Free Killing Orders by Sara Paretsky

Hugo decided to move to Montreal, I came to Chicago—I had an opportunity for a surgical residency at Northwestern, too good a chance to turn down.” She made a throwaway gesture with her left hand. “So I set out to find Uncle Stefan. And discovered him in a federal prison at Fort Leavenworth. Currency was his specialty, although he had a social conscience: He was also forging passports for sale to the many Europeans trying to come to America at the time.”
    She grinned at me, the old Lotty grin. I leaned across the table and squeezed her hand. She returned the pressure, but went on talking. Detectives and doctors both know the value of talking. “I went to see him. He’s likable. Like my father, but without the moral foundation. And I let him stay with me for six months when he was released—1959 that was; I was his only family, too.
    “He got a job, doing custom work for a jeweler—after all, he wasn’t a robber, so they weren’t afraid he’d lift the sterling. As far as I know, he’s never stepped over the edge again. But naturally I haven’t asked.”
    “Naturally not. Well, I will try to find a different engraver.”
    Lotty smiled again. “Oh, no. Why not call him? He’s eighty-two, but he still has all his wits and some besides. He might be the one person who could help you.”
    She would talk to him the next day and arrange a time when I could have tea with him. We had coffee and pears in the living room and played Scrabble. As usual, Lotty won.

Chapter 7 - Christian Charity
    THE AIR WAS clear and cold the next morning and a bright winter sun cast a strong glare back from the drifts lining the roads. Halsted had not been plowed, at least not north of Belmont, and the Omega jumped skittishly from rut to rut on the way to the Kennedy Expressway and Melrose Park.
    I put on sunglasses and turned on WFMT. Satie. Unbearable. I turned it off again and started singing myself—nothing very noble, just the theme from Big John and Sparky. “If you go down to the woods today you’d better not go alone.”
    It was a little after ten when I turned north on Mannheim and made my way to Rosa’s. In Melrose Park, even the side streets had been carefully cleaned. Maybe there was something to be said for suburban living after all. The path leading to her side door had been shoveled neatly, not just a path half a person wide like my building super believed in. There was even something to be said for living with Albert. Which just went to show.
    Albert came to the door. The light was behind me and I could see his petulant face through the thick screen. He was surprised and angry. “What are you doing here?”
    “Albert. If Rosa has stressed it once, she’s stressed a hundred times the importance of families sticking together. I’m sure she’d be shocked to hear you greet me so ungraciously.”
    “Mama doesn’t want to talk to you. I thought I made that clear the other day.”
    I pulled the screen door open. “Nope. You made it clear you didn’t want me talking to her. That’s by no means the same thing.”
    Albert probably outweighs me by eighty pounds, which may be why he thought it would be easy to push me back out the door. I twisted his left arm up behind him and circled around past him. I hadn’t felt so good in weeks.
    Rosa’s harsh voice wafted down the dim hail from the kitchen, demanding to know who was at the door and why Albert didn’t shut it. Didn’t he know what they were paying to heat this house?
    I followed the voice, Albert walking sulkily behind me. “It’s me, Rosa,” I said, walking into the kitchen. “I thought we ought to have a little talk about theology.”
    Rosa was chopping vegetables, presumably for soup, since a shinbone was browning in oil on the stove. The kitchen still had its old 1930s sink. The stove and refrigerator were old, too, small white appliances set against unpainted walls. Rosa put the pairing knife down on the counter with a snap, turned full face, and