“It’d be easier for me not to be one of those people if I knew what you was up to.”
I closed my eyes a minute, as if that could make the world disappear. But the sooner I started my tale, the sooner I could get it over. “I broke into Diamond Head. To do that I had to take a flying leap through a window a good ten feet off the ground. Then I hung around on a spool of copper dangling from a crane, crawled down the gantry supports so I wouldn’t be crushed into the wall, and dove into the San to avoid being run over by a car. I know you’re a hell of a guy—you’re certainly wonderful to me—but if I’d told you my plans you would have insisted on coming along. And you’re just not up to the action. I’m sorry, but you’re not.”
His eyes flooded unexpectedly. He turned his head so I couldn’t watch him dashing the tears away. Great. Now everyone I knew was crying in unison. Including me.
“Ah, you don’t understand, doll. I care about you—ah, what the heck, you know I love you. I know I got Ruthie and my grandsons, but they ain’t part of my everyday life like you are.” He spoke with his head turned from me; I had to strain to catch the words.
“I grew up in a different time than you. I know you like to look after yourself, but it hurts me to know I can’t take care of you, go along jumping through windows with you. Twenty years ago—oh, what’s the use of complaining, though. It’ll happen to you someday, too, and you’ll know what I mean. Least, it will if you don’t let someone knock you off first.”
I shepherded him gently into the living room and sat him on the mustard-covered armchair. I knelt next to him, keeping a hand on his shoulder. Peppy, sensing his distress, briefly left her nurslings to come sniff at his knees. He stroked her absently. After a few quiet minutes he smiled with a heart-wrenching gallantry.
“So, you was swinging from the gantry, huh? Wish I could’ve seen it. Who was there? What made you do it?”
I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my evening. “Why would they be shipping so much copper out? Finchley says ‘normal business,’ but I can’t figure it; they’re not running a graveyard shift. And what they ought to be unloading are beautiful little motors, not big spools of copper.”
“Yeah, they should. They don’t use that much copper, anyway. Sounds like someone’s warehousing it there. You know, that big old upper shelf where they cornered you, they haven’t used that for manufacturing since the war— the Second World War, I mean—when they was running three shifts trying to keep up. Anyone who knew the plant would know that upper deck would be available for storage. You know, if they was stealing something and wanting to keep it quiet for a while.”
I chewed on a knuckle. It made as much sense as anything I’d thought of. “The spools were all labeled ‘Paragon.’ Where would those have come from?”
“Paragon?” His bushy gray brows shot up. “Paragon used to own Diamond Head. They bought it just about the time I retired. Then they sold it a year or so ago to some guy. I remember reading about it in the Sun-Times, but none of it means anything to me anymore, so I didn’t keep track of the names.”
“Jason Felitti,” I said mechanically, but my eyes were blazing with rage. They used to own the damned company, but Ben Loring couldn’t tell me jackshit about Paragon’s relations with Diamond Head? I pounded the chair arm in fury.
Mr. Contreras eyed me with concern, so I explained my abortive conversation with the steel company controller. “Do you know about any scams people at Diamond Head would’ve taken part in? I’m sure guys talk on the floor— you might have heard something.”
He shook his head regretfully. “You know, doll, it’s been a while. And like I said, Paragon came in when I was on my way out.”
We both sat quietly for a few minutes. Peppy went back to her puppies. They were exactly two weeks old now and starting to explore. She had to collect a couple who’d strayed into the dining room, carrying them back to the nest in her soft, strong jaws.
“Oh, doll, I forgot to tell you. I did ask some of the ladies about Chrissie Pichea. About whether she had a job, you know.”
I pulled my mind away from Ben Loring’s iniquities and tried to think about Todd and Chrissie Pichea. “And does she?”
“Not as far as they knew. But Mrs. Tertz and Mrs. Olsen said she was supernice, wanting to help them with their investments, so they wondered if she’d done that kind of work before she got married.”
I stared up at him. “Really! Help with their investments? I hope none of them gave in to the impulse.”
He shrugged. “As to that I couldn’t say. But what I did think was interesting was who came around with her talking to them. Guess.”
I shook my head. “From your tone of voice I know it wasn’t her husband, but—not the first Mr. Warshawski, surely.”