenses I’d incurred since starting to look for Caroline Djiak’s old man. I’ve always been a little jealous of Kinsey Milhone’s immaculate record-keeping; I didn’t even have receipts for meals or gas. Certainly not for cleaning up the Magli pumps, which was going to run close to thirty dollars.

  I’d gotten up to two hundred and fifty when young Art came in with his usual diffident step. There was something in his face, a naked desire for acceptance from the tired old pols in the room, that made me flinch. They looked at him unblinkingly, waiting for him to speak. And finally he obliged.