Read Online Warshawski 09 - Hard Time by Sara Paretsky - Free Book Online

was right—I must be a detective, they’d seen someone do the very same thing on television. After that they offered me a variety of items, from an empty Annie Greensleeves bottle to a Converse high–top. I solemnly inspected their findings. In the midst of the detritus, a piece of metal caught my eye as it had theirs: “This is gold, isn’t it, miss, is it valuable? Do we get a reward?”
    It wasn’t gold but heavy plastic. It was new, and its shine had attracted the girls—it clearly hadn’t lain long in the gutter. It was shaped like a Greek omega, but it wasn’t a charm, more like some kind of signature from a handbag zipper, or maybe a shoe. I thought I should recognize the designer, but I couldn’t place it off the top of my head.
    Mr. Contreras was getting restive: he really wanted to get out to Park Ridge to look at the car he’d picked out. I pocketed the emblem and put the rest of their findings in the garbage.
    “Who is the oldest?” I asked.
    “Sarina’s twelve,” they volunteered.
    I handed a girl in a fringed scarf one of my cards and three dollars. “The money is for all of you to share; it’s your reward for helping me hunt for clues. The card is for your friend Morrell. When he comes again, will you give it to him? It has my name and phone number on it. I’d like him to call me.”
    The girls clustered around Sarina. “What’s it say?” “Ooh, Sarina, she is a detective, it say so right here.” “She going to arrest you, Mina, for talking back to your mama.”
    Their comments faded as we rounded the corner to the L. Mr. Contreras filled me in on the Buick Skylark we were going to see. “He’s asking seventeen hundred, but it’s got ninety–eight thousand miles. You can probably bring him down a couple a hundred, but maybe you want your buddy Luke to go over a car before you buy it—all these computers and whatnot it ain’t so easy to tell what’s going on inside an engine these days.”
    “Yeah, my buddy Luke.” I thought bitterly of our conversation this afternoon. “He’s likely to demand the mortgage on my apartment before he lifts a finger to help. After getting my estimates from Luke I’m beginning to think I should rent something for a few weeks. Even fifteen hundred seems way more than I can afford for temporary wheels, and if it’s that beat up I’ll have trouble reselling it.”
    The old man deflated visibly: he’d spent all day on the project and politely deferred pushing it while he helped me on my silly Sherlock Holmes imitation. Guilt is not an adequate reason for bad business decisions, but I couldn’t bear to see him so woebegone. We picked up falafel sandwiches and Cokes at a storefront underneath the L tracks and trudged up the stairs for the first leg in our journey.
    By the time we got to the seller’s apartment, I was so fed up with public transportation I was ready to pay almost any price to get rolling again. The Red Line to Howard. The old Skokie Swift—now the Yellow Line—and then the real time–eater, the wait for the suburban bus to take us five miles further west, to a stop close enough to the guy’s place that we could walk.
    “You know, if we don’t buy the car and take possession tonight, we may end up camping in that forest preserve we passed,” I told Mr. Contreras as we started walking. “The sign says the last bus leaves the Gross Point depot at nine–thirty, and it’s a quarter of now.”
    “Cab.” He was puffing a little from the heat and the walk. “I’ll treat you to a cab back to the L, cookie.”
    When we finally reached the seller’s apartment, we saw the car wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Rust over most of the driver’s door and around the trunk made it look depressing, the tires were worn, but a ten–mile drive to the airport and back didn’t reveal anything amiss in the engine. The seller was a kid who’d graduated from Champaign in engineering this spring. He bought the Skylark used when he started