Sara Paretsky - Total Recall

Howie Fepple’s mother didn’t think her son had committed suicide. No mother would want to believe that of her child, but in Fepple’s case it was because he was excited-he finally understood how Rick Hoffman had made enough money out of his book to drive a Mercedes-and he was going to get one for Rhonda.

I pulled out my phone to call Nick Vishnikov, the chief deputy medical examiner, but the traffic suddenly cleared; the SUV’s around me quickly accelerated to eighty or ninety. The call could wait until it didn’t put my life in danger to make it.

The dogs panted gently over my shoulder, reminding me that it had been some hours since their last run. When I finally reached the Dempster exit I pulled off at a forest preserve to let them out. It was dark now, the park officially closed, with a piece of chain blocking me from going farther than a few yards off the main road.

While Mitch and Peppy excitedly set off after rabbits I stood at the chain with my cell phone, calling first Morrell to tell him we were only eight miles away, then trying Lotty again. She had left the clinic, her receptionist, Mrs. Coltrain, told me.

“How did she seem?”

“Dr. Herschel is working too hard: she needs to take some time off for herself.” Mrs. Coltrain has known me for years, but she won’t gossip about Lotty with anyone, not even to agree with Max when he mocks her imperial manner.

I tapped the phone thoughtfully. If I was going to have a heart-to-heart with Lotty I should do it sitting down at home, but this was Morrell’s last night in Chicago. The dogs were crashing around somewhere near me. I called to them, to remind them that I was here and in charge of the pack. When they’d run up, sniffed my hands, and torn off again, I reached Lotty at home.

She cut short my attempt to express concern at her collapse yesterday. “I’d rather not discuss it, Victoria. I’m embarrassed that I created such a disturbance in the middle of Max’s party and don’t want to be reminded of it.”

“Maybe, oh physician, you should consult a doctor yourself. Make sure you’re okay, that you didn’t hurt yourself when you fainted.”

Her voice took on a sharper edge. “I’m perfectly fine, thanks very much.”

I stared into the dark underbrush, as if seeing it would enable me to penetrate Lotty’s mind. “I know you weren’t in the room with Radbuka last night when he was going on about his past, but did Max tell you Radbuka found a posting on a bulletin board from someone wanting information about Sofie Radbuka? I went on the Web today and found the site. Radbuka is convinced she must have been his mother or his sister; at least, he wrote a long message to that effect. Lotty, who was she?”

“You found Sofie Radbuka on the Web? That’s impossible!”

“I found someone who wanted information about her, saying that she lived in England during the forties,” I repeated patiently.

“Max didn’t think fit to tell me that,” she snapped. “Thank you very much.”

She hung up, leaving me uncomfortably alone in the dark woods. A sense of being both forlorn and ridiculous made me call the dogs back to me again. I could hear them thrashing around, but they wouldn’t come. I had kept them penned up all day-they weren’t going to reward me by being good dogs now.

Before going to the car for a flashlight so I could track them, I made one last call-to Nick Vishnikov at the morgue. After all, the place never closes. When I dialed the number-which I know by heart-I got the one thin piece of luck the Fates were allowing me today: Vishnikov, who pretty much chooses his hours, was still there.

“Vic. How’s Morrell? He in Kabul yet?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Nick-there’s a guy with a head wound who came in this morning. The police are calling it suicide.”

“But you murdered him and you want to confess.” Autopsies make him ferociously cheerful.

“Howard Fepple. I want to be a hundred-fifty percent certain that he put that SIG Trailside to his head all by himself.”

He hadn’t done Fepple’s case. While he put me on hold to check the files, I fiddled with the dogs’ leashes, wishing I hadn’t let them disappear into the dark-I couldn’t hear them now.

“I handed it off to one of my juniors since it seemed straightforward, and he treated it as routine suicide, but I see he didn’t check the hands for gunpowder-he relied on the fact that the victim ate the gun. We still have the body-I’ll review it before I leave. Do you have evidence of murder?”

“People do the darnedest things, but I have a guy who told his mother he was on to something hot, and I have a mystery visitor to his office. I’d love it if the state’s attorney pulled Fepple’s phone logs.”

“I’ll let you know if there’s anything to change the verdict. Later, Vic.”

I wondered whether my client had gone around with a gun to threaten Fepple, but Isaiah Sommers didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would set up an elaborate trap. If Fepple had been murdered by the person who called him when I was in the office on Friday, that was someone who was planning to kill and planning a way to avoid being seen. He had gone in and out of the building with big enough groups of people to avoid notice. He’d shown Fepple how to get away from me. It didn’t sound like Isaiah Sommers.

Momentarily forgetting the dogs, I got the Sommers number from directory assistance. Margaret Sommers answered, her voice heavy with hostility, but after a moment’s pause, in which she couldn’t think of a reason not to, she brought her husband to the phone. I told him about Fepple’s death.

“I searched both the office and his home and couldn’t find a trace of your uncle’s file,” I said. “The police are labeling this a suicide, but I think someone killed him, and I’m sort of thinking they killed him to get that file.”

“Who would do that?”

“It could be that whoever perpetrated the fraud to begin with left some kind of record behind that they don’t want anyone else to find. It could be someone got pissed enough at the guy over something else to kill him.”

When I paused, he exploded. “You accusing me of going in there to murder him? My wife was right. Alderman Durham was right. You never had the least-”

“Mr. Sommers, I’ve had a long day. I’m out of finesse. I don’t think you killed the guy. On the other hand, you’ve clearly got a temper. Maybe your wife or the alderman pushed you to stop waiting for me to get results, to go see Fepple yourself. Maybe his smirking do-nothing attitude goaded you to act.”

“Well, it didn’t. He didn’t. I agreed to wait for you and I am waiting for you. Even though the alderman thinks I’m making a big mistake.”

“He does? What does he recommend?”

Peppy and Mitch bounded up to me. I smelled them before I saw them, darker shapes against the darkness of the clearing where I stood-they had rolled in something rank. My hand over the mouthpiece, I ordered them to sit. Peppy obeyed, but Mitch tried to jump on me. I pushed him away with my foot.

“That’s just it. He doesn’t have a plan I can follow. He wants me to initiate a suit against Ajax, but like I asked him, who’s going to pay all those legal bills? Who has that kind of time? My wife’s brother, he took on a big lawsuit, it dragged through the courts for thirteen years. I don’t want to wait thirteen years to get my money back.”

In the background I could hear Margaret Sommers demanding to know why he wanted to tell the whole world her private business. Mitch lunged at me again, knocking me off-balance. I sat down hard, the phone still clutched to my ear. I tried to push Mitch away without shouting into the mouthpiece. He barked in excitement, thinking we were having a wonderful game together. Peppy tried to shove him out of the way. By now I smelled just as bad as the two of them. I clipped their leashes on and stood up.