Текст книги "Brush Back"
Автор книги: Sara Paretsky
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 28 страниц)
FORCE PLAY
It was the second week of the regular season, that brief window when Cubs fans forget the eleven-month winter of their discontent and imagine that the glories of New York or St. Louis will become ours. The team was away, playing in Cincinnati, but the front offices would be well staffed.
The ballpark is walking distance from my apartment. I parked at home so I could change into presentable clothes, including my Lario boots, which always make me feel important. Bernie arrived as I was coming back down the front walk.
“You look tough, Vic, where are you going?”
“Wrigley Field—want to come with me?”
“Oh, baseball. Merci, non, trop ennuyant. Since you won’t be home, I can take a proper bath.” We’d had a bit of a tussle over whether an hour in the bathroom was really essential for proper hygiene. “And, no worries, I will take my hair out of the tub when I’m done.” Another discussion.
Even when the team is away, even when the baseball season is over, the doors at Clark and Addison are open for guided tours. I paid twenty-five dollars to join a group. While they were admiring the spot where Harry Caray used to lead fans in “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” I slipped away, until I found a door labeled Media Relations.
A woman was on the phone, a bright smile on her face as she answered questions about rumors of an injury to Enrique Velasquez’s left knee. When she hung up, she flashed another smile in my direction.
“I’m V. I. Warshawski. I was looking for Will Drechen.” I’d looked up the front office staff before leaving my apartment; Drechen was assistant director of media relations.
The smile turned into regret; Will wasn’t in, but she was Natalie Clements, his assistant. Could she help?
“I’m on a wild-goose chase. I’m writing a biography of Boom-Boom Warshawski.”
“I’m new to the organization,” Natalie said apologetically. “I don’t know all the old players’ names yet.”
I shook my head. “Boom-Boom played for the Blackhawks, tied Gretzky for most goals in 1990. And right about that time, he spent an afternoon here at Wrigley, during one of the amateur tryouts. I know it’s a long shot, but I’d love to find someone who was at the tryouts that year. If there was a photo, that would be a plus, but mostly I want background and color on how the day went. He could be a bit of a hot dog—I’m wondering if he tried to hit a ball or field or anything.”
Natalie held up a finger while she answered her phone; two more calls came in and I wandered to the window to look out. Frank was right: that perfect grass under a spring sky, you did think heaven might look like this.
Natalie finished her calls and apologized again. She took down a detailed message for Mr. Drechen, who was in a meeting, and noticed my last name. Yes, I was related—I pulled out my iPad and showed her the photo of Boom-Boom and me with the Stanley Cup the day it was his turn to have it. He and I had rented a convertible and driven the length of the city, me at the wheel and Boom-Boom sitting on the trunk, holding the Cup.
“Gosh, wish I’d been the press officer that day,” Natalie said. “Great photo op. Anytime your cousin wants to bring the Cup to Wrigley Field—”
He was dead, I said, but added that the Blackhawks were always game for publicity opportunities. Maybe when I’d finished the project we could work something out.
I wondered if I’d ever hear back from the Cubs, wondered, too, what had made me go up there. Maybe I wanted reassurance that Boom-Boom hadn’t jinxed Frank’s tryout.
Bernie was still in the bath when I got home. It was only mid-afternoon—still time to do some actual paying work. I drove to my office, where I put my Guzzo notes into a hanging file before turning to the fires my regular clients needed help extinguishing. That night, Jake took me dancing at Hot Rococo, where friends of his were playing. Maybe he couldn’t sucker punch a punk in an alleyway, but no one else had ever made me feel lighter than air on a dance floor.
Jake was having his own problems—congressional failure to act on a federal budget had set cuts for everything from roads to military equipment. Arts budgets had been slashed to the bone. Below the bone—funding had already been chopped many times over. His High Plainsong group might have to dissolve: they’d laid off their administrator and were scrambling for free rehearsal space.
When his friends’ gig at Hot Rococo ended, we all went out for pizza. The musicians grumbled, then imagined the opera they could write about starving artists.
“It would be like La Bohème, except Congress would be watching Mimi and Rodolfo and laughing their heads off,” the drummer explained. “As Mimi dies of malnutrition in the last act, a chorus of Congress members sings the spirited finale, ‘She got what she deserved for not being born rich.’”
We all laughed, but there was a bitter undercurrent to it. They worked hard, they took multiple gigs, but the music that lay at the core of their beings kept getting shoved to the sidelines.
Over the next week, the Guzzos disappeared nicely into the tar pits where they belonged. And then came the afternoon I was preparing sea bass alla veneziana for Max, Lotty and Jake. Bernie was going out with a couple of young women she’d met through her peewee hockey coaching, Mr. Contreras had a regular poker date with his retired machinist buddies.
I whipped the egg whites and coated the fish and was laying them in their salt bed when my phone barked at me, the signal that a preferred contact had sent me a text.
I peered at the screen. The Boom-Boom story is going out on our six o’clock local news. Any comment? M.R.
Murray Ryerson. Murray had been a great investigative journalist until Global Entertainment bought the Herald-Star, slashed the number of reporters by two-thirds, and left him doing odd jobs on their cable news network.
I washed my hands and called him. “What Boom-Boom story?”
“Ah, V.I., you’re restoring my faith. Can she have been sitting on this all these years and not shared it with her closest comrade in the fight for truth and justice? No, I thought, but then I remembered the time you left me at a party to cover a homicide and didn’t bother to call. I remembered when you were outing the Xerxes Chemical CEO for malicious misconduct and didn’t call, and I thought, the Girl Detective is two-timing you again, Ryerson, but I’ll give her the benefit—”
“Murray, do you have a point, or has TV made you think everyone around you is a captive audience?”
“I was just trying to lighten your mood,” he complained. “Did Boom-Boom kill Annie Guzzo and let her mother spend twenty-five years in the Big House for said murder?”
“What?” Fury was rising in me. I struggled to keep it at bay, to make sense of what Murray was saying. “Is this some creepy made-for-TV movie that Global is confusing with reality?”
“You really didn’t know?” Murray said. “It’s about to be all over the airwaves. And the Internet.”
“Global is putting that out, with no digging, no verification?”
“Of course they’re not,” Murray said. “They’re asking me to do some fact-checking. Which is why I’ve called you for a comment. In the meantime, though, people have been tweeting about it all day. It went viral this afternoon, so Global has to look as though we’re ahead of the story. Boom-Boom may have been dead a lot of years, but his name is still news in this town. What can you tell me?”
“That your involvement in this cesspool means you will never get another break from me again. Ever.” I hung up.
Max and Lotty arrived as I was bent over my laptop, following Global’s Twitter feed. I hugged them both, mechanically, explaining what was happening. Jake wasn’t home yet; he’d sent a text that his rehearsal was running late.
I left the fish lying in their salt bed to turn on the TV for Global’s breaking news. Boom-Boom was the top story. They led with him at the Blues net, stick up after scoring a game-winning goal, and moved from there to Annie Guzzo’s murder. They’d dug up her high school yearbook photo. She wasn’t smiling, but she conveyed an eager intensity: she’d been a girl with a sense of mission.
The camera switched back to Beth Blacksin at the news desk. “Speaking through her lawyer, Ms. Guzzo says she came on a diary that her daughter kept in the months before her death. In it, Anne Guzzo supposedly reported that Bernard ‘Boom-Boom’ Warshawski was increasingly jealous of her wishes to leave Chicago and have an independent life. Channel Thirteen has not been able to see the actual diary, but Ms. Guzzo’s lawyer gave us a typescript of the relevant page.”
Blacksin held up a piece of paper, meaningless, since we weren’t seeing the actual diary. “Stella Guzzo is making a case that Boom-Boom Warshawski murdered Anne in a fit of jealous rage and framed her for the murder, with the assistance of Warshawski’s uncle, police officer Tony Warshawski. Ms. Guzzo says that the Warshawski family has feuded with her ever since her husband, the late Mateo Guzzo, spurned sexual advances from Officer Warshawski’s wife, Gabriella.”
They flashed my father’s picture on the screen in his dress uniform, my mother at his side. Blacksin further identified Tony as father of Chicago private eye V. I. Warshawski.
A rage so huge it blinded me filled my head. I was at the safe in my bedroom closet, getting the gun out, checking the clip, without knowing how I got there.
“Victoria. No!” Lotty appeared behind me.
“She’s attacked my mother for the last time.” The hoarse voice wasn’t mine.
Lotty slapped me. “You will not act like this, Victoria!”
I gasped, glared at her, but put the gun down. I’d been clenching the clip so tightly it had sliced my palm. Blood welled around the cut.
“Vic, have you seen—they are telling horrible lies about Uncle Boom-Boom.”
It was Bernie, pushing her way past Lotty to get to me. “I was out with the girls from the hockey club and they had a television on. This is terrible. I called my papa, and he says he can get a leave of absence from the Canadiens, we’ll do what– Ah, you’ve got a gun. This is good, Papa told me you wouldn’t take it lying down!”
“She is not going to shoot anyone,” Lotty said, her face set in hard lines.
“But—Dr. Lotty—have you heard what they’re saying? That Uncle Boom-Boom murdered some girl all those years ago because of reasons so ridiculous no one could believe them?”
“Yes, I’m almost beside myself with fury,” I said. “But that clouds the mind, and—and I think I need to sit down.”
Lotty put an arm around me, leading me from the bedroom into the living room, into the big armchair. She brought a damp cloth from the kitchen, bathed the blood from my palm, but held on to my hand when she was done.
“Victoria, you love your cousin, you love your parents, these lies against them are hard to stomach, but believe me, when you have lost everyone, the people left to you are more precious. I can’t lose you and that’s what will happen if you give way to that kind of fury. I—please, my dear one, don’t let me see that in your face again.”
“Right.” I tried to smile, but my face felt as though it were made out of putty, not able to form a shape. “My mother would hate it, too.”
Bernie hovered a little way from us, frowning. “But you must stop those lies!”
“Yep, I agree. But I’m not up to figuring out how to do it tonight. We’ll make a plan in the morning.”
“What’s up? What’s wrong with you, V.I.?” Jake had come in, holding a bottle of Orvieto. I’d forgotten asking him to pick up wine to go with the fish.
“Only a brief brainstorm. I’m over it.” I’d succumbed to the rage of Stella, the rage that led her to bludgeon her daughter to death. The rage that filled her head day after day. No wonder she hadn’t bought time off for good behavior.
Max gave Jake a short précis of the news.
Jake nodded. “She is Medea, isn’t she? You think it’s a myth, and then you meet it in real life. Euripides knew something about human nature.”
“Medea gets off scot-free at the end,” I said, “she rides off in Apollo’s chariot. I guess that’s what Stella’s trying to do.”
“In Cherubini’s version, she’s burned up in the temple with the children she murdered,” Jake said. “I like that one better.”
“Fine,” Bernie said. “Turn it into a game, don’t do anything to help. I thought you loved Uncle Boom-Boom.”
I forced myself out of the chair. “Bernie, racing around town firing my gun wouldn’t solve any problems, just get me killed or arrested. I wouldn’t even know whom to shoot.”
“That terrible old woman, that Medea!”
“No, darling. She may be demented or delusional, which isn’t a reason to shoot her. Or someone else may be manipulating her for reasons none of us can even begin to guess at. We don’t know if this diary is real or if someone planted it in her house to stir up Stella’s passions.”
Bernie glared, her lower lip thrust out. “What will you do?”
“Try to get a few facts. But not until morning, when my head is clearer. Come help me set the table while I try to cook this branzino the way I had it in Venice.”
CROWD NOISE
While we ate, my landline kept ringing. Max answered. Every television station in North America wanted to talk to me about Boom-Boom. Max told callers it was a mistake that would be absurd if it wasn’t so vile and that all questions should be directed to my own attorney. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Max had Freeman Carter’s name and number in his Rolodex—he’s the kind of person who knows everyone and puts people together.
When dinner was over, I called Freeman myself, on my cell, to let him know what was going on. “I don’t suppose I can sue Stella, or whoever made up this story.”
“Didn’t you go to law school, Vic?” he said. “This is stomach-turning, but you know as well as I that the dead can’t bring a cause of action for defamation. Nor can their angry relatives. It will be a two-day wonder. The only thing reacting to it will accomplish will be to keep the story alive longer.”
I snarled at him, but I knew he was right. When he’d hung up, I went into the walk-in closet next to the living room. I have a trunk full of memorabilia there, and after carefully laying aside my mother’s velvet and gauze concert gown, I dug through the papers, looking for a condolence letter Annie Guzzo had sent Tony and me when Gabriella died.
When I came on it, I called Freeman again. “I have a sample of Annie’s handwriting. If you can get Stella’s lawyer—”
Freeman cut me off. “Stella’s lawyer just called me: he’s persuaded a judge to sign an emergency restraining order against you.”
I was almost too astonished to be angry. Almost. “On what spurious grounds did that happen?”
“She says you came to her house and hit her.”
“Damn it, Freeman, she aimed a punch right at my throat. If she’d connected, I’d be dead. As it is, I have a bruise on my shoulder that went pretty deep.”
“Vic, I don’t doubt you—but who’s a judge going to believe? An eighty-year-old grandmother, or an athletic younger detective? Just make sure you do not go within fifty feet of her until we can settle this in court.”
The muscles in my neck were so taut Jake could have strummed on them, but I forced myself to keep my voice level. “Who is her lawyer? Is it the same person who represented her in her murder trial?”
Freeman deliberated. “If I don’t tell you, you can find it out easily enough: Anatole Szakacs. Don’t go calling him: you talk to him through your own lawyer, namely me.”
“Did he happen to say why none of this was brought up at her trial? Why she didn’t try an appeal?”
“I don’t know if Szakacs defended her twenty-five years ago. And anyway, it doesn’t matter, Vic. It’s not your story, it’s not your problem. Don’t let them make it that.”
I told Freeman about talking to Stella the week before. “She didn’t say anything about a diary then. It makes me think—”
“Don’t,” Freeman ordered me. “Don’t even pretend to think. Stay away from her. For pity’s sake, for Lotty’s sake, if not your own, do not go near that woman. Got it?”
“I understand, I do, but this is nuts. Boom-Boom never dated Annie, not that I ever saw or heard, and even if he had, he wasn’t the jealous, threatening type.”
“As far as you know, and you don’t know what he did when he was out of your sight. Even if he was in love with Ms. Guzzo and wanted to marry her, you don’t respond to this,” Freeman reiterated.
“Has anyone seen this so-called diary? They didn’t show it on the news, you know—just flashed a copy of a typescript. I will put a sample of Annie Guzzo’s handwriting in a safe for now. If we ever get a chance to look at the actual document, I can get a forensic expert to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Freeman said. “If Stella wants to pursue an exoneration claim, that’s between her and the state. If she wants to say that Boom-Boom was a Chihuahua dressed up in ice skates, and that your father doctored his team photo—let her. Ignore her, ignore her, ignore her. Can you do that?”
“I suppose,” I grumbled.
“I want the words spelled out, Warshawski. I know you.”
“I promise I will not talk to her, go to her house or pay attention to her slanders about my cousin or my parents.”
“Or about you,” Freeman ordered.
“Oh, I don’t care what she says about me,” I assured him. Which was mostly true.
Before Lotty and Max left, Lotty made me lock my gun back into my safe. “I wish you would get rid of it, Victoria,” she fretted. “You know I don’t like these weapons. I’ve taken bullets out of too many children to want people to carry them wantonly.”
I kissed her. “Lotty, I promise I am not going to use it wantonly. I will leave it locked away and will take it out only to go target shooting. Or if my life is in real peril, as opposed to psychically threatened.”
She didn’t like it. Max nodded at her, and she gave a reluctant assent, but her footsteps dragged as she followed him to the front door.
My phone continued to ring as calls started coming in from Asian outlets. I changed my message to refer callers to Freeman’s office and turned the voice mail to outgoing message only, then went with Jake to spend the night in his place.
“I wish we could get attention like that for High Plainsong,” Jake said. “Maybe if I murdered someone we’d find a new revenue stream.”
“Don’t tempt me, caro: I could send you out with a gun and an address,” I said.
We made love, but Jake got up again to work on a tricky passage in a piece the group had commissioned. When Jake is nervous or depressed, he plays for hours. When I’m nervous or depressed, I want to shoot people. I fell asleep with his bass making deep soothing noises from the living room.
In my dreams, my mother and Stella were singing Cherubini’s Medea together, not on an opera stage, but on the hockey rink at the old Stadium. Boom-Boom was sitting next to me in the front row. Annie appeared from nowhere, in the manner of dreams, and my cousin and I watched, paralyzed, while Stella stabbed her. When Gabriella tried to pull her away, Annie’s arm came off. The crowd roared its approval; hockey fans love blood. Stella and my aunt Marie pointed accusatory fingers at Gabriella, while in front of them Annie bled to death.
I woke with my heart racing, sweat drenching my T-shirt. By the time I’d calmed down, I was thoroughly awake. Jake was sleeping soundly next to me. It was five-fifteen; dawn was coming. I might as well get back to my own place and face the day.
While I waited for the espresso machine to heat, I turned on my laptop to look at the messages from my answering service. Forty-seven media queries had come in overnight, including four from Murray. I sent my service an e-mail, saying to tell everyone I had no comment and that I would not be returning press calls.
When I checked my e-mail, I found hundreds of messages. Seven from Murray, ranging from belligerent to begging (Come on, Warshawski, you know the rules of the game, don’t pull this kind of stunt on me . . . Please, Vic, we’ve been friends for so many years, don’t shoot the messenger). He was right, but I wasn’t feeling very forgiving yet.
I recognized some names from local news shows, but many of the addresses included country codes: Serbia, Russia, Kazakhstan—Boom-Boom would be pleased to know his fame lived on in the hockey world.
Pierre Fouchard had also left an e-mail. I see you’ve turned your phone over to the lawyers, but what is this filth they are spreading about Boom-Boom? I talked to Bernadine, but she can tell me nothing. Call me, Victoria: I can be in Chicago in two hours. Those of us who played with Boom-Boom know this is the worst of lies, so tell me what you need. Muscle? Love? Money? All at your disposal.
I reached him at the Canadiens front office.
“Victoria! These crapules, what are they trying to accomplish?”
“I don’t know. The mother did major prison time for the crime, so I can’t understand why she’s trying to accuse Boom-Boom now. Did Boom-Boom talk about the murder when it happened?”
“This I am trying to remember since last night, when I am first seeing the news. He was very shocked, of course, because she was a girl from his childhood, and I am thinking there was a brother, is that right, that they were friends. I am not remembering much, but, Victoria, if he had said to me, Pierre, I have murdered this girl, that I would not have forgotten.”
“Likely not,” I agreed dryly. “The mother, Stella, is claiming she found a diary that her daughter kept, and that Annie was writing about how jealous Boom-Boom was, and how she was afraid of him.”
Pierre laughed. “That is impossible to picture. If you are imagining Boom-Boom as Bluebeard, no, you know him better than that. Yes, if you were against him in a game, then you should defend yourself against attacks from all sides, but Boom-Boom and women—there were so many, and they all had a good time with him, no one ever walked away from Boom-Boom weeping because he had frightened her, surely you don’t need me to tell you that. As for a girl and a diary, how can I know about that? But if she wrote it, it came out of her own imaginations. This mother, this salope, she has maybe made her daughter to be afraid of every man in the world.”
That was a shrewd insight, plausible, given Stella’s obsession with sex, but not something I had any way to prove. I led the conversation around to Bernie, how well she was doing, how much I enjoyed her company.
“Yes, she’s loving Chicago,” Pierre agreed. “When she comes back to us next month, you must come with her. A week in the Laurentians, that will put all this tracasserie out of your mind.”
When we hung up, I felt better than I had since Murray’s text came in yesterday afternoon. I took an espresso out to the back porch. I had promised Freeman not to go near Stella or her house or her current lawyer. But what about her old lawyer, the useless baby who didn’t bring up Boom-Boom’s relationship with Annie at Stella’s trial?
When I’d looked up Stella’s trial last week, they hadn’t given the baby’s name. For that I would have to go to the County building, to the more complete records that had been kept on microform.
I was heading to the bathroom to shower and change when my doorbell rang. Bernie was sleeping deeply. I walked behind the couch to peer out at the street. I swore under my breath: three TV vans were double-parked on Racine. The early birds waiting for their prey: vultures are birds, too.
I shook Bernie awake, no easy task. When I’d finally roused her, I explained we were under siege. “If you go out, use the back door. Otherwise the wolves from cable-land are going to jump you, okay?”
Her eyes lit up: at last, a chance to take action against Boom-Boom’s enemies. “This will be fun.”
“No, Bernie. It won’t be. They’ll make mincemeat out of you. Please believe I know what I’m talking about, or if you won’t believe me, please at least promise me that you will stay away from them. Okay?”
She gave a reluctant agreement, but she still tried to rehash last night’s argument: we needed to act, not bury ourselves in libraries, doing research.
“Bernie, if I discover that someone planted that diary, I’m not going to tell you, unless I can trust you not to run headfirst into trouble.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it your way for two days. If you don’t find out anything and start acting on it—”
“You will return to Canada so that you don’t get arrested and deported.” It took an effort not to shout at her. For the first time I began to see how hard it had been on my mother when Boom-Boom and I went roaring off without a thought of the consequences. “What would you do if I showed up at one of your games and started telling you how to play?”
“You don’t know enough about hockey to tell me anything.”
“Exactly. And you don’t know enough about the law, and evidence, and how to uncover secrets to tell me what to do.”
Her small vivid face bunched up into a gargoyle grimace, but she finally gave a reluctant nod, a reluctant promise to do as I’d asked.
I ran down the back stairs. Mr. Contreras’s kitchen light was on. I owed it to him to explain what was going on, even though conversations with him are never short. He’d seen the story, of course, and was appropriately indignant.
“Bernie is up in arms, and thinks we ought to be out shooting or at least whacking people. I don’t want her going to South Chicago. It’s gang territory and she has no street smarts, only ice smarts. Can you waylay her, get her involved with the dogs, the garden, keep her from doing something that will get her hurt?”
“I never been able to keep you from getting hurt, doll,” the old man said, truculent, “no matter what I say or do. Talking to my tomatoes gets me better results.”
I felt my cheeks flame, but meekly said he was right. “But she’s seventeen, she’s been left in my care.”
“And what are you going to get up to?” he demanded.
“Exactly what I said to Bernie, and what I promised both Lotty and my lawyer. Looking for information, nothing physical, I promise.”
I kissed his cheek, told the dogs they could swim when I got home tonight, and jogged down the alley so I could come to my car from behind. One of the reporters had been enterprising enough to find the Mustang. He was facing my apartment and I startled him when I unlocked the car and jumped in. He tried to hold on to the door, but I was maneuvering out of the parking space and he had to let go.
I might have been a worm slithering away from the early birds, but my reward was the morning rush hour. Lake Shore Drive at this hour is pretty much a parking lot. It may be the most beautiful parking lot in the world, with the waves on nearby Lake Michigan dancing and preening in the sunlight, but it was still slow and tedious going.
I was early enough to find street parking three blocks from the County building and took the stairs up to the records room, where I paid twenty dollars for a chance to look at the microform. It didn’t include the trial transcript—those are expensive. Only the lawyers involved in a trial order up copies, so if Stella’s lawyer hadn’t done so, there was no transcript available. I did find a list of the exhibits used at the trial, and the names of both the state’s attorney and the defense counsel. Stella had been represented by a Joel Previn.
