Trip Wire_ A Cook County Mystery - Charlotte Carter [54]
“Because of the keys. Some key on Wilton’s key ring opens something up in Kent.”
“Lot of trouble to go to for house keys,” he said. “Why not just break down the door or go in through a window?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the key isn’t for the house. Maybe it’s a safe-deposit box at the local bank. Who knows? I just know the man who assaulted me and took those keys was a cop.”
“You’ll never be able to prove that, Cass. You didn’t see him. Besides, anybody could’ve been wearing a jacket like you talked about.”
“I know. But I’ll bet anything I’m right. Who else could have had such an easy time of it? Just slip into the building and wait for one of us to show. For days after the killings, there were uniformed officers all over the neighborhood. One of them was told to get those keys, but not to hurt anybody in the process.”
I don’t know if Woody was buying everything in my version of events, but at least he was firmly back on my side. And he was in a cold rage about Norris being so filthy to me. I knew he would figure a way to get even with him, which made me really happy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MONDAY
1
“What is this place?” Sim asked.
“The Wobbly hall,” I said.
“Wobbly?”
“Industrial Workers of the World. They’re anarchists. You know—Joe Hill and all that.”
He still had no idea what I was talking about.
“Like a labor union, but more than that. It’s complicated. Just wait down here. I won’t be long.”
On the way up the stairs, I thought about the Halloween party Nat had taken me to at the hall. I went as Emma Goldman. We drank jug wine, listened to Paul Robeson 78s, and sang “Solidarity Forever” about a hundred times.
The place was as ghostly as ever. Glorious old bowed windows, greasy with dirt, looking onto Lincoln Avenue. Rickety wooden chairs thick with dust in neat rows facing a makeshift stage. Except, few of the meetings or events at the hall drew enough people to fill even a quarter of those seats.
Nat was standing across from his friend Torvald at one of the long tables. They were collating mimeographed pages. Tor saw me before Nat did, and raised a welcoming hand.
Nat stared at me for a long moment. There didn’t seem to be much anger in his eyes anymore. What was I seeing there instead? Perhaps just indifference.
I kept a few feet of space between us. “Hi.”
He didn’t respond right away. But then he said, “Tor, can you excuse us for a minute?”
“No, don’t,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to both of you.”
That made Nat a little suspicious. “What about?”
I handed over the single sheet of stationery I’d found in Wilton’s copy of the Fanon book. “Any idea what this is?”
He looked for a minute at the two black fists in the logo, then up at me. Then he passed the paper to Tor.
“August 4,” Torvald said.
“What?”
“The August 4 Committee.” I guess he thought that was an explanation.
“They’re Vietnam vets. They’re a service organization for guys who come home from ’Nam.”
“Is that all?” I said.
Tor cast a quick look over at Nat before speaking again. “Not exactly.”
Nat spoke up finally. “They’re a covert group, Cassandra. They organize to get black soldiers to desert or defect to the Cong.”
“I see. So what does that word under the drawing mean—Turnabout?”
“I don’t know. What are you doing with that flyer anyway? You about to take up arms now?”
“No. I—I found it.”
“And that’s all you came here for? Satisfy your curiosity?”
“No. Not really. I have more than that to say to you.”
He waited. But I didn’t speak up. “Guess you don’t have more to say, after all.”
I looked at Tor then. “Maybe you could give us a minute alone.”
He backed away.
“You’re making this hard, Nat. Which I understand. I do, really. But I’m trying to do something here that’s pretty important.”
“Trying to find out who did Wilton in.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head in disgust. And for a second there, my fondest wish was to be a Bengal tiger, because I’d have leapt on him and clawed him to death. But I managed to push that impulse down. My God, I thought I had stopped resenting poor Nat for being alive. I guess I hadn’t yet.