Killing Orders by Sara Paretsky Read Free Book Online Page B

for a client whose brother-in-law had been pilfering supplies, apparently out of bitterness from some longstanding family feud. When Hatfield finally stuck his head around the corner from the hall, I affected not to hear him until the second time he called my name. I looked up then and smiled and said I would be just a minute and carefully finished writing a sentence.
    “Hello, Derek,” I said. “How’s crime?”
    For some reason this jolly greeting always makes him grimace, which is probably why I always use it. His face has the bland handsomeness required by the FBI. He’s around six feet tall with a square build. I could see him doing a hundred sit-ups and push-ups every morning with methodical uncomplaining discipline, always turning down the second martini, picking up only college girls to make sure someone with a modicum of brains would breathe in his ear how smart and how brave he was. He was dressed today in a gray-plaid suit—muted gray on slightly paler gray with the discreetest of blue stripes woven in—a white shirt whose starch could probably hold up my brassiere for a week, and a blue tie.
    “I don’t have a lot of time, Warshawski.” He shot back a starched cuff and looked at his watch. Probably a Rolex.
    “I’m flattered, then, that you wanted to make some of it available to me.” I followed him down the hail to an office in the southwestern corner. Hatfield was head of white-collar crime for the Chicago Region, obviously a substantial position judging by the furniture—all wood veneer—and the location.
    “That’s a nice view of the metropolitan lockup,” I said, looking out at the triangular building. “It must be a great inspiration for you.”
    “We don’t send anyone there.”
    “Not even for overnight holding? What about Joey Lombardo and Allen Dorfmann? I thought that’s where they were staying while they were on trial.”
    “Could you cut it out? I don’t know anything about Dorfmann or Lombardo. I want to talk to you about the securities at St. Albert’s.”
    “Great.” I sat down in an uncomfortable chair covered in tan Naugahyde and put a look of bright interest on my face.
    “One of the things that occurred to me yesterday was that the certificates might have been forged before they were passed on to St. Albert’s. What do you know about the donor and his executors? Also, it is possible some ex-Dominican with a grudge could have been behind it. Do you have a trail on people who left the order in the last ten years?”
    “I’m not interested in discussing the case with you, Warshawski. We’re very well able to think of leads and follow them up. We have an excellent record here in the bureau. This forgery is a federal offense and I must request you to back out of it.”
    I leaned forward in my chair. “Derek, I’m not only willing but eager for you to solve this crime. It will take a cast of thousands to sort it out. You have that. I don’t. I’m just here to make sure that a seventy-five-year-old woman doesn’t get crushed by the crowd. And I’d like to know what you’ve turned up on the possibilities I just mentioned to you.”
    “We’re following all leads.”
    We argued it back and forth for several more minutes, but he was adamant and I left empty-handed. I stopped in the plaza at a pay phone next to the praying mantis and dialed the Herald-Star. Murray Ryerson, their chief crime reporter, was in. He and I have been friends, sometimes lovers, and easy rivals on the crime scene for years.
    “Hi, Murray. It’s V. I. Is three o’clock too early for a drink?”
    “That’s no question for the crime desk. I’ll connect you with our etiquette specialist.” He paused. “A.M. or P.M.?”
    “Now, wiseass. I’ll buy.”
    “Gosh, Vic, you must be desperate. Can’t do it now, but how about meeting at the Golden Glow in an hour?”
    I agreed and hung up. The Golden Glow is my favorite bar in Chicago; I introduced Murray to it a number of years ago. It’s