Body Work Part 18

"It's a club, we do performance art. I don't think Ms. Warshawski understood that we had a special rehearsal tonight after the club closed. She took it too seriously. Really, Ms. Warshawski, you need to get out more, see what's happening in theater these days."

"And the fire?" Terry asked.

When he and his team arrived, the back curtains were in flames. The cops had pulled them down and managed to stamp out the fire, but the stage was a mess. Parts of the floor were scorched, and the whole surface was covered in paint from the cans the Body Artist had hurled at her a.s.sailants.

Five squad cars pulled up as I was getting into my Mustang to follow the Artist. The cops pinned me in. They wouldn't listen to my frantic cries about going after the SUV-"I'm the one who sent for you. A key witness is taking off!"-and forced me to come back into the club with them. Most of the thugs had fled, but the patrol units grabbed the few who'd stayed behind, including Rodney, and cuffed them.

The fire department showed up a few minutes after the cops. A middle-aged firefighter dealt with the wires I'd fused. He had sad eyes and a drooping mustache, but his thick fingers moved skillfully among the wires, and he restored power to the building-a mercy, because the furnace had shut down in the outage.

Finchley walked in a moment or two later. "You know, Vic, I'm going to suggest to the captain that we pay to relocate you to New York, because I swear Chicago's crime rate would drop fifty percent if you weren't here. Conrad relayed your message. Now, tell me why we've all left our beds to do your bidding."

"It's not that I'm not grateful," I said, "because, believe me, I am. These goons are the remnant of a whole swarm of creeps who took over the club and started beating up the Body Artist and Olympia. But the Body Artist took off in a borrowed SUV, and I was hoping to follow her when your crew hustled me back in here, not listening to my suggestion that they go after the Artist."

Terry sighed, exasperated either with me or his crew, I couldn't tell which, but he asked me for the plate number and phoned in a bulletin asking patrol units to look out for the SUV.

That was when Olympia started her little-girl act, pretending that it was all just a "giant but unfortunately truly dangerous" misunderstanding on my part. The thugs whom the cops had cuffed began to smirk. Even Rodney, who'd been trying to start Owen Widermayer's Mercedes when the police pulled him out of it, looked as though he might break into song. I wanted to shoot holes in all of them just to wipe the smiles off their faces. They knew they were going to beat any rap I might be able to hand out.

The fire crew chief joined us in the front of the club.

"You the owner, miss?" he asked me. "You were way over code there with the load you were carrying. This was an accident waiting to happen."

"Thank you, Officer," Olympia surged between him and me. "This is my building. I'll get this taken care of first thing tomorrow-today, really, isn't it? But you know what I mean-when the rest of the world is awake and going to work, you and I are in bed."

She blinked from the fire chief and his drooping mustache to Terry in what was meant to be a helpless, appealing way. "I'm sorry the Warshawski woman was such an alarmist that she roused everyone, but we're grateful for the quick response. Let me give you gift vouchers. You and your friends are welcome to come here on your nights off as my guests." She reached over the bar and fumbled in a drawer for the vouchers.

"No." Terry's quiet voice carried authority, and both his team and the fire crew looked stolidly ahead. "Tell me about the fire."

"The fire on the stage, you mean?"

"Was there another?" A pulse was starting to throb on Terry's forehead.

"Sorry to be so silly, Detective, but this Warshawski woman's wild behavior has me so rattled that I-"

"Vic, tell me about the fire."

I repeated what I'd said earlier, about thugs taking over the theater. "Going by the voices, at least one was a woman, maybe more. They forced the staff and customers to leave, but I hid under the stage. The whole point of the attack seemed to be connected with the Artist's website-it's been down for several days, and they wanted her to bring it back up. When she either wouldn't or couldn't, they started beating up Olympia and the Body Artist both. I couldn't take on the whole lot-I wanted to create a diversion while I hustled the Artist off the stage. I didn't know my intervention would produce such drastic results."

"So you set the fire?" Finchley said.

"I fused the wires. The open wire set the curtains on fire."

"Ms. Warshawski, I expect you to pay for the damage you caused here," Olympia said.

"Were you born stupid, or did you work hard to get like this?" It was all I could do not to grab her and shake her. "You take this to a court of law and you will-"

"I will have witnesses that you did malicious damage to my building." Olympia's triumphant tone was startling. "Karen won't testify for you, and neither will these men here." She waved an arm toward the handcuffed thugs.

My mouth opened and shut several times, but I couldn't get any words out.

"Where does this Body Artist live?" Terry asked. "We looked in the dressing room. She'd left her keys, but we didn't find any ID. We need to talk to her, get her version of what happened here tonight."

Olympia bit her lips in momentary indecision, then told Terry she'd get it from her computer. I tagged along with them to her tiny office. She tried to keep us from looking at the screen, but Terry pushed her aside and scribbled the address into his notebook. Back in the main room of the club, he ordered one of his squad cars over to the address on Superior that Olympia had given him and ordered another unit to take the thugs to the station for booking.

"You can't arrest them just on Warshawski's say-so." Olympia had given up her little-girl act. "I'm not pressing charges."

One of the men in cuffs winked at her and said, "Not to be worrying like this, Olympia. Lawyer will come. All will be well."

There were a few minutes of bustle, with Terry's minions shoving the punks out the door, followed by the fire crew and the rest of the cops.

"You need to go, too, Warshawski." Olympia's smile disappeared with the disappearing lawmen. "I warned you to stay away from my club, but you came back, you set a fire-"

"If you keep saying that, Koilada, you are going to be facing such a big lawsuit that even your sugar daddy won't bail you out."

Olympia gave an exaggerated yawn. "Good night, Vic. Get out and don't come back, not unless you're bringing a check to cover the damages. And tell Petra she's got to find a new job."

"No, Olympia, darling. I'm not your manager. You want to fire one of your staff, you spit it out in person, to her face. And if you think you can do a deal with Anton Kystarnik, in or out of bed, do remember that his wife died in a plane crash so well orchestrated that everyone agreed it was an accident."

"It was was an accident." an accident."

I gave a tight parody of a smile. "And so was the fire on your stage. Good night, Olympia. Angels guide you to your rest, and all that."

An unmarked car, bristling with antennas, was in the lot. I felt for my gun, but it was Terry, waiting for a private word with me. He got out of the backseat and followed me to my car.

"Vic, you know there's not a lot we can do if Koilada insists on her story. Not unless the-uh-Artist backs up your statement. But just for my own curiosity, what was going on in there?"

"I don't know, Terry. Olympia owes a bundle to someone. It could be as much as a million dollars, and it could be to Anton Kystarnik. Rodney Treffer, the heavy you picked up tonight, works for Kystarnik, and the boys and girls who took over the place tonight were speaking some Slavic language. Connect the dots your own way, but to me it looks as though Olympia lets them use the club as some kind of way of getting information to each other without going through any wires. That's why they're so furious that they can't get access to the pictures on her site. My opinion only, of course."

I started my engine.

"What were you doing here tonight?"

For a moment I couldn't remember, the evening had been so full of drama.

"Nadia Guaman's older sister died in Iraq," I finally said. "I'm thinking Nadia's murder is connected to that, to the fact that Chad Vishneski was over there when Alexandra Guaman died."

Terry slapped the roof of my car in frustration.

"I don't know who gets my goat more: that piece of work in there"-he gestured toward the club-"pretending a bunch of lowlifes were rehearsing a show, or you, thinking you can skate right over evidence of murder because it doesn't fit some d.a.m.ned theory of yours."

"Listen to me . . . Oh, forget it. Do what you want." I fumbled in my bag for a dollar bill. "This picture of Washington bets that when your team gets to the address Olympia gave you, you'll find a vacant lot. Or maybe an abandoned warehouse. You won't find Karen Buckley."

He was starting to answer me when his phone rang. He had a short, biting conversation with someone and then squatted to look me in the eye.

"How did you know?" he asked. "Have you been over there?"

"That was your officer out on West Superior?"

"It's a warehouse, but it's empty. How did you know, Warshawski? Are you involved in some con of your own?"

"It was a guess. I've been around these women awhile now and they are the original sh.e.l.l shufflers."

"Oh, h.e.l.l h.e.l.l !" he swore uncharacteristically. "That explains-" !" he swore uncharacteristically. "That explains-"

"What?" I asked, when he bit off the sentence.

"Just that an alert squad car found the SUV your Artist boosted. She'd dumped it on Irving near the Blue Line, which means she could have jumped the L to anywhere in town or even the airport. We put an alert out at O'Hare, but TSA can't find the bathroom with both hands most days. If you know where the Buckley woman lives and you're not saying-"

"Terry, on my mother's name, I do not know word one about the Body Artist-not even whether Karen Buckley is her real name or not."

He shut my door, none too gently, and stomped to his waiting car.

As I drove down Lake Street, my right hand hurt so badly I couldn't hold the steering wheel. I stopped at the light on Ashland and took off my glove. A fragment of the palette knife was lodged in my index finger near the palm. I hadn't noticed it during the heat of battle.

I wasn't about to go to an emergency room and sit for the rest of the night. Nursing my hand in my lap, I went north to Ukrainian Village, to Rivka Darling's home. If Karen Buckley had ridden the L back down here, Kystarnik would have found her easily.

A Hummer was parked in front of Rivka's building, engine running. The driver flicked up the brights as I went pa.s.sed, looking to see who was on the street. I pretended not to notice, although they probably had my license plate in their files.

I called Rivka on my cell phone. We had a short, annoying conversation. She wouldn't say one way or another if Karen was there, even when I said that the Artist's life was at risk.

"You weren't in the club tonight," I said, "but a gang of serious thugs attacked her at the end of the performance. She managed to get away, but if she's with you, you need to call the cops. One of the creeps is in front of your building, so if she's there, don't let her leave without a police escort. If she doesn't want the cops, call me. Do you hear?"

"Karen can look after herself. She doesn't need you."

I guessed from the quiver in Rivka's voice that the Artist hadn't shown up. I drove to my own home, where I looked at my right hand under my piano light. The fragment was just visible below the skin. I found a bottle of peroxide in my pantry cupboard and poured it into a mixing bowl. Tweezers and a needle, which took a little more finding-I don't often mend clothes or dig out splinters. When I had my kit a.s.sembled, I went back to the living room and stuck my hand in the peroxide.

"Courage, Victoria," I said.

I'm right-handed, and digging around for metal splinters with my left was a challenge that brought me close to the screaming point. I was beginning to think an emergency room was the answer when Jake knocked at my front door.

"We just finished rehearsing, and I saw your light," he said. "You interested in a nightcap?"

"I'm interested in someone with long, delicate fingers and a surgeon's deft touch."

I held out my hand, which was bleeding pretty heavily from my bungled probing.

"Vic! Blood makes me throw up."

I thought he was joking, but his face actually did have a greenish sheen.

"I'll rinse it off," I said, "if you'll take this splinter out for me. Please! I'll even open my last bottle of Torgiano for you."

He made a face but took the tweezers from me.

"You go rinse this off until it's not bleeding," he said, "or you'll be removing lasagna from it along with the blood."

When I got myself cleaned up, he clamped my hand between his knees as if it were a cello. He was sweating, but he had the chip out fairly fast. He turned his head while I wrapped the hand in a towel.

"What is this?" He held the chip under the light.

"A metal fragment. A palette knife exploded in my hand."

"A palette . . . No, don't explain. I'm happier not knowing. And I don't know about you, but I need something stronger than red wine right now."

I got out a bottle of Longrow. It was a small-batch single malt that my most important client, Darraugh Graham, had brought me from Edinburgh. It went down like liquid gold. By the time I'd had my second gla.s.s and followed Jake into my bedroom, I'd almost forgotten the throbbing in my hand.

28.

Mourning Coffee.

When my cell phone rang four hours later, at first I incorporated it into my sleep. I was in Kiev, and the Body Artist, painted like a Russian Easter egg, was madly pulling ropes to ring church bells all across the city. The ringing stopped, then started again almost at once.

"I know the Bottesini," Jake muttered. "I don't have to rehea.r.s.e it."

"Neither do I," I said, but I got up and found my phone, in the pocket of the jeans I'd dropped on the floor last night.

My call log showed the same person had called three times. The phone was chirruping to tell me I had new voice mail, new text messages. r u there? ansir! r u there? ansir!

My head was too blurry from a short night on top of a gun battle to call back. I stumbled, shivering, down the hall to the bathroom. Seven in the morning, still dark. I didn't think winter would ever end.

I stood under the shower, washing sleep out of my face, while my phone rang again from the towel shelf. On the caller's fifth try, I answered before it rolled over to voice mail.

"Who is this?" It was a husky whisper.

My least favorite conversational gambit. "V. I. Warshawski. Who is this?"

"I . . . Clara. I'm supposed to be at ma.s.s in fifteen minutes. I need to see you. There's a coffee shop on Blue Island a block from the school."

A truck or bus roaring by made it hard to hear her; I shouted over the noise that I'd be there in twenty minutes. Jake didn't wake up as I banged drawers and doors open and shut, pulling on sweaters, jeans, my practical heavy boots. For a perverse moment, I wanted to yank the blankets off, freeze his toes, force him to wake up, but he'd done surgery on me that turned him green, he'd spent the night, he'd made me feel less alone and more beautiful than I usually do.

My right hand was swollen, the palm a purply brown. When I couldn't get a glove over it, I stuffed it into an oven mitt, grabbed my coat and gun, and ran down the back stairs to the alley, where I'd parked last night. Once I was in the car, I put the Smith & Wesson on the seat, under my coat, wondering how well I'd aim if I had to shoot left-handed.

Lake Sh.o.r.e Drive is a parking lot this time of day, but the side streets weren't much better-parents dropping kids off at school blocked most of the roads. It took half an hour to reach the coffee shop, a franchise of one of the big chains, on Blue Island. I didn't see Clara Guaman at first and thought she'd gotten fed up with waiting. However, while I stood in line for the espresso I urgently needed, Clara emerged from the shadows at the back.

"I thought you'd never get here. I have to get to cla.s.s before they miss me."

"I'll walk up with you. We can talk on the way."

"No! I don't want anyone to see you with me. Come over here where it's dark."

She headed toward the back, to an alcove near the doors to the toilets. I collected my drink and joined her. This was the only coffee shop close to her school, and it was filled with kids on their way to cla.s.s, so I didn't think she'd be particularly anonymous. At least so far no one had called out to her.

Once we were in the alcove, she couldn't seem to get to the point. She fiddled with her phone and kept peering around the corner to see who was standing in line.