Sara Paretsky - Total Recall

I could easily imagine the exchange, as well as Margaret Sommers’s impotent fury. “But they must have had some grounds for arresting him. Were you able to figure that out?”

“I told you. Because you talked to them.”

“I know this has all been a horrible shock,” I said gently. “I don’t blame you for your anger. But try to think of a different reason, because truly, Ms. Sommers, I didn’t say anything to the police about your husband. Indeed, I had nothing to say to them.”

“What-you didn’t tell them about him being in the office on Saturday?”

I felt a chill in my stomach. “He was? He went to Fepple’s office? Why did he do that? When did he go there?”

We went back and forth a few times, but she finally seemed to accept that I hadn’t known about it. Margaret Sommers had pushed Isaiah into going to see Fepple in person. That was what it boiled down to, although she tried to dress it up as my fault: they couldn’t trust me, I wasn’t doing anything but cozying up to the insurance company. She’d talked to the alderman-seeing Fepple was actually his suggestion. So when Isaiah wouldn’t set up an appointment, she did it herself from the office on Friday afternoon.

“The alderman?” I asked. “Which alderman would this be?”

“Alderman Durham, of course. On account of Isaiah’s cousin being part of the EYE movement and all, he’s always been very helpful to us. Only Fepple said we couldn’t come on Friday because he was completely booked. He tried to put us off, but I pointed out we worked all week, we couldn’t meet some university professor’s schedule, hopping in and out of our jobs. So he acted like I was trying to make him give me a million dollars, but he said if I was going to make such a big deal out of it, calling the alderman, like I threatened to do, we could see him on Saturday morning. So we drove up there together: I’m tired of Isaiah letting people push him around like he does. There wasn’t any answer when we knocked, and I was furious, thinking he’d made the appointment without any intention of keeping it. But when we opened the door we saw him laying there dead. Not right away, mind you, because the office was dark. But pretty soon.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “When you called, you accused me of siccing the cops on your husband. What made you say that?”

She didn’t think she was going to tell me, but then she blurted out that the cops had gotten a call. “They said it was from a man, a black man, but I figured that was just their talk, their way of trying to get under my skin. No brother I know of would accuse my husband of murder.”

Maybe the detectives had been trying to ride her and Isaiah, but maybe it was a brother who’d phoned in the tip. I let it pass: in her current distress, Margaret Sommers needed to blame someone. It might as well be me.

I went back to their visit to Fepple’s office on Saturday. “When you were in there, did you look for Mr. Sommers’s uncle’s file? Did you take any papers away with you?”

“No! Once we got into the office and saw him lying there? With his-oh, I can’t stand even to say it. We left as fast as we could.”

But they’d touched enough. My client must have left his fingerprints somewhere in the room. And thanks to me, the police had stopped looking at Fepple’s death as a suicide. So Margaret Sommers wasn’t completely wrong: I had ensured her husband’s arrest.

I drummed a series of jangly chords on the piano after Margaret hung up. Lotty often criticizes me for what she calls my ruthless search for truth, knocking over people in my path without thinking about their wants and needs. If I’d known being so clever about Fepple’s death would get Isaiah Sommers arrested-but it was useless to beat myself up for pushing the cops to do a proper investigation. It had happened; now I had to deal with the aftermath.

Anyway, what if Isaiah Sommers really had shot Fepple? He’d told me on Monday he had an unlicensed Browning, but that didn’t preclude his also having an unlicensed SIG-although they’re pricey, not the gun of choice for your average homeowner.

I hit two adjacent keys so hard that Peppy backed away from me. Staging Fepple’s death to look like suicide? Too subtle for my client. Maybe his wife had engineered it-she certainly had a temper. I could see her growing furious enough to shoot Fepple or me or any number of people if they stepped in front of her gun.

I shook my head. The shot that killed Fepple hadn’t been fired in rage: someone had gotten close enough to put a gun in Fepple’s mouth. Stunning him first, or having an accomplice who stunned him first. Vishnikov told me the whole job had looked professional. That didn’t fit Margaret Sommers’s angry profile.

I had forgotten breakfast while I was talking to her. It was after ten; I was suddenly very hungry. I walked down the street to the Belmont Diner, the last vestige of the shops and eateries of Lakeview’s old working-class neighborhood. While I waited for a Spanish omelette, I called my lawyer, Freeman Carter. Isaiah Sommers’s most urgent need was for expert counsel, which I had promised Margaret Sommers before we hung up. She had bristled at my offer of help: they had a very good lawyer in their church who could take care of Isaiah.

“Which matters more to you? Saving your husband or saving your pride?” I’d asked; after a pregnant pause she muttered she guessed they’d take a look at my lawyer, but if they didn’t trust him right off they wouldn’t keep him.

Freeman quickly took in my sketch of the situation. “Right, Vic. I have an assistant who can go down to the Twenty-first District for the time being. You have an alternative theory of the murder?”

“Fepple’s last known appointment was on Friday night with a woman from Ajax Insurance. Connie Ingram.” I didn’t like tossing her to the wolves, but I wasn’t going to have the state’s attorney railroad my client, either. I told Freeman about the situation with the Sommers policy documents. “Someone in the company doesn’t want those papers around, but my client couldn’t possibly be the one who stole the microfiche out of the Ajax claims-department file cabinets. Of course, the company may say I did it for him-but we can cross that bridge if the road goes that far.”

“And did you, Vic?” Freeman was at his dryest.

“Scout’s honor, no, Freeman. I’m as hot to see those documents as every other person in this benighted town, but so far I’ve only looked at one sanitized version. I’ll keep sniffing around for evidence about the murder, in case the worst happens and we have to go to trial.”

Barbara, the waitress who’s worked at the Belmont Diner longest, brought my omelette as Freeman hung up. “You know, you look like every other Yuppie in Lakeview with that thing stuck to your ear, Vic.”

“Thanks, Barbara. I try to fit into my surroundings.”

“Well, don’t make a habit of it: we’re thinking of banning them altogether. I’m sick of people shouting their business to an empty table.”

“What can I say, Barbara? When you’re right, you’re right. You want to put my food under the heat lamp while I go outside for my next call?”

She snorted and moved to the next table: the place was filling with people on their morning coffee breaks-the mechanics and repairmen who keep the area Yuppies comfortable. I ate half the omelette quickly, taking the edge off my hunger, before phoning Amy Blount. A strange woman answered, checking my identity before passing me on to Ms. Blount.

Like Margaret Sommers, Amy Blount was angry, but she was more restrained about it: she wished I had gotten back to her sooner-she was under considerable stress and hated hanging about for my phone call. How soon could I get down to Hyde Park?