Burn Marks

14

Caught in the Act

I returned Furey’s and Robin Bessinger’s phone calls, more for something to do to stop my self-flagellation than from any real enthusiasm to talk to either. Furey wanted to apologize for his comments to me at the department yesterday and arrange a final trip to the Sox, who like the Cubs had long since faded into the sunset.

“I didn’t mean to criticize you,” he added. “It’s hard for us born-and-bred chauvinists to reform.”

“That’s okay,” I assured him with what goodwill I could muster. “I wasn’t at my best, anyway-Lieutenant Montgomery was jumping on my ass for the wrong reasons and it didn’t leave me feeling very friendly.”

After we’d talked a little about the meeting, and he’d given me some tips on the best way to handle Monty, he inquired about Elena.

I’d forgotten asking him to do a search for her. More dementia. More repellent busybodiedness. “Oh, nuts. I’m sorry-I should have told you-she showed up Sunday night safe and sound. With a truly hideous protégée.”

“Sounds bad,” he said with ready sympathy. “What was the protégée? Someone from the Indiana Arms?”

“Daughter.” I gave him a thumbnail sketch of Cerise. “Now she’s vanished into the woodwork, pregnant, addicted and all.”

“Want to give me her name and description? I could ask the boys to keep an eye out for her.”

“Ugh.” The last thing I wanted was for someone to drop Cerise on my doorstep again. On the other hand, for the sake of the fetus she was working on, someone ought to try to get her into a drug program. Why not the cops? I gave Michael the details.

“I don’t think this week is a good time for me to set a play date-I’ve been letting too many things slide and it’s starting to get me down. I’ll call next Monday or Tuesday, okay?”

“Yeah, Vic. Fine.” He hung up.

Furey was fundamentally good-natured. Caring enough to look out for a pregnant junkie he’d never seen. Eileen Mallory was right-he was good father material. I just wasn’t looking for a father. At least not for my unborn children.

I called Robin next. The lab they used had reported on the samples from the Indiana Arms. They’d confirmed his initial hunch on the accelerant-it had been paraffin.

I tried to force my mind to care about what he was saying. “Is it hard to buy?”

“It’s common,” he responded. “Easy to get hold of, even in large quantities, so I don’t think we can trace the user by looking for a purchaser. What’s interesting was the timing device they used to set the thing off. A hot plate had been plugged into it in the night man’s quarters.”

“So maybe the watchman had something to do with it.” Hard to think he didn’t if a timer was wired to his own appliance.

“The owner says he had only a night man at the desk, that he didn’t think the building warranted a watchman. We haven’t been able to locate the guy, though… Vic, you’ve done a lot of work for Ajax in the past. Successful work. I wondered-I talked to my boss-could we hire you on this one?”

“To do what?” I asked cautiously. “I don’t know a thing about arson-I couldn’t tell an accelerant from a match.”

He didn’t respond directly. “Even though the building was underinsured, we’re reserving over a million dollars. People were injured, and that means liability claims on top of the property loss. The police may not care, but it’d be worth it to us to invest several thousand in a professional investigation if we could save the big money. We’d like you to try to find the arsonist.”

I watched the windowpanes vibrate at the continuous stream of rush-hour L’s running just underneath. A little dirt shook loose, but not as much as whirled up to add to the glass’s gray opacity. It wasn’t a scene to bolster my low sense of competence.

“My fan club at Ajax doesn’t exactly include a unanimous chorus of senior staff. Does your boss have the authority to hire me without a lot of other people getting involved in the approval process?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s easy. We budget for outside investigators-they don’t have to be approved on a case-by-case basis.” He paused. “Could I interest you in dinner tonight? Try to help you make up your mind?”

I could picture his head tilted birdlike to one side as he watched to see if the worm would pop out of the ground. The image made me feel like smiling for the first time since finding my laundry on the floor this morning. “Dinner would be great.”

He suggested Calliope, a lively place on north Lincoln that served Greek-style seafood. They didn’t take reservations, but people could dance in the adjoining cabaret while waiting for their tables.

After hanging up I shut my office for the day. Another couple of inquiries had come in that I ought to deal with, but I didn’t have the emotional energy for work this afternoon.

By the time I walked back to the north end of the Loop for my car and picked my way through the rush-hour traffic home, I just had time for a long bath before dressing for dinner. I lay in the tub a good forty-five minutes, letting my mind float to nowhere, letting the water wash away the sharpest edge of self-doubt.

When I finally got out and started dressing, the late-summer twilight was turning the evening air a grayish-purple. I watched Mr. Contreras working in the backyard. The tomato season was ending but he was cultivating a few pumpkins with tender care. He liked to do Halloween in style for the local kids. In the dim light I could just make out Peppy lying on the grass, her nose on her forepaws, gloomily waiting for activity that might include her.

I went down the back way to bid him and the dog good night. The old man was on his dignity, miffed at my shortness with him this morning, but the dog was ecstatic. I had to work hard to keep her from transferring leaf loam or manure or whatever Mr. Contreras was piling on the pumpkins to my black silk trousers.

He refused to be mollified by my light remarks. I felt myself on the verge of apologizing and bit back the words in annoyance-there was no reason for him to know every detail of my life. If I wanted to keep a few small segments private, I shouldn’t have to say I was sorry. I gave him a cool farewell and slid through the back gate so that the dog couldn’t follow. Her frustrated whimpering accompanied me down the alley.

I walked the short mile to the restaurant. Stepping around a wide hole in the concrete I slipped on a discarded hot dog. Just one more of the joys of city life. I dusted my trouser knees. The fabric was bruised slightly but not torn. Not enough damage to justify a move to Streamwood.

Robin was waiting for me outside the restaurant door, looking elegant in gray flannel slacks and a navy blazer. He had come early to sign up for a table and the manager was just calling his name when we walked in. Perfect. If you’re born lucky, you don’t have to be good. Robin ordered a beer while I had a rum and tonic and some of the cod roe mousse the Calliope was famous for.

“How did you become a detective?” he asked after we’d given our dinner orders.

“I used to be with the public defender.” I spread some of the mousse on a piece of toast. “Trial division. It’s hideous work-you often get briefed on your client only five minutes before the trial begins. You always have more cases than time to work them effectively. And sometimes you’re pleading heart and soul for goons you hope will never see the light of day again.”

“So why didn’t you just go into private practice?” He scooped up some of the mousse. “This is good,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “I never tried it before.”

It was good-just salty enough to go down well with beer or rum. I ate some more and finished my drink before answering.

“I’d spent five years in the PD’s office-I didn’t want to have to start again at the beginning in a private practice. Anyway, I’d solved a case for a friend and realize it was work I could do well and get genuine satisfaction from. Plus, I can be my own boss.” I should have given that as my first reason-it continues to be the most important with me. Maybe from being an only child, used to getting my own way? Or just my mother’s fierce independence seeping into my DNA along with her olive skin.

After the waiter brought salads and a bottle of wine, I asked Robin how he ended up as an arson specialist. He grimaced.

“I don’t know anyone whose first choice is insurance, except maybe the kids whose fathers own agencies. I majored in art history. There wasn’t money to send me to graduate school. So I started work at Ajax. They had me designing policy forms-trying to make use of my artistic background”-he grinned briefly-“but I got out of that as fast as I could.”

During dinner he asked me about some of the earlier work I’d done for Ajax. It was my turn to make a face- the company didn’t know if it loved or hated me for fingering their claims vice president as the mastermind of a workers’ comp fraud scam. Robin was fascinated-he said there’d always been a lot of gossip circulating, but that no one had ever told the lower-downs what their vice president had really been up to.

Over Greek-style bouillabaisse he spent a little time persuading me to go back into the Ajax trenches once again. I knew I needed a major job, not just the nickel-and-dime stuff that had come over the transom the last few days. I knew I didn’t feel up to hustling for new clients right now, I knew I was going to say yes, but I asked him to call me at my office in the morning with some details.

“It’s been a roughish day,” I explained. “Tonight I just want to forget the detecting business and unwind.”

He didn’t seem to mind. The talk drifted to baseball and childhood while we finished eating. Dancing in the back room afterwards, we didn’t talk much at all. Around midnight we decided the time had come to move the few blocks north to my place. Robin said he’d leave his car at the restaurant and pick it up in the morning-we’d both had too much to drink to drive, and anyway, it was a beautiful late-summer night.

We turned the six blocks into a half-hour trek, moving slowly with our arms locked, stopping every few houses for a long kiss. When we finally got to my place I whispered urgent warnings of silence on Robin-I didn’t want Mr. Contreras or Vinnie the banker descending on us. While Robin stood behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist, I fumbled in my bag for my keys.

A car door slammed in front of the house. We moved to one side as footsteps came up the walk. A car searchlight pinned us against the apartment entrance.

“That you, Vicki? Sorry to interrupt, but we need to have a chat.” The voice, laden with heavy irony, was almost as familiar to me as my own father’s. It belonged to Lieutenant Robert Mallory, head of the Violent Crimes Unit at the Chicago Police’s Central District. I could feel my cheeks flame in the dark-no matter how cool you are, it unsettles you when your father’s oldest friend surprises you in a passionate embrace.

“I’m flattered, of course, Bobby. Two and a half million souls in the city, including your seven grandchildren, and when you have insomnia you come to me.”

Bobby ignored me. “Say good night to your friend here-we’re going for a ride.”

Robin made a creditable effort to intervene. I grabbed his arm. “They’ll put you in Cook County with the muggers and the buggers if you hit him-it’s a police lieutenant. Bobby-Robin Bessinger, Ajax Insurance. Robin-Bobby Mallory, Chicago’s finest.”

In the searchlight Bobby’s red face looked grayish-white; lines I didn’t usually notice sprang into craggy relief. He was coming up on his sixtieth birthday, after all. I’d even been invited to the surprise party his wife was planning for him in early October, but I hadn’t thought of the milestone as meaning he might be getting old. I pushed aside the stab of queasiness the idea of his aging gave me and said more loudly than I’d intended, “Where are we riding to and why, Bobby?”

I could see him wrestle with the desire to grab me and drag me forcibly to the waiting car. Most people don’t know that if you’re not under arrest you don’t have to go off with a policeman just because he tells you to. And most people won’t fight it even if they know it. Even a good cop like Bobby starts taking it for granted; a citizen like me helps him keep his powers in perspective.

“Tell your friend to take a hike.” He jerked his head at Robin.

If I obeyed him on that one, he’d play by the rules. It wasn’t a great compromise, but it was a compromise. I grudgingly asked Robin to leave. He agreed on condition that I call him as soon as the police were done with me, but when he got to the end of the walk, he stood to watch. I was touched.

“Okay, he’s gone. What do you need to talk about?”

Bobby frowned and pressed his lips together. Just a reflex of annoyance. “Night watchman found a body near a construction site around nine-thirty. She had something on her linking her to you.”

I had a sudden image of my aunt, dead drunk, getting hit by a car and left to die. I put a hand on the side of the building to steady myself. “Elena?” I asked foolishly.

“Elena?” Bobby was momentarily blank. “Oh, Tony’s sister. Not unless she shed fifty years and had her skin dyed for the occasion.”

It took me a minute to work out what he meant, A young black woman. Cerise. She wasn’t the only young black woman I know, but I couldn’t imagine any of the others dead near a construction site. “Who was it?”

“We want you to tell us.”

“What did you find that made you connect her with me?”

Bobby pressed his lips together again. He just didn’t want to tell me-old habits die hard. I thought he was about to speak when the door opened behind me and Vinnie the banker erupted into the night.

“This is it, Warshawski. This is the last time you get me up in the middle of the night. Just so you know it, the cops are on their way over. Don’t your friends ever think- shining a light straight into a window where people are sleeping? And talking at the top of their lungs? Or are you trying to lure people inside?”

He had changed out of his pajamas into jeans and a white button shirt. His thick brown hair was combed carefully from his face. He might even have taken the extra time to shampoo and blow-dry it before dialing 911.

“I’m glad you phoned them, Vinnie-they’ll be real happy when they get here. And so will the rest of the block when the squad cars cruise in with those new strobes of theirs painting the nighttime blue.”

Bobby looked at Vinnie. “You call the cops, son?”

The banker stuck his chin out pugnaciously. “Yes, I did. They’ll be here any minute. If you’re her pimp, you’ve got about two minutes to disappear.”

Bobby kept his tone avuncular. “Who you talk to, son-the precinct or the emergency number?”

Vinnie bristled. “I’m not your son. Don’t think you can buy me off too.”

Bobby looked at me, his lips twitching. “You been trying to sell him nickel bags, Vicki?”

He turned back to Vinnie, showing his badge. “I know Miss Warshawski isn’t the easiest neighbor in the world- I’m about to take her off your hands. But I need to know if you called 911 or the precinct so I can cancel the squad cars-I don’t want to waste any more city money tonight pulling patrol officers away from work they ought to be doing because you have a beef with your neighbors.”

Vinnie bunched up his lips, not wanting to back down but knowing he had to. “911,” he muttered, then said more defiantly, “And it’s about time someone took her in.”

Bobby looked toward the street and bellowed, “Furey!”

Michael climbed out of the car and trotted over. Just what I needed to complete the transformation of romance into farce-Michael must have seen me in a clinch with Robin at the door.

“This kid here called 911 when he heard me talking to Vicki-get on the radio and find out who’s coming and cancel them, okay? And turn off the light. Guy needs his beauty sleep.”

Michael, at his most wooden, ignored me completely and headed back to the car. Vinnie tried asking for Bobby’s badge number so he could lodge a complaint with the watch commander-“your boss” as he put it-but Bobby put a heavy hand on his shoulder and assured him that everyone had better things to do with their time, and if Vinnie had to be at the office in the morning, maybe it was time he turned back in.

“Well, at least get this woman to stop conducting her business in the front hall in the middle of the night,” Vinnie demanded petulantly as he opened the front door.

“Is that what you do, Vicki?” Bobby asked. “Lose your lease downtown?”

I gritted my teeth but didn’t try to fight it as he took my arm and ushered me down the walk-Mr. Contreras would doubtless be out next with the dog if we stayed any longer.

“Elena,” I said shortly. “She’s come around a few times in the last week. Always after midnight, of course.”

“I haven’t seen her since Tony’s funeral. Didn’t even know whether she was still in town.”

“I wish I hadn’t seen her since then, either. She got burned out of her place last Wednesday-you know that SRO fire near McCormick Place?”

Bobby grunted. “So she came to you. Underneath it all you’re not that different from your folks, I guess.”

That left me speechless for the remainder of the short walk. Bobby opened the back door for me. I waved at Robin and climbed inside.

Michael was sitting in the front seat, John McGonnigal- the sergeant Bobby most preferred to work with-in the back. I said hello to both of them. They kept up an animated conversation about police business all the way to the morgue. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have joined in.