Killing Orders

“But wouldn’t it be possible to show she was just O’Faolin’s dupe?” He smiled bitterly. “Which she has been, since she first met him in Panama.”

I looked at him with genuine pity. “Dr. Paciorek, let me tell you the situation as I understand it. The Banco Ambrosiano is missing over a billion dollars, which disappeared into unknown Panamanian companies. Based on a letter from a Panamanian named Figueredo to Archbishop O’Faolin, it looks as though O’Faolin knows where that money is. He’s in sort of a bind. As long as he doesn’t use it, no one will know where it is. Once he starts to move it, the game is up.

“O’Faolin’s no dummy. If he can get some large financial institution, like an insurance company, under his control, he can launder the money and use it however he wants. Michael Sindona tried that on behalf of the mob with the Franklin National Bank, only he was stupid enough to strip the bank’s assets. So he’s languishing now in a federal prison.

“Corpus Christi in Chicago has a huge endowment, thanks to Mrs. Paciorek. O’Faolin is a member and recruited your wife. Very well. Let them put together a dummy corporation, call it Wood-Sage, and use that to acquire Ajax stock. Once the co

“But that’s not criminal,” the doctor pointed out.

I frowned unhappily. At last I said, “Look. I didn’t want to tell you this. Particularly not tonight, when you’ve had such a shock. But there’s Agnes’s death, you see.”

“Yes?” His voice was harsh.

“She was looking into the takeover for one of the Ajax officers,.. She found out about the Corpus Christi involvement. She was killed that night while waiting to meet with someone to discuss it.”

His white, stricken face was like an open wound in the room. I could think of nothing to say to ease that pain. At last he looked up and gave a ghastly smile. “Yes. I can see. Even if Xavier is the main culprit, Catherine can’t avoid her own responsibility for her daughter’s death. No wonder she’s been so…” His voice trailed off.

I got up. “I wish I could think of some comfort for you. I can’t. But if you want my help, please call me. My answering service takes messages twenty-four hours a day.” I put my card on the desk in front of him and left.

I was bone-weary and stiff. I’d have gladly lain down in front of the family-room fire and passed out, but I willed my aching body down the front stairs to the street. Going by road, it was only a five-minute walk to my car instead of the half hour it had taken me cross-country.

My watch said three when I moved the stiff Toyota back onto the tollway. I found a motel at the first southbound exit, checked in, and fell asleep without bothering to undress.

XXIV

IT WAS PAST noon when I woke again. Every muscle ached. I’d remembered to put the Smith & Wesson aside before going to sleep, but not the holster. My left side was sore from where the leather had pressed into my breast all night. My clothes stank. I’d fought Walter Novick in this shirt, put in a heavy stint of cross-country hiking, and slept in it. The smell bore acute witness to these activities.

I longed for a bath, but not if it meant redo

It was only after a long soak in the stained porcelain tub that

I realized how hungry I was. Dry, reclothed, I stiffly descended the four flights of stairs.

What would the don’s reaction be to losing Novick? Would he be gu

Her apartment door opened and the fabled Mr. Climzak appeared, in a T-shirt and baggy trousers. A day’s growth of beard helped hide his drink-reddened cheeks. He didn’t look as though he could throw me out, but he might be alert enough to call the police.

“Just looking for the back door,” I told him brightly, continuing down the passage.

As I undid the dead bolt, Mrs. Climzak hissed, “This is the last straw. You will have to find other lodgings.”

I looked at her before going outside. “I hope so, Mrs. Climzak. I certainly hope so.”

No hail of machine-gun bullets strafed me in the alley. Nor were any suspicious-looking cars hovering on the street. I found a Polish restaurant and ate heartily, if not healthily, of cabbage soup, chicken, dumplings, and apple tart.

I felt decidedly more human. Over a second cup of coffee, an idea began glimmering at the back of my brain. Preposterous. It would need Murray’s cooperation. And Uncle Stefan’s.

Illinois Bell, poverty-stricken by the AT &T dismemberment, had raised the price of pay phone calls to a quarter. After fishing for change, I reached Murray at the desk of the Herald Star. I’II gave him a big, huge story would he sit on it until it came to an end?

“Ain’t you dead yet, Warshawski? What am I supposed to do in exchange for this big huge story?”

“Run a couple of lines on the front page of the evening and morning editions.”

“I’m not the editor-I don’t control what goes on the front page. Or even page sixty-two of the middle section.”

“Murray! I’m shocked. You told me you were an important newspaperman. Can it be you lied? Can it be I have to go to the Tribune and talk to Lipinski?”

Grumbling, he agreed to meet me at the Golden Glow around five P.M. The schoolroom clock over the counter said two-thirty. Time to check things out with Uncle Stefan.

Another quarter to my answering service reminded me I hadn’t told Phyllis I wouldn’t be back to her place last night. Or Roger that I’d miss his board meeting. And Bobby wanted to see me to talk about Walter Novick. “Not your jurisdiction,” I muttered.

“What was that?” the operator said.

“Nothing. Any other calls?”

Dr. Paciorek wanted to talk to me. He’d left his paging number at the hospital for me. Frowning, I put another quarter in the machine. Twenty-five cents gets you three tries. Clicked from operator to operator at the hospital, I finally co

“Victoria! I was afraid you wouldn’t get my message.” His normally controlled voice was rough and human. “Could you come back to the house tonight? I know it’s a lot to ask. O’Faolin’s coming out-I’m going to settle this matter.”

I rubbed my eyes with my free hand. Would this upset my other plans? Dr. Paciorek breathed anxiously in my ear while I considered. Maybe I could put a little advance pressure on the archbishop. “I guess so. Can’t make it before eight, though.”

“Fine. Fine. Thanks very much, Victoria.”

“Don’t thank me for anything, Dr. Paciorek. This story is not going to have a happy ending.”

A long silence, then “I realize that” and he hung up.

Jim Streeter met me at Uncle Stefan’s door. “The doctors say the old man can be release4~tomorrow. He’s been trying to reach his niece. I guess she’s pla