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

delivery trucks from the Eustace, Georgia, plant, I wondered what special insight fasting brought people. The apple I’d snatched on my way out the door was all I’d eaten since the snacks at last night’s party. Far from feeling a heightened consciousness, all I could think of was food. I tried to keep a look of bright attention on my face and hoped the general chatter would cover my growling stomach. Fortunately I’ve sat through enough similar sessions that I could interject a cogent–sounding question or two, laugh at the human–resources vice president’s dull jokes, and agree to turn around the investigation in three days, unless I had to go to Georgia.
    When we finally broke, at four, I encountered Darraugh Graham himself in the hall. Civility—need—required me to chat with him, about his son, about the political situation in Italy where he had a major plant, about the assignment I’d just been handed. I was lucky that Darraugh continued to come to me, instead of turning all his business over to one of the big outfits like Carnifice. Of course Carnifice supplies the armed guards Continental United needs for transporting payroll. I think they handled Darraugh’s security when he visited Argentina last winter. But he still gives me a significant chunk of work requiring more analysis than muscle; it behooves me to pay attention to his private chitchat.
    He clasped my shoulder briefly and gave a wintry smile of farewell. I hurried to the elevator and fell into the frozen yogurt stand in the lobby. Extra–large chocolate and vanilla with nuts, fruit, and little waffle chips. Breakfast and lunch in one giant cup. I sat in one of the spindly chairs in the lobby to pry dress pumps off my swollen feet and slip back into my running shoes. Happiness lies in simple things, after all—a little food, a little comfort.
    When I’d eaten enough to raise my blood sugar to the functioning point, I called Luke to get the word on my car. My better mood deflated rapidly: he estimated repairs at twenty–nine hundred.
    “Freddie towed it to Cheviot for you, but he took a look at the damage when he unloaded it. You bent the front axle and stove in the radiator for starters. And when Freddie got there he found the neighborhood helping themselves to the battery, the radio, and a couple of tires, so I’ll have to repair the dash. And before you squawk, let me tell you that a big shop would charge at least a thousand more.”
    I slumped in the hard chair. “I wasn’t squawking. That gurgling noise was the last of my pathetic assets being sucked into the Gulf of Mexico. Does this estimate include the kind of professional courtesy I gave you when I drove those creeps away from your yard?”
    “You didn’t do anything for me I couldn’t do myself, Warshawski, but I know you don’t know what it takes to fix this car.”
    I bit back an acid rejoinder. “What about your forensic buddies? What are they saying about inspecting the front end?”
    “The earliest they can get to it is tomorrow afternoon. And I have a note here from Rieff at Cheviot. He says they need the autopsy report on the hit–and–run victim. And they ideally need the clothes she had on when she died. Their analysis is going to run you another grand, easy, probably more. Of course I won’t start repairs until after they’ve finished. And until you give me the go–ahead. But tell you what, Warshawski, being as you helped me out with those kids, I won’t charge you for the tow.”
    “Luke, you’re a prince.”
    Irony was wasted on him. “One good turn deserves another.”
    I pressed the END key before I let my temper get the better of me. I’d spent three nights in his alley, nabbed a group of teenagers, put the fear of God into them sufficiently to make sure they didn’t return, and then stupidly gave Luke a courtesy discount in the belief he would reciprocate on future repair bills.
    Twenty–nine hundred in repairs plus another grand for a forensic