“You the owner, miss?” he asked me. “You were way over code there with the load you were carrying. This was an accident waiting to happen.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Olympia surged between him and me. “This is my building. I’ll get this taken care of first thing tomorrow—today, really, isn’t it? But you know what I mean—when the rest of the world is awake and going to work, you and I are in bed.”
She blinked from the fire chief and his drooping mustache to Terry in what was meant to be a helpless, appealing way. “I’m sorry the Warshawski woman was such an alarmist that she roused everyone, but we’re grateful for the quick response. Let me give you gift vouchers. You and your friends are welcome to come here on your nights off as my guests.” She reached over the bar and fumbled in a drawer for the vouchers.
“No.” Terry’s quiet voice carried authority, and both his team and the fire crew looked stolidly ahead. “Tell me about the fire.”
“The fire on the stage, you mean?”
“Was there another?” A pulse was starting to throb on Terry’s forehead.
“Sorry to be so silly, Detective, but this Warshawski woman’s wild behavior has me so rattled that I—”
“Vic, tell me about the fire.”
I repeated what I’d said earlier, about thugs taking over the theater. “Going by the voices, at least one was a woman, maybe more. They forced the staff and customers to leave, but I hid under the stage. The whole point of the attack seemed to be connected with the Artist’s website—it’s been down for several days, and they wanted her to bring it back up. When she either wouldn’t or couldn’t, they started beating up Olympia and the Body Artist both. I couldn’t take on the whole lot—I wanted to create a diversion while I hustled the Artist off the stage. I didn’t know my intervention would produce such drastic results.”
“So you set the fire?” Finchley said.
“I fused the wires. The open wire set the curtains on fire.”
“Ms. Warshawski, I expect you to pay for the damage you caused here,” Olympia said.
“Were you born stupid, or did you work hard to get like this?” It was all I could do not to grab her and shake her. “You take this to a court of law and you will—”
“I will have witnesses that you did malicious damage to my building.” Olympia’s triumphant tone was startling. “Karen won’t testify for you, and neither will these men here.” She waved an arm toward the handcuffed thugs.
My mouth opened and shut several times, but I couldn’t get any words out.
“Where does this Body Artist live?” Terry asked. “We looked in the dressing room. She’d left her keys, but we didn’t find any ID. We need to talk to her, get her version of what happened here tonight.”
Olympia bit her lips in momentary indecision, then told Terry she’d get it from her computer. I tagged along with them to her tiny office. She tried to keep us from looking at the screen, but Terry pushed her aside and scribbled the address into his notebook. Back in the main room of the club, he ordered one of his squad cars over to the address on Superior that Olympia had given him and ordered another unit to take the thugs to the station for booking.
“You can’t arrest them just on Warshawski’s say-so.” Olympia had given up her little-girl act. “I’m not pressing charges.”
One of the men in cuffs winked at her and said, “Not to be worrying like this, Olympia. Lawyer will come. All will be well.”
There were a few minutes of bustle, with Terry’s minions shoving the punks out the door, followed by the fire crew and the rest of the cops.
“You need to go, too, Warshawski.” Olympia’s smile disappeared with the disappearing lawmen. “I warned you to stay away from my club, but you came back, you set a fire—”
“If you keep saying that, Koilada, you are going to be facing such a big lawsuit that even your sugar daddy won’t bail you out.”
Olympia gave an exaggerated yawn. “Good night, Vic. Get out and don’t come back, not unless you’re bringing a check to cover the damages. And tell Petra she’s got to find a new job.”
“No, Olympia, darling. I’m not your manager. You want to fire one of your staff, you spit it out in person, to her face. And if you think you can do a deal with Anton Kystarnik, in or out of bed, do remember that his wife died in a plane crash so well orchestrated that everyone agreed it was an accident.”
“It was an accident.”
I gave a tight parody of a smile. “And so was the fire on your stage. Good night, Olympia. Angels guide you to your rest, and all that.”
An unmarked car, bristling with antennas, was in the lot. I felt for my gun, but it was Terry, waiting for a private word with me. He got out of the backseat and followed me to my car.