“You’re crazy, Warshawski! No parent is that cuckoo.”
I’ve seen lots of kookier parents but decided not to argue that point. “Well,” I said, “you don’t like that idea, try this one. Peter somehow got wind of some shady, possibly even criminal, activities that you and the Knifegrinders are involved in. He communicated his fears to Anita, but being in love he wouldn’t welch on you to the cops. On the other hand, being young and idealistic, he had to confront you. And he couldn’t be bought. You shot him—or had him shot—and Anita knew it had to be you. So she did a bunk.”
McGraw’s nerves were acting up again, but he blustered and bellowed and called me names. Finally he said, “Why in Sam Hill would I want you to find my daughter if all she’d do is finger me?”
“ I don’t know. Maybe you were playing the odds-figuring you’ve been close and she wouldn’t turn on you. Trouble is, the police are going to be making the connection between you and Anita before too long. They know the kids had some tie-in with the brotherhood because there was some literature around the house created by your printer. They’re not dummies, and everyone knows you’re head of the union and they know there was a McGraw in the apartment.
“When they come around, they’re not going to care about your daughter, or your relationship with her. They’ve got a murder to solve, and they’ll be happy to tag you with it—especially with a guy in Thayer’s position pressuring them. Now if you tell me what you know, I may—no promises, but may—be able to salvage you and your daughter—if you’re not guilty, of course.”
McGraw studied the floor for a while. I realized I’d been clutching the arms of the chair while I was talking and carefully relaxed my muscles. Finally he looked up at me and said, “If I tell you something, will you promise not to take it to the police?”
I shook my head. “can’t promise anything, Mr. McGraw. I’d lose my license if I kept knowledge of a crime to myself.”
“Not that kind of knowledge, damnit! Goddamnit, Warshawski, you keep acting like I committed the goddamn murder or something.” He breathed heavily for a few minutes. Finally he said, “I just want to tell you about—you’re right. I did—I was—I did find the kid’s body.” He choked that out, and the rest came easier. “Annie—Anita—called me Monday night. She wasn’t in the apartment, she wouldn’t say where she was.” He shifted a bit in his chair. “Anita’s a good, levelheaded kid. She never got any special pampering as a child, and she grew up knowing how to be independent. She and I are, well, we’re pretty close, and she’s always been union all the way, but she’s no clinging daddy’s girl. And I never wanted her to be one.
“Tuesday night I hardly recognized her. She was pretty damn near hysterical, yelling a lot of half-assed stuff which didn’t make any sense at all. But she didn’t mention the kid’s murder.”
“What was she yelling?” I asked conversationally.
“Oh, just nonsense, I couldn’t make anything out of it.”
“Same song, second verse,” I remarked.
“What?”
“Same as the first,” I explained. “A little bit louder and a little bit worse.”
“Once and for all, she didn’t accuse me of killing Peter Thayer!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
We weren’t moving too quickly.
“Okay, she didn’t accuse you of murdering Peter. Did she tell you about his being dead?”
He stopped for a minute. If he said yes, the next question was, why had the girl done a bunk if she didn’t think McGraw had committed the murder? “No, like I said, she was just hysterical. She—Well, later, after I saw the body, I figured she was calling because of—of, well, that.” He stopped again, but this time it was to collect some memories. “She hung up and I tried calling back, but there wasn’t any answer, so I went down to see for myself. And I found the boy.”
“How’d you get in?” I asked curiously.
“I have a key. Annie gave it to me when she moved in, But I’d never used it before.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a key. I looked at it and shrugged.
“That was Tuesday night?” He nodded. “And you waited ‘til Wednesday night to come to see me?”
“I waited all day hoping that someone else would find the body. When no report came out—you were right, you know.” He smiled ruefully, and his whole face became more attractive. “I hoped that Tony was still alive. I hadn’t talked to him for years, he’d warned me off good and proper over the Stellinek episode—didn’t know old Tony had it in him—but he was the only guy I could think of who might help me.”
“Why didn’t you call the cops yourself?” I asked. His face closed up again. “I didn’t want to,” he said shortly.