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Authors: Sara Paretsky
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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.
I thought about it. “You probably wanted your own source of information on the case, and you didn’t think your police contacts could help you.” He didn’t disagree.
“Do the Knifegrinders have any pension money tied up with the Fort Dearborn Trust?” I asked.
McGraw turned red again. “Keep your goddamn mitts out of our pension fund, Warshawski. We have enough snoopers smelling around there to guarantee it grade A pure for the next century. I don’t need you, too.”
“Do you have any financial dealings with the Fort Dearborn Trust?”
He was getting so angry I wondered what nerve I’d touched, but he denied it emphatically.
“What about the Ajax Insurance Company?”
“Well, what about them?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, Mr. McGraw—do you buy any insurance from them?”
“I don’t know.” His face was set and he was eyeing me hard and cold, the way he no doubt had eyed young Timmy Wright of Kansas City Local 4318 when Timmy had tried to talk to him about running a clean election down there. (Timmy had shown up in the Missouri River two weeks later.) It was much more menacing than his red-faced bluster. I wondered.
“Well, what about your pensions? Ajax is big in the pension business.”
“Goddamnit, Warshawski, get out of the office. You were hired to find Anita, not to ask a lot of questions about something that isn’t any of your goddamned business. Now get out and don’t come back.”
“You want me to find Anita?” I asked.
McGraw suddenly deflated and put his head in his hands. “Oh, jeez, I don’t know what to do.”
I looked at him sympathetically. “Someone got you in the squeeze?”
He just shook his head but wouldn’t answer. We sat it out in silence for a while. Then he looked at me, and he looked gray. “Warshawski, I don’t know whereAnnie is. And I don’t want to know. But I want you to find her. And when you do, just let me know if she’s all right. Here’s another five hundred dollars to keep you on for a whole week. Come to me when it runs out.” It wasn’t a formal apology, but I accepted it and left.
I stopped at Barb’s Bar-B-Q for some lunch and called my answering service. There was a message from Ralph Devereux at Ajax; would I meet him at the Cartwheel at 7:30 tonight. I called him and asked if he had discovered anything about Peter Thayer’s work.
“Look,” he said, “will you tell me your first name? How the hell can I keep on addressing someone as ‘V.I.’?”
“The British do it all the time. What have you found out?”
“Nothing. I’m not looking—there’s nothing to find. That kid wasn’t working on sensitive stuff. And you know why—V.I.? Because insurance companies don’t run to sensitive stuff. Our product, how we manufacture it, and what we charge for it are only regulated by about sixty-seven state and federal
“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.
I thought about it. “You probably wanted your own source of information on the case, and you didn’t think your police contacts could help you.” He didn’t disagree.
“Do the Knifegrinders have any pension money tied up with the Fort Dearborn Trust?” I asked.
McGraw turned red again. “Keep your goddamn mitts out of our pension fund, Warshawski. We have enough snoopers smelling around there to guarantee it grade A pure for the next century. I don’t need you, too.”
“Do you have any financial dealings with the Fort Dearborn Trust?”
He was getting so angry I wondered what nerve I’d touched, but he denied it emphatically.
“What about the Ajax Insurance Company?”
“Well, what about them?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, Mr. McGraw—do you buy any insurance from them?”
“I don’t know.” His face was set and he was eyeing me hard and cold, the way he no doubt had eyed young Timmy Wright of Kansas City Local 4318 when Timmy had tried to talk to him about running a clean election down there. (Timmy had shown up in the Missouri River two weeks later.) It was much more menacing than his red-faced bluster. I wondered.
“Well, what about your pensions? Ajax is big in the pension business.”
“Goddamnit, Warshawski, get out of the office. You were hired to find Anita, not to ask a lot of questions about something that isn’t any of your goddamned business. Now get out and don’t come back.”
“You want me to find Anita?” I asked.
McGraw suddenly deflated and put his head in his hands. “Oh, jeez, I don’t know what to do.”
I looked at him sympathetically. “Someone got you in the squeeze?”
He just shook his head but wouldn’t answer. We sat it out in silence for a while. Then he looked at me, and he looked gray. “Warshawski, I don’t know whereAnnie is. And I don’t want to know. But I want you to find her. And when you do, just let me know if she’s all right. Here’s another five hundred dollars to keep you on for a whole week. Come to me when it runs out.” It wasn’t a formal apology, but I accepted it and left.
I stopped at Barb’s Bar-B-Q for some lunch and called my answering service. There was a message from Ralph Devereux at Ajax; would I meet him at the Cartwheel at 7:30 tonight. I called him and asked if he had discovered anything about Peter Thayer’s work.
“Look,” he said, “will you tell me your first name? How the hell can I keep on addressing someone as ‘V.I.’?”
“The British do it all the time. What have you found out?”
“Nothing. I’m not looking—there’s nothing to find. That kid wasn’t working on sensitive stuff. And you know why—V.I.? Because insurance companies don’t run to sensitive stuff. Our product, how we manufacture it, and what we charge for it are only regulated by about sixty-seven state and federal
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