Stressed with Physics Today urgentest that they not print further letters from her without Bureau approval, but editor uncooperative. Resisted search of premises, forced us to produce Federal search warrant. Have put watch on all incoming/outgoing mail from Physics Today, but Memler seldom strikes the same publication twice.
Memler moved seamlessly from Nazi collaborator to Communist supporter. She has access to classified documents. Attached is last known photo, with our forensic specialists’ work-up on how she might look today, at age 73. Advise all immigration staff to look at passports; if she’s living outside the country she’s probably traveling under a different name.
29
NIGHT CALLER
I HAD LOTTY DROP me under the L tracks at Belmont and Sheffield, four blocks from my home. If someone was watching me, I didn’t want them to put her Audi on their list. Neither of us said much during the ride from Max’s house, but as I opened the passenger door, Lotty spoke.
“Judy’s dramas cause a great deal of damage in the lives around her. Her mother, her son, now it’s your turn to get burned in her fires.”
“Was there any joy, ever, in that household?” I asked. “The picture of Leonard with Martin at the science fair made him look happy and proud of his grandson. Did he feel that way toward his daughter?”
Lotty spoke slowly, thinking back. “When Judy was born, Leonard was as delighted as if someone had handed him a winning lottery ticket. Of course I never was part of the day-to-day life of the family: I can’t tell you what he did when she brought home a C in math, or wasn’t interested in playing the piano. My guess is he didn’t mind; he didn’t care about credentials, or achievement.”
Someone honked behind us; Lotty pulled over to the curb. The fluorescent lights around the station turned her walnut-colored skin green.
“I think Kitty was rather different,” she said. “For all she whined about her real father being a builder, and claimed she didn’t want academics or scientists around her, that was a case of the lady protesting too much. She wanted her real father to be the Nobel Prize winner. At least, that’s what I believe; I don’t know the secrets of her heart.”
“Poor Judy,” I said, “although poor all of them, really. Sometimes the pain I encounter in my job is more than I can rightly handle.”
Lotty squeezed my hand. “Yes, for me as well.”
As I got out of the car, I could see tears shining in her eyes. I walked home slowly, not worried about tails, just weighted down. So much red wine at the end of a long day hadn’t been a good idea. It makes you mellow for an hour, then it brings you down.
When I got to Racine Avenue, I walked up the opposite side of the street from my building, scanning cars, looking for anyone who was out of place among the dog walkers and homebound bar crawlers. They all seemed innocuous, so when a young woman suddenly appeared on the sidewalk near my front door, my heartbeat spiked. I ducked and rolled without thinking. When she called my name in a soft, doubtful voice I got to my feet, feeling like an idiot.
“Yes, I’m V. I. Warshawski. Who are you?”
“Alison Breen. I was hoping to see you.” Her voice was even more doubtful: a detective who rolls under the boxwood when she’s startled must not seem very stable.
“I thought you were in Mexico, Ms. Breen, setting up a tech lab for local high schools.”
“I am, but—but—I wanted to see you, I need to talk to you.”
This was getting to be an annoying routine, strangers arriving late at night to talk to me. At least she was asking, instead of breaking into my apartment.
“Right. Let’s go inside where we can speak with a bit of privacy.” I unlocked the outer door and held out an arm, gesturing her to enter.
As we came into the entryway, Mr. Contreras was opening his door. Mitch and Peppy, barking and whining, ran out to greet me and to inspect the newcomer.
“They heard you talking out on the front walk, doll, and wouldn’t give me no peace until I opened the door.” Mr. Contreras lied shamelessly. “This young lady was here earlier, looking for you. I tried to call you, but you wasn’t answering your phone.”
Seen under the foyer light, Alison was plainly a child of affluence. Her clear tanned skin, even white teeth, the glossy brown hair pulled away from her face and clipped to the top of her head with some kind of Mexican pin, but above all, the confidence with which she bent to pet the dogs, and to offer a hand to Mr. Contreras—all these added up to someone secure in her place near the front of the line.