I went back to the Georgia problem with a dogged intensity. I was deep in a reverse directory on the computer, looking for people who lived near the garage that was outfitting Continental United’s trucks with new tires, when the phone rang.
It was a woman, with a low smooth voice like cream. “I’m calling from Mr. Baladine for I. V. Warshawski.”
So Aguinaldo’s death was going to bite me without my touching it. My stomach tightened. I shouldn’t have discounted the mad swimmer’s threat to tell on me to her powerful husband.
“I. V. Warshawski was Isaac Bashevis Singer’s pen name when he wrote for the Daily Forward in the thirties. I’m V. I., the detective. Which of us do you want?” Even at forty–plus, nervousness still makes me mouth off.
The cream didn’t lose any of its smoothness. “Is this Ms. Warshawski? Mr. Baladine wants to see you this afternoon. Do you know where our offices are?”
That sounded like a command; if nervousness makes me flippant, commands make me ornery. “I know where your offices are, but I don’t have time to drive to Oak Brook this afternoon.”
“Can you hold, please.”
I put the speakerphone on so I could hear her when she returned and obstinately went back to my reverse directory. Dance music wafted to me from Carnifice’s on–hold program, followed by a description of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “When you’re not home, is your children’s nanny Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde? Carnifice Security’s Home Security Division can show you how to monitor your nanny on the job. We can trace her references before you hire her, too. Call us for an estimate.” They added an 800 number.
The dance music returned, followed almost immediately by the cream. “Mr. Baladine can see you at five today.”
“I could be free at my office at five if he wants to sit on the Eisenhower all afternoon. Unfortunately I don’t have time to do that. How about tomorrow?”
“Mr. Baladine has to be in Washington tomorrow. Can you tell me a time that you could get to Oak Brook today?”
I didn’t want to make that long drive just to be chewed out, but I’d love to meet the guy, as long as I didn’t have to face rush–hour traffic to do so. “How about seven?”
She put me on hold again, this time only long enough for the start of a spiel on Carnifice’s bodyguarding service. If I could make six–thirty, Mr. Baladine would appreciate it.
I said I’d do my best to earn the big man’s appreciation and turned thoughtfully back to my computer. Before going on with this dull problem in Georgia, I logged on to LifeStory and asked what they had on file about Robert Baladine. Yes, I told the machine, I was willing to pay a premium for short turnaround.
12 The Lion’s Den
Carnifice headquarters were what you wanted in your security provider if you were a rich parent or wealthy multinational: enormous Persian carpets floating on polished parquet, desks and cabinets that a lot of rain forest had been hacked down to provide, doors opened by magnetic card or guard only, a beautiful young woman who took you from the guard in the lobby to your destination. It was quite a contrast to Warshawski Investigations, where the lone PI or her part–time assistant brought you into a converted warehouse.
My young escort smiled politely when I commented on the ambience, but when I asked how long she’d been at Carnifice, she said that company policy forbade her answering any questions.
“Not even to tell me the time or the weather?”
She only smiled again and opened Baladine’s door for me. She mentioned my name, perfectly pronounced, to the woman who sat enthroned in the antechamber, then left, although not, to my disappointment, walking backward.
“Ah, Ms. Warshawski. I’ll let Mr. Baladine know you’re here.” The woman’s skin and hair matched her smooth rich voice; the bias–cut dress she wore would have paid the Trans Am’s repair bill and left something over for gas.
The great man kept me waiting twelve minutes—exactly the amount of time that I was late. A perfect system of punishments, no doubt learned in running private prisons around the country. I wandered around the room while I waited, looking at photographs of a lean, tanned man with various sheiks and presidents, and at the exhibits of memorabilia, ranging from a Presidential Medal of Freedom to a mock–up of the women’s correctional facility at Coolis. I was particularly interested in that, since it made escape seem impossible. The back abutted the Smallpox Creek, but there were no windows or gates on that side. Three layers of razor–wire fencing looped around the front.
“Are you interested in prison security, Ms. Warshawski?”
The lean, tanned man of the photos was standing behind me. I turned and shook his proffered hand. He was fifteen years older than his wife, as I’d learned from my afternoon’s research, but looked well able to keep up with her in the pool, or any other arena.