Read Online Warshawski 01 - Indemnity Only by Sara Paretsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sara Paretsky
Tags: Read
Ads: Link
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 agencies.”
“Ralph, my first name is Victoria; my friends call me Vic. Never Vicki. I know insurance isn’t your high-sensitivity business—but it offers lots of luscious opportunities for embezzlement.”
A pregnant silence. “No,” he finally said, “at least—not here. We don’t have any check-signing or authorizing responsibility.”
I thought that one over. “Do you know if Ajax handles any of the Knifegrinders’ pension money?”
“The Knifegrinders?” he echoed. “What earthly connection does that set of hoodlums have with Peter Thayer?”
“I don’t know. But do you have any of their pension money?”
“I doubt it. This is an insurance company, not a mob hangout.”
“Well, could you find out for me? And could you find out if they buy any insurance from you?”
“We sell all kinds of insurance, Vic—but not much that a union would buy.”
“Why not?”
“Look,” he said, “it’s a long story. Meet me at the Cartwheel at seven thirty and I’ll give you chapter and verse on it.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “But look into it for me, anyway. Please?”
“What’s the
I
stand for?”
“None of your goddamn business.” I hung up.
I
stood for Iphigenia. My Italian mother had been devoted to Victor Emmanuel. This passion and her love of opera had led her to burden me with an insane name.
I drank a Fresca and ordered a chef’s salad. I wanted ribs and fries, but the memory of Mildred’s sagging arms stopped me. The salad didn’t do much for me. I sternly put french fries out of my mind and pondered events.
Anita McGraw had called up and—at a minimum—told her father about the murder. My bet was she’d accused him of being involved. Ergo, Peter had foundout something disreputable about the Knifegrinders and had told her. He probably found it out at Ajax, but possibly from the bank. I loved the idea of pensions. The Loyal Alliance Pension Fund got lots of publicity for their handling, or mishandling, of Knife-grinder pension money, but twenty million or so could easily have been laid off on a big bank or insurance company. And pension money gave one so much scope for fraudulent activity.
Why had McGraw gone down to the apartment? Well, in the first place, he knew whatever discreditable secret Thayer had uncovered. He was afraid that Anita was probably in on it—young lovers don’t keep much to themselves. And if she called up because she’d found her boyfriend with a hole in his head, McGraw probably figured she’d be next, daughter or no daughter. So he went racing down to Hyde Park, terrified he’d find her dead body too. Instead she’d vanished. So far, so good.
Now if I could find Anita, I’d know the secret. Or if I found the
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 agencies.”
“Ralph, my first name is Victoria; my friends call me Vic. Never Vicki. I know insurance isn’t your high-sensitivity business—but it offers lots of luscious opportunities for embezzlement.”
A pregnant silence. “No,” he finally said, “at least—not here. We don’t have any check-signing or authorizing responsibility.”
I thought that one over. “Do you know if Ajax handles any of the Knifegrinders’ pension money?”
“The Knifegrinders?” he echoed. “What earthly connection does that set of hoodlums have with Peter Thayer?”
“I don’t know. But do you have any of their pension money?”
“I doubt it. This is an insurance company, not a mob hangout.”
“Well, could you find out for me? And could you find out if they buy any insurance from you?”
“We sell all kinds of insurance, Vic—but not much that a union would buy.”
“Why not?”
“Look,” he said, “it’s a long story. Meet me at the Cartwheel at seven thirty and I’ll give you chapter and verse on it.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “But look into it for me, anyway. Please?”
“What’s the
I
stand for?”
“None of your goddamn business.” I hung up.
I
stood for Iphigenia. My Italian mother had been devoted to Victor Emmanuel. This passion and her love of opera had led her to burden me with an insane name.
I drank a Fresca and ordered a chef’s salad. I wanted ribs and fries, but the memory of Mildred’s sagging arms stopped me. The salad didn’t do much for me. I sternly put french fries out of my mind and pondered events.
Anita McGraw had called up and—at a minimum—told her father about the murder. My bet was she’d accused him of being involved. Ergo, Peter had foundout something disreputable about the Knifegrinders and had told her. He probably found it out at Ajax, but possibly from the bank. I loved the idea of pensions. The Loyal Alliance Pension Fund got lots of publicity for their handling, or mishandling, of Knife-grinder pension money, but twenty million or so could easily have been laid off on a big bank or insurance company. And pension money gave one so much scope for fraudulent activity.
Why had McGraw gone down to the apartment? Well, in the first place, he knew whatever discreditable secret Thayer had uncovered. He was afraid that Anita was probably in on it—young lovers don’t keep much to themselves. And if she called up because she’d found her boyfriend with a hole in his head, McGraw probably figured she’d be next, daughter or no daughter. So he went racing down to Hyde Park, terrified he’d find her dead body too. Instead she’d vanished. So far, so good.
Now if I could find Anita, I’d know the secret. Or if I found the
Similar Books
