Read Online Warshawski 09 - Hard Time by Sara Paretsky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara Paretsky
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for Aguinaldo’s home and the Baladines.
“Now I’ve got to scoot—Natie’s frantic he’ll miss the opening ceremony, and he’s gotten real into raising the flag and playing reveille. Who knows—maybe he’ll want to join the army or be a cop when he grows up.”
“Or maybe play the bugle. I’ll get him one for his birthday.”
“You dare, Vic, and he’ll practice under your window every morning at six!”
It wasn’t quite eight when she hung up. Too early to expect a report from Freeman. I thought I’d give Vishnikov a chance to take off his jacket and finish his coffee, or whatever his morning office ritual was. I did a full workout in my living room, including a session with my weights. I even took the trouble to put the weights back in the closet before trying the morgue. Vishnikov was in the dissecting room and didn’t want to be interrupted. I left a message and took the dogs out.
The air was still thick with humidity, but it was early enough that the heat wasn’t unbearable. I ran the dogs to Lake Michigan and back, a nice three–mile stint. The cops have started a major roundup of leash–law violators, even ticketing people whose dogs are swimming from the rocks along the lake, but I managed to get Mitch and Peppy in and out of the water without a citation.
“Lemour may be on me like my underwear, but he’s apparently not an early riser,” I told the dogs on the way back.
I tried Vishnikov as soon as I got in, but he still wasn’t taking calls. I wanted to go out to Oak Brook and talk to Eleanor Baladine about Nicola Aguinaldo, and I wanted to get up to Aguinaldo’s home in Uptown, so the faster I got to my own office and did some work that would generate income, the faster I could get to an investigation that might help save my hide. The only thing more important than doing my real work was getting hold of the dress Aguinaldo had been wearing. As soon as I got to my office I called Lotty.
“You were in luck, Vic: the administrator in charge of the ER in the mornings is so meticulous a follower of regulations that he’s wasted on Beth Israel’s small protocols. He bagged and labeled the clothes. Do you want to pick them up?”
“No. I don’t want anyone claiming I could have tampered with them. I want him to messenger them over to Cheviot Labs. With a note on where they’ve been since coming off poor little Ms. Aguinaldo’s body yesterday. Shall I call Max and ask for that? Or can you?”
She said it would be quicker if she handled it. “And on the other matter, the report the paramedics filed, Max is asking Cynthia to fax you a copy.” She hung up on my thanks: she was in the middle of a ferocious patient schedule.
One of the things I invested in when I moved to my new building was a set of detailed maps of most of the states and an art–supply cabinet for storing them. I pulled out the counties of rural Georgia where one of Continental United’s trouble spots lay, hoping that I wouldn’t have to go there in person to see why so many tire punctures occurred on County Road G. As I drew a line on the map from Hancock’s Crossing, where Continental’s warehouse sat, to the intersection of County G and Ludgate Road, Freeman Carter’s secretary called.
“Freeman wants to talk you, Vic. He has an opening at twelve–fifteen if you can stop by his office.”
I thanked her and turned back to my maps. I was betting either a driver or a dispatcher owned a service station on that corner: it had to be someone who could make sure trucks used a particular route which they probably strewed with nails. The drivers then had no choice but to hike up the road to the station for their tires. I called the director of human resources whom I’d met with yesterday, and asked him to fax me copies of the repair bills. It would be annoying to have to go down and confront these people in person; I hoped I could figure it all out from the paper trail.
Vishnikov returned my call as I was
“Now I’ve got to scoot—Natie’s frantic he’ll miss the opening ceremony, and he’s gotten real into raising the flag and playing reveille. Who knows—maybe he’ll want to join the army or be a cop when he grows up.”
“Or maybe play the bugle. I’ll get him one for his birthday.”
“You dare, Vic, and he’ll practice under your window every morning at six!”
It wasn’t quite eight when she hung up. Too early to expect a report from Freeman. I thought I’d give Vishnikov a chance to take off his jacket and finish his coffee, or whatever his morning office ritual was. I did a full workout in my living room, including a session with my weights. I even took the trouble to put the weights back in the closet before trying the morgue. Vishnikov was in the dissecting room and didn’t want to be interrupted. I left a message and took the dogs out.
The air was still thick with humidity, but it was early enough that the heat wasn’t unbearable. I ran the dogs to Lake Michigan and back, a nice three–mile stint. The cops have started a major roundup of leash–law violators, even ticketing people whose dogs are swimming from the rocks along the lake, but I managed to get Mitch and Peppy in and out of the water without a citation.
“Lemour may be on me like my underwear, but he’s apparently not an early riser,” I told the dogs on the way back.
I tried Vishnikov as soon as I got in, but he still wasn’t taking calls. I wanted to go out to Oak Brook and talk to Eleanor Baladine about Nicola Aguinaldo, and I wanted to get up to Aguinaldo’s home in Uptown, so the faster I got to my own office and did some work that would generate income, the faster I could get to an investigation that might help save my hide. The only thing more important than doing my real work was getting hold of the dress Aguinaldo had been wearing. As soon as I got to my office I called Lotty.
“You were in luck, Vic: the administrator in charge of the ER in the mornings is so meticulous a follower of regulations that he’s wasted on Beth Israel’s small protocols. He bagged and labeled the clothes. Do you want to pick them up?”
“No. I don’t want anyone claiming I could have tampered with them. I want him to messenger them over to Cheviot Labs. With a note on where they’ve been since coming off poor little Ms. Aguinaldo’s body yesterday. Shall I call Max and ask for that? Or can you?”
She said it would be quicker if she handled it. “And on the other matter, the report the paramedics filed, Max is asking Cynthia to fax you a copy.” She hung up on my thanks: she was in the middle of a ferocious patient schedule.
One of the things I invested in when I moved to my new building was a set of detailed maps of most of the states and an art–supply cabinet for storing them. I pulled out the counties of rural Georgia where one of Continental United’s trouble spots lay, hoping that I wouldn’t have to go there in person to see why so many tire punctures occurred on County Road G. As I drew a line on the map from Hancock’s Crossing, where Continental’s warehouse sat, to the intersection of County G and Ludgate Road, Freeman Carter’s secretary called.
“Freeman wants to talk you, Vic. He has an opening at twelve–fifteen if you can stop by his office.”
I thanked her and turned back to my maps. I was betting either a driver or a dispatcher owned a service station on that corner: it had to be someone who could make sure trucks used a particular route which they probably strewed with nails. The drivers then had no choice but to hike up the road to the station for their tires. I called the director of human resources whom I’d met with yesterday, and asked him to fax me copies of the repair bills. It would be annoying to have to go down and confront these people in person; I hoped I could figure it all out from the paper trail.
Vishnikov returned my call as I was
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