Sara Paretsky - Total Recall

The car behind me honked impatiently; I closed a six-foot gap while I asked if she really had to stay in Chicago until Saturday.

“If this horrid little man is going to be stalking us, I might see if we can get on an earlier flight. Although the gallery I went to last week wants me to come in on Thursday to meet with their backers; I’d hate to lose that opportunity.”

I rubbed my face with my free hand. “There’s a service I use when I need help bodyguarding or staking out places. Do you want me to see if they have someone who can stay in the house until you go home?”

Her relief rushed across the airwaves to me. “I’ll have to talk to Max-but, yes. Yes, do that, Vic.”

My shoulders sagged when she hung up. If Radbuka was turning into a stalker, he could become a real problem. I called the Streeter Brothers’ voice mail to explain what I needed. They’re a funny bunch of guys, the Streeter Brothers: they do surveillance, bodyguarding, and furniture moving, with Tom and Tim Streeter running a changing group of nine, including, these days, two well-muscled women.

By the time I finished my message, we had passed into the exurbs. The road widened, the sky brightened. When I left the tollway, it was suddenly a beautiful fall day again.

Howard Fepple had lived with his mother a few blocks west of Harlem Avenue. These weren’t the suburbs of great wealth but of the working middle class, where ranch houses and colonials sit on modest plots and neighborhood children play in each other’s yards.

When I pulled up in front of the Fepple home, only one car, a late-model navy Oldsmobile, sat in the drive. Neither news crews nor neighbors were paying their respects to Rhonda Fepple. The dogs strained to follow me from the car. When I locked them in, they barked their disapproval.

A flagstone path, whose stones were cracked and overgrown with weeds, curved away from the driveway to a side entrance. When I rang the bell, I saw that the paint on the front door had peeled loose in a number of places.

After a long wait, Rhonda Fepple came to the door. Her face, with the same carpet of freckles as her son’s, held the blank, stunned look most people wear after a harsh blow. She was younger than I’d expected. Despite the grief that was collapsing her inside her clothes, she had only a few lines around her red-stained eyes, and her sandy hair was still thick.

“Mrs. Fepple? I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a detective from Chicago with a few questions about your son.”

She accepted my identity without even wanting a name, let alone some identification. “Did you find out who shot him?”

“No, ma’am. I understand you told the officers on the morning shift that Mr. Fepple didn’t own a gun.”

“I wanted him to, if he was going to stay in that creepy old building, but he just laughed and said there wasn’t anything in the agency anyone would want to steal. I always hated that bank, those halls with all the little turnings off them, anyone could lie in wait for you there.”

“The agency wasn’t doing very well these days, I understand. Was it more prosperous when your husband was alive?”

“You’re not trying to say what they told me this morning, are you? That Howie was so depressed he took his own life? Because he wasn’t that kind of boy. Young man. You forget they grow up.” She patted the corners of her eyes with a tissue.

It was comforting somehow to know that even a dreary specimen like Howard Fepple had someone who mourned his death. “Ma’am, I know this is a really hard time for you to try to talk about your son, with the loss so fresh, but I want to explore a third possibility-besides suicide or a random break-in. I’m wondering if there was anyone who might have specifically had a quarrel with your son. Had he talked to you about any conflicts with clients lately?”

She stared at me blankly: thinking new thoughts was hard in her grief-drained state. She stuffed the tissue back into the pocket of the old yellow shirt she was wearing. “I suppose you better come in.”

I followed her into the living room, where she sat on the edge of a sofa whose cabbage roses had faded to a dull pink. When I took a matching armchair at right angles to her, dust bunnies bounced along the walls. The new piece in the room, a tan Naugahyde recliner parked in front of the thirty-four-inch television, had probably belonged to Howard.

“How long had your son been working at the agency, Mrs. Fepple?”

She twisted her wedding ring. “Howie wasn’t much interested in insurance, but Mr. Fepple insisted he learn the business. You can always make a living in insurance, no matter how bad times are, he always said. That’s how the agency survived the Depression, he was always telling Howie that, but Howie wanted to do something-well, more interesting, more like what the boys-men-he went to school with were doing. Computers, finance, that kind of thing. But he couldn’t make a go of it, so when Mr. Fepple passed away and left the agency to him, Howie went ahead and tried to make it work. But that neighborhood has gone steep downhill since when we used to live there. Of course, we moved out here in ’59, but all Mr. Fepple’s clients were on the South Side; he didn’t see how he could move the agency and look after them.”

“So you lived in Hyde Park when you were growing up?” I asked, to keep the conversation going.

“ South Shore, really, just south of Hyde Park. Then when I got out of high school I went off to work as a secretary to Mr. Fepple. He was quite a bit older, but, well, you know how these things go, and when we found Howie was on the way, well, we got married. He had never married before-Mr. Fepple, I mean-and I guess he was excited at the idea of a boy to carry on-his father started the agency-you know how men are about things like that. When the baby came, I stayed at home to look after him-back then we didn’t have day care, you know, not like now. Mr. Fepple always said I spoiled him, but he was fifty by then, not much interested in children.” Her voice trailed away.

“So Mr. Howard Fepple only started work at the agency when his father died?” I prompted. “How did he learn the business?”

“Oh, well, Howie used to work there weekends and summers, and he spent four years there after college. He went out to Governors State, got a degree in business. But like I said, insurance wasn’t really his cup of tea.”

The mention of tea galvanized her into thinking we should have something to drink. I followed her into the kitchen, where she pulled a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator for herself and handed me a glass of tap water.

I sat at the kitchen table, pushing aside a banana peel. “What about the agent who worked for your husband, what was his name? Rick Hoffman? Your son seemed to admire his work.”

She made a face. “I never took to him. He was such a fussy man. Everything had to be just so. When I worked there he was always criticizing me because I didn’t keep the file drawers the way he wanted them organized. It was Mr. Fepple’s agency, I told him, and Mr. Fepple had a right to set up files the way he wanted them, but Mr. Hoffman insisted I get all his files arranged in this special way, like it was some big deal. He did these little sales, burial policies, that kind of thing, but the way he acted you’d think he was insuring the pope.” She waved her arm in a vague gesture, making the dust bunnies bounce.

“Somehow he made a lot of money doing it, money Mr. Fepple sure never saw. Mr. Hoffman drove a big Mercedes, had a fancy apartment someplace on the North Side.

“When I saw him show up with that Mercedes, I told Mr. Fepple he must be embezzling, or part of the mob or something, but Mr. Fepple always went through the books very carefully, no money was ever missing or anything. When time went on, Mr. Hoffman got stranger and stranger, by what Mr. Fepple said. He drove the girl who came there later on-after Howie was born, after I quit to look after him-out of her mind. He was always fussing around his papers, she said, taking them in and out of files. I think he kind of went senile toward the end, but Mr. Fepple said he wasn’t doing any harm, let him come into the office and shuffle his papers around.”