55
There Is Some Justice in This World, Just Not Enough
Marty Jepson and Tim Radke were heading to Plotzky’s to join their other friends for a drink or six and wanted me to join them.
“Chad’s off the hook,” Tim Radke said. “You were awesome, Vic. Wish you’d been with our squad in Iraq.”
I told them that they were pretty awesome themselves, but that I’d take a rain check for now. “Drink one for me. We’ll catch up soon.”
Marty stayed a moment to apologize for losing his cool. “Man, I watched Chad disintegrate into that kind of rage a hundred times and never thought it could happen to me. But when I saw that guy—and wearing the Iraq medal—if Chad’s dad hadn’t beat me to it, it would’ve been me with my hands around his throat.”
“You saw someone getting away with framing one of your buddies for murder. Most people would have had a brainstorm under those circumstances. I wouldn’t worry that it’ll keep happening to you.”
“I—” His voice cracked, and then he surprised us both by pulling me close and giving me a full-treatment kiss. “You take care, Vic. And if you ever need help—any help with anything—well, you know how to send for the Marines, right?”
He turned and ran across the room after Tim Radke.
Sal was waiting to close. She and Erica had swept up the debris, but a decontamination team would have to come in before she could reopen the Glow.
I took a stool next to her at the end of the bar. “You were right, Sal: I should have rented a theater. I somehow wasn’t imagining that there would be people stupid enough to fire guns in a crowded room.”
Sal poured me a slug of one of those liquid-gold single malts that I can’t afford to get used to. “The damage wasn’t as bad as it might have been. A table, some glassware, and that light fixture near the exit. Which, thank the goddess, wasn’t an original. I guess that was when that guy was trying to shoot the Body Artist. As long as Rainier Cowles and the woman who got shot instead of the Artist don’t sue, we should be okay.”
“If your insurance doesn’t cover the decon team, I’ll take care of it. And the chandelier and table.” I couldn’t bear to think about my expenses on this venture.
“I’ll make that my donation to truth, justice, and the Warshawski way,” she said drily. “You pulled it off, girl. When you came out under the spotlights, I was completely convinced. You were the Body Artist.”
“Yeah. We’re just a bunch of interchangeable parts, aren’t we, under our clothes.”
“Don’t go down that road, at least not tonight. Go back to your own crib, get your life back in order. Get on a plane and surprise Jake over there in Amsterdam, or wherever he is right now. Do something good for yourself, you hear?”
My smile felt lopsided, but I squeezed her hand, drank up, went back to my own place for the first night in a week. My neighbor had stayed up until he was sure I was home safely. I hugged him but went on up the stairs to shampoo the heavy lacquer out of my hair. When I got out of the shower, Mr. Contreras was in my dining room with the dogs and a plate of scrambled eggs. Mitch and Peppy were ecstatic to see me again, which brought as much comfort as the late-night supper and Mr. Contreras’s affection.
I knelt to fondle Peppy’s ears. “If you’d been in the Golden Glow tonight, you’d have known right away it was me. Not a body, but me, V. I. Warshawski.”
Mr. Contreras had a thing or two to say about me being naked on the stage. “I told you two months ago, women who sit around naked onstage get what’s coming to them.”
“And how reassuring it is to hear that again. Although Terry Finchley seems to think that not knowing who was naked under all that paint is what unnerved Anton. Anton thought I was the Body Artist. And then when Karen, or Frannie—or whatever we’re going to call her—had her outburst at the back of the room, Anton was so surprised he lost his cool and sent Rodney after her.”
“So I guess your stunt worked. Guess you’re happy as all get out. Just do me a favor, keep your clothes on in public in the future.”
“Yes, sir,” I said meekly.
“Oh, you don’t fool me none with that butter-wouldn’t-melt attitude. I know you. I know you do what you damned well please no matter what I say.”
He spoke roughly. My well-being mattered greatly to him, and he hated knowing he wasn’t fit enough or fast enough anymore to keep up with me, let alone look after me.
“I listen to you.” I put my arms around him. “My mother would be glad to know I have you to counsel me.”
He brightened, thinking that I loved him well enough to compare him to my beloved mother. He bustled about cleaning up the table. It was two-thirty, time we was all in bed, anyway, doll. So what’s the point of fighting when it’s all water over the dam, anyway.
Mr. Contreras was right. The stunt had worked. At least, up to a point. The results, however, didn’t leave me happy as all get out, except for how they affected Chad Vishneski. Two days after my show at the Golden Glow, John Vishneski came into my office, Mona at his side: the state’s attorney had decided to drop charges against Chad.
“We can get him into a proper rehab hospital,” Mona said. “You worked a miracle for us, Ms. Warshawski. I didn’t know what to think when we got to that bar on Sunday, but you knew what you were doing.”
Vishneski grinned. “You ever want to take up that line of work more seriously, let me know. I can play the clarinet for you instead of that gal on those old-time instruments . . . You let me know what all your time and work came to. We’ll settle up.”
I was working on the bill between my endless interviews with local, state, and federal cops. Grateful clients pay up, but the longer you wait between results and invoice, the more their gratitude fades. The trouble with the Vishneski bill was I had to sort out what belonged to the Guaman inquiry—which no one was paying me for—and also subtract items the Vishneskis really couldn’t be expected to cover, like the extra security I’d brought into the Golden Glow Sunday night, or insurance for the Raving Raven’s instruments.
I called Terry Finchley to thank him for getting the state’s attorney to drop charges against Chad. “Does this mean they’re going to charge Scalia, and maybe Rainier Cowles, for killing Nadia Guaman?”
“The state’s attorney is an elected office,” Finchley said at his most wooden. “The incumbent has received great support from the Tintrey Corporation, as Scalia’s mouthpiece reminds me every hour on the half hour. The evidence isn’t great.”
“Marty Jepson can ID him talking to Chad the night of the murder, and maybe one of the tenants in Mona Vishneski’s building can recognize him, too. The Body Artist saw an E-Type Jag in the alley the night Nadia was killed. Oddly enough, Gilbert Scalia owns the same make and model.”
“Marty Jepson is a stressed-out vet who saw someone through a bar window,” Finchley said. “He’s like a lot of our deserving vets pummeled by their time in the desert and prone to confusing reality and imagination. And before you jump down my throat, Warshawski, I’m just quoting the lawyer. As for the Jag—who’s the state’s attorney going to listen to, a stripper who used to work for Kystarnik or the senior veep at a billion-dollar company?”
“So it’s going to be left an open investigation.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“You came away better than you thought you would when you started out,” he said. “Not such a bad deal, even if it does grind my bones to see the Tintrey boys skate. But speaking of open investigations, I need more from you about Lazar Guaman and the attack on Rainier Cowles.”
“You know as well as I do how a good defense attorney would shred me on the stand, Terry. I heard a shot, but I didn’t see anyone fire it. If Lazar Guaman was standing at Cowles’s table, so were a lot of other people. I am not going to get up on the stand to perjure myself or to be made a fool of—either way, it’s bad for business.”
Rainier Cowles wasn’t going to die. The bullet—whoever had fired it—had shattered his jaw, and he would need extensive reconstructive surgery. Who knew, though—maybe it would make him a more fluent litigator. Perhaps even an empathic one. Maybe the Cubs would win the World Series in my lifetime.
The gun used to shoot Cowles had been one of the millions floating around the country without proper registration, so it was impossible to trace it to Lazar Guaman. But Jarvis MacLean had identified Lazar as the shooter. Other people identified me, and still others had chosen a twenty-something guy who’d sat at the next table with a group of buddies, so it was hard for the cops to make a cast-iron case.
It made me wild to think that the Tintrey crew would get a free ride. Terry’s implication that there was a quid pro quo between the open investigation into Nadia’s death, and the investigation into the shooting of Cowles, carried no weight with me at all. Guaman acted out of the personal pain of his daughters’ deaths. Scalia and MacLean were trying to protect the value of their stock options.
Not to say that Tintrey’s CEO didn’t have a few troubles. Murray Ryerson and Beth Blacksin made sure that the story of sand in the Achilles shields got wide circulation. Illinois’s congressional delegation began making noises about hearings that would look into Tintrey’s billions of dollars’ worth of contracts with the Defense Department. The stock price was already dropping.
There were some other bright spots. Of course there were. Chief among these was Chad Vishneski’s vindication. I also managed to get the Body Artist’s tip about acid in the solenoid wires up the chain. I suggested it to Murray—“Wasn’t there some story about Anton and a chopper ten or fifteen years ago? He brought it down by painting acid on the wires, which ate through the insulation when the chopper was in the air?”—and he was on that tidbit like a flea on Mitch. I had the satisfaction of reading that the FAA and TSA were taking another look at Anton’s wife’s airplane.
A smaller spot, but one that warmed me personally, came from Darraugh. He hadn’t been at the Golden Glow Sunday night, but Caroline Griswold, his personal assistant, had been there. I hadn’t noticed her in the densely packed room, but after Lazar shot Cowles, she had slipped out a side door before the cops shut off the exits. Caroline apparently had given Darraugh a comprehensive report because on Wednesday I got a giant basket of flowers with the note “Good Girl, Rock.”
In between talks with cops, sending Darraugh a handwritten note, and cleaning up my apartment, I answered e-mails and tried to pull together the threads of some of my other investigations. Clients were getting huffy. They thought I was being a media hound and not tending to their needs.
Olympia came to see me one day, hoping I would “let bygones be bygones.” The federal prosecutor for Northern Illinois was nosing around in her books, and she was getting scared. I told her I couldn’t possibly help her, but I didn’t preach at her—she’d dug herself into such a deep hole, she was lucky to be alive.
“I hear you let Buckley walk away into the night,” she said. “Why won’t you help me?”
“One of those things, Olympia.”
I didn’t say it was because Francine Pindero had taken refuge in her dead mother’s name. If I’d lost my mother at eight, the age when Frannie lost hers, my dad, working long hours, couldn’t have kept me out of trouble in the neighborhood I lived in. We needed our mothers, Frannie and I. I’d been the lucky one, getting to live under Gabriella’s fierce protective wing until I was old enough to fly on my own.