Burn Marks by Sara Paretsky Read Free Book Online Page A

without finding any word on Elena, it was time to shower and dress for my two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar barbecue. I knew Marissa would probably show up in silk lounging pajamas or something equally exotic, but unless Rosalyn Fuentes had changed dramatically, she would probably wear jeans. It seemed to me good fund-raising etiquette dictated not to upstage the guest of honor. Besides, I didn’t want to worry about dry-clean-only clothes at a giant picnic. I put on khaki slacks and a loose-fitting olive shirt. Neat—would camouflage food spills and above all be comfortable for an afternoon in the sun.
    Michael arrived a little before three, his black hair and dark eyes set off vividly by a navy blazer and pale blue polo shirt. His normal good spirits had spilled over into exuberance—he liked big parties, he liked getting together with his pals, and he had enough old-fashioned Dem in him to look forward to an afternoon hobnobbing with patty bigwigs.
    I made a great show of salaams at his elegance. “You sure you want to arrive at Boots’s with me? It’s really going to tone down your image.”
    He gave me a mock tap to the nose. “You make me look good, Warshawski. That’s why I want you to stay close this afternoon.”
    “The slum next to the suburb? That’s kind of how I feel about the whole affair.” Somehow his effervescence made me feel like being disagreeable.
    “Aw, come on, Warshawski. Do you really like living in the trash and graffiti? Secretly, down deep, wouldn’t you live in the clean open spaces if you could afford it?”
    “You stay in Norwood Park,” I reminded him.
    “Only because those of us who serve and protect you from the graffiti artists have to live in the city. And Chicago crime is more interesting to be around than the stuff in Streamwood.”
    “Well, that’s what I think too. That’s why I can’t see myself out there.” I took my billfold from my handbag and stuffed it in a pants pocket along with my invitation to the party—I didn’t want to lug a purse around the picnic all afternoon.
    “But you do a lot of investigations in the suburbs,” Michael objected as we left my apartment.
    “That’s why I like city crime better.” I turned the double locks. “Someone bonks you on the head and steals your purse. They don’t sit in board rooms raving on about the niggers in Chicago while they’re sliding a million or two off the top from the company.”
    “I could introduce you to some muggers,” Michael offered when we reached the street. “They need some PR—maybe you’re just the gal for them.” He sketched a billboard with his hands. “I can kind of see it—clean, honest crime like your granddaddy used to commit.”
    I laughed in spite of myself. “Okay, okay. Muggers are scum. I just have a chip on my shoulder about the suburbs, that’s all. Anyway, I can’t afford them. I wouldn’t mind knowing what Boots did to finance a move from Division and Central to Streamwood.”
    Michael framed my face with his hands and kissed me. “Do me a favor, Vic—just don’t ask him this afternoon.”
    I disengaged myself and got into the Chevy. “Don’t worry—my mama brought me up to know how to act in public. See you at the ball.”
    He hopped into the Corvette, flashed his lights at me a few times, and took off toward Belmont with a great screeching of rubber.
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6
    County Picnic
    Once we were on the Kennedy I lost track of Michael. He could afford to do eighty—the highway patrol would give him a professional wink they wouldn’t extend to me. He was waiting for me at the exit to the Northwest Tollway; I had him more or less in view as we started winding our way through the hills that swell to the northwest as you leave Chicago.
    I’m not sure I would have found Boots’s spread if I hadn’t been following Michael, at least not on the first go-round. The entrance, which lay on a twisting unlabeled street, was a discreet opening in the hedge