“What care?” I interrupted. “The first thing you two beacons of light did was kill her dogs, the only thing in the world Mrs. Frizell loved. Everything you’ve done since last Friday may be legal, but I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole. You stink, Pichea, worse than any heap of dogshit Mrs. Frizell may have left lying around.”
“That’s enough!” he shouted. “You think your moral superiority gives you the right to break the law? I have papers that prove my right to control who enters this place, and any judge in the city will agree.” ., I laughed. “You have papers? You sound like a pedigreed dog. Speaking of documents, though, where’s Mrs. Frizell’s title? And where’s her passbook at U.S. Met?”
“How do you know—” Chrissie began, but Todd cut her off.
“You have two minutes to leave, Warshawski. Two minutes before I call the cops.”
“So you do have her bank book,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with a wealth of meaning. Privately wondering what possible difference it could make, I sauntered out the front door.
Chapter 23 - Sticking to the Ribs
Mr. Contreras had evidently been on the lookout for me: he was outside his apartment by the time I had the lobby door open.
“Where you been, doll? You look like the short end of a mud-wrestling match.”
I patted my sweaty curls self-consciously. “I could ask you the same thing. I thought we were supposed to talk at one to make sure no one had attacked me.”
“Yeah, I thought it wouldn’t hurt you to get a dose of your own medicine. Not at the time, I mean, but later, when it occurred to me to go see him in person. I thought, well, Vic’ll be worried when she calls—if she calls—and don’t get an answer. But I didn’t have any way of reaching you and I thought, all the times you’ve kept me hanging without word one, it won’t hurt you none to be in a bit of a stew.”
“Well, I’m glad you had a good time.” I was too tired to fight. “By the way, how long were you gone? Peppy seemed pretty eager to get outside when I stopped by at one.”
That was a low blow; I was sorry as soon as the words left my mouth. One of Mr. Contreras’s jealously guarded prerogatives is having the dog live with him on the grounds that I’m gone too much of the time to be a fit owner.
His brown eyes clouded with hurt. “That ain’t fair, doll, when you know I’m here day and night for the princess. I wouldn’t go off for days at a time without a thought for her needs the way—well, anyway, I wouldn’t leave her in the lurch.”
He, too, was pulling his punches—cutting himself short instead of launching a full-scale attack on my periodic absences. I patted him on the shoulder and turned to go upstairs.
“Don’t you even want to know what I found out?” he demanded.
“Yeah. Yeah, sure I do. Just let me wash up first.”
“I’m barbecuing some ribs,” he called after me. “Want me to save some for you?”
News about cholesterol and colon cancer had no effect on Mr. Contreras’s diet. In fact, maybe years of spare ribs had made him the hale, fit man he was today. They certainly sounded more comforting after my dreary afternoon than the low-cal, high-nutrition dinner I’d been planning. I thanked him, but warned him it would be a good hour before I’d be ready.
The bath turned black as soon as I stepped into the tub. I couldn’t soak in such filth. Submerging for a few seconds to rinse the sweat from my hair, I climbed out and emptied the tub, wiping the grimy ring away as the water receded. I turned on the shower, but I’d drained the heater filling the tub and cleaning it.
Snarling under my breath, I wrapped myself in a towel and went to phone Lotty while I waited for the hot water heater to fill again. When I didn’t get an answer I tried Max’s number. It turned out she had gone up to Evanston to stay with him for a few days. She was doing well, or as well as could be expected, but there was a strain between us—guilt on my part, fear on hers. I tried to patch it as best I could, but we didn’t part in our usual harmony.
I was shivering by the time we hung up, and was glad to find the water hot again. I stood under it until the shower began running cool, long after the final traces of Mrs. Frizell’s dirt had gone from my hair. Had Todd and Chrissie bested me in yet another encounter, or was I on to something? It’s true U.S. Met wasn’t a great bank, but Mrs. Frizell had moved her account four months ago, long before Todd and Chrissie entered her life.
Maybe Chrissie worked there—I pictured her going around to all the old people in the neighborhood, getting them to transfer their money to the Met’s noninterest-bearing accounts. I realized I didn’t know if Chrissie worked outside the home. As to the missing title to Mrs. Frizell’s house, maybe that was in a safe-deposit box someplace. Or up by her bed. Since she’d slept with the dogs, maybe she figured her bedroom was the safest place to keep valuables.