Part 17 (1/2)
I suddenly thought of Morrell. He didn't have Murray's local connections in politics, but he had an entree into Nicola Aguinaldo's world. Vishnikov vouched for him. And I didn't think anyone knew I'd been talking to him.
I looked up his home number on my Palm Pilot, but as I was dialing I remembered his own nervousness about talking on the phone. If BB Baladine was really riding my a.s.s, he could have a tap on my line or even a remote device to pick up anything I said in my building. That might explain why I hadn't seen any obvious surveillance on the street: if they knew they could track me at home, they could jump me on my way out, without having to leave a man in place twentyfour hours a day.
I don't like having to be paranoid about everything I say and do, but I switched on a Mozart CD on my stereo and the Cubs on television and sat between them with my cell phone. It was hard for Morrell to understand me over the interference, but once he did he readily agreed to meet me for a drink.
If I was right about Baladine not doing onsite surveillance, then I could probably leave again as long as I was quiet about it. I waited until the roar from Wrigley Field rose to a fever pitch, both on the streets behind me and on the set in front of me, and slipped out my door in bare feet, carrying my sandals to avoid making noise on the upper landing. An hour later I was back at Drummers, in Edgewater.
When I described my exit to Morrell, making a comic story of it, he didn't laugh. ”That's the trouble with living in fear of the cops: you don't know if you're being a fool or taking sensible precautions.”
”My dad was a cop and a good honest man. And so were his friends. Some of them are still on the force.”
I thought of Frank Siekevitz. My dad trained him. The three of us used to go to baseball games together. Siekevitz wept at my dad's funeral and vowed in a tribute that made others cry to remain true to Tony's principles. Now he was backing away from me because Global Entertainment had leaned on him.
Maybe that was what was really keeping me from taking my story to my dad's oldest friend on the force. I was afraid deep down that Bobby Mallory would turn away, too. Not bought-no one could buy him-but any man with six children and a dozen grandchildren is vulnerable. Of course, everyone has a hostage to fortune.
If someone kidnapped Lotty, or threatened to hurt her- ”Where are you, Vic?” Morrell asked.
I jumped at his voice. ”In a place where I feel terrified and alone. That's why I called you. I need an ally, and I need one who doesn't have an easy lever to pry him apart. Unless-do you have children or lovers?”
He blinked. ”Are you asking me to risk myself for you because I'm alone in the world and no one cares if I die? Why should I do that?”
I felt my cheeks stain crimson. ”No reason I can think of. Unless you think I could teach you something useful, like how to jump off a building onto a moving freight train.”
”Probably not a skill I can use: most of the places I'm fleeing don't have buildings high enough to jump from. Anyway, don't you do financial investigations? Why were you jumping onto a train?”
I gave him as complete a rundown of the past two weeks as I could manage. He interrupted with the occasional question, but for the most part he sat quietly, chin in hand, dark eyes watching me.
”That's why I'm eager to talk to Nicola Aguinaldo's mother,” I finished. ”I need someone who can tell me who her daughter would run to-or from. Nicola worked for Robert Baladine, and he's definitely on the visiting team. Would she have gone to him and ended up being beaten or kicked for showing up? It matters terribly that her body's disappeared, and I'd like to know that Abuelita Mercedes really didn't bury it without an autopsy.”
Morrell put a warning hand on my arm; I hadn't noticed the waiter hovering nearby. I ordered a double espresso and a little gorgonzolapear pizza. Riding the rods Sat.u.r.day night had taken away my appet.i.te. I certainly didn't feel like drinking. No Philip Marlowe I, downing a pint of rye every time I got injured.
When the waiter had left I said, ”When Nicola died she was wearing not a dress but a long Ts.h.i.+rt, a Mad Virgin Ts.h.i.+rt. I think Lucian Frenada made it, and that doesn't make a lot of sense to me, either. How did she get it after making her break from Coolis? They can wear civilian clothes in jail, but not that kind of flimsy minidress.”
After the waiter brought our food, Morrell asked me what had happened to make me think someone might be monitoring my apartment. ”The last time we talked you weren't very forthcoming. Now you're rattled and want to make me an accessory, if not an ally.”
I grimaced. ”You weren't Chatty Cathy, either. I was willing to let it go because I thought I could get information on Aguinaldo some other way. But I haven't been able to, and anyway, so much is going on I can't seem to focus on any one problem. And then, when I got back from an outoftown a.s.signment this past Sat.u.r.day, I found that someone was trying to frame me in a major way.”
I went into more detail about the dope I'd found in my office and the chaos I'd seen at SpecialT Uniforms. ”I haven't been able to get hold of Frenada since the phone call-which presumably didn't come from him at all. I did go to see Lacey Dowell today-which sent her hotfoot to Global's lawyer, instead.”
When I finished, Morrell nodded to himself several times, as if digesting what I'd told him. ”Abuelita Mercedes really doesn't have her daughter's body. If her a.s.sailant got the body released, it's probably been buried or cremated by now: I don't think we can expect to find it.”
I agreed. ”The jobs are county patronage; it would be easy for a man whose clout owed Baladine or Poilevy a favor to misdirect a body if that was required. I did talk to Vishnikov the other day, and he said he'd check to see whether the body was still there but had been mislabeled. Maybe if my pals know Vishnikov is mounting a major investigation, they'll tip their hands. But the person I'd most like to talk to is Abuelita Mercedes. I would dearly love to ask her about her daughter's acquaintances.”
He shook his head. ”You sound like dynamite right now, to be blunt. I don't want you leading some menace to her doorstep. She fled her old apartment because someone was asking after her. Remember? You told me that yourself, and she confirms it.”
I ate a slice of my cold pizza. ”What if they weren't from INS or the state?
What if they were the people who killed Nicola, come to make sure she hadn't talked to her mother? No matter how much Abuelita Mercedes denied having heard from Nicola, they'd never believe her. Have you asked her yourself? If Nicola talked to her before she died, I mean?”
Morrell's lips twisted in a half smile. ”Bryant Vishnikov warned me that you'd wear me out if I got involved with you. No, I haven't asked her that, and yes, I'll make time to get back to Seora Mercedes in the next day or two.”
”Did Vishnikov tell you I'd consulted him about you as well? He didn't give me a character reading, though.”
”Maybe there's nothing people need to be warned about when they meet me,” he said with a sly smile.
”Or maybe too much to be covered in a single phrase. What does the C.L. stand for?”
”Good grief. Have you really been investigating me? I didn't think any record still existed of those initials. My parents didn't speak English, and they longed for America as for the promised land. They named me in the hopes I'd fit in when we finally got here and instead gave me something that got me beat up regularly. It would have hurt their feelings if I'd changed my name, so I use only my surname. Think of me as someone like Madonna or Prince.”
I imagined lying in bed with him, whispering ”Morrell” instead of-what name could have been that embarra.s.sing? Maybe they'd named him for name brands, like Clorox and Lysol. I blushed at my fantasy and hurried back to business.
The list of things that needed doing depressed me. I was like a tetherball, gyrating erratically from one side to another, depending on who was punching me.
My physical stamina was limited and my emotional energy was not much greater.
”There's one other thing I'd like to ask of you,” I said abruptly. ”I don't think it will wear you out, but who knows? I have a videotape of the police goons in my office. I'd like it taken to Cheviot Labs, to an engineer named Rieff who's been doing some work on Aguinaldo's dress for me. I was going to send it to him tomorrow, but I want copies made first. I'm too nervous about how much of my phone conversations may have been overheard. I'm thinking my a.s.sailant heard me talking to my client about my outoftown trip and used the opportunity to plant drugs in my office. If they heard me leave a message for Rieff Sat.u.r.day night they'll go to him, or intercept me, or do something to keep the tape from him. The other thing is a copy of a report on Lucian Frenada's finances. Global is going to slam him on-on Murray Ryerson's show tomorrow night, but I have evidence that he's not living in luxury off the drug business.
I want a million photocopies so it's public.”
”Fine.” Morrell held out a hand. ”I'll take care of those. What do you want me to do with the copies?”
”Of the videotape? One to my lawyer, the original to Rieff to see if he can pick up who Lemour was speaking to on his cell phone. One to Murray Ryerson. And the report on Frenada, that should go to all those people, and a bunch of reporters I know-I can make up a list for you.”
”How'd you videotape Lemour when he had you cuffed?”
”Carnifice Security isn't the only hightech player in the detective world.” I told him about the video gla.s.ses as I scribbled a media list on the back of an old parking receipt.
”I once helped photocopy details of torture conducted by the Brazil secret police,” Morrell said. ”It was a project organized by the Archbishop of Rio. We had a terrifying time, sneaking into the office after hours to see the records, copying them, returning them without anyone getting caught out or squealing. We could have used gla.s.ses like those. You going to be okay getting home?” he added as the waiter brought a check. ”You'd be welcome to stay with me-I've got a spare bedroom.”
It was appealing, the idea of not having to worry about who might be lying in wait outside my door. Besides, there was my fantasy, lying with his long fingers on my body-on my sore body, but maybe he had a lover of some s.e.x and wouldn't find an exhausted fortyplus detective s.e.xy, anyway.
Lotty had almost been killed once, helping me in a crisis, and Mr. Contreras had been shot. Conrad had left me after a similar episode. I couldn't bear to have one more person maimed on my account, even one I didn't know well. I thanked him but turned my roaring Skylark south toward home.
26.
If You Can't Swim, Keep Away from Sharks I had called Lotty from a pay phone on my way home to tell her I was still alive and to ask her to phone me with only the most innocuous questions. She wasn't best pleased at being awakened-it was past eleven-and took in my request with a terse wish for me to stop being so melodramatic. Melodramatic and foolhardy.
Those were hard words to take to bed.
When I left Mr. Contreras, he sent Peppy up with me for comfort. I hoped she brought enough that I could keep at bay my nervous fantasies about someone scaling the side of the building to break into my bedroom.
As I switched off the light the phone rang. I sucked in a breath, wondering what new threat might lie at the other end of the line, but I answered. ”Warshawski's twentyfourhour detective service.”
”Miss Warshawski?”
It was a child's voice, highpitched with its own nervousness. ”Yes, this is V.