Frank Zafiro: No Good Deed

“I heard it at the garage.”

He nodded sagely. “Yes, well, pretty much everyone suspected it. Some probably knew it for certain. The two of them weren’t very subtle about it, particularly when Mr. Stoll was traveling.”

“Did he travel a lot?”

Fred shrugged. “A fair amount. More lately, it seemed. I suppose, looking back, it makes sense.”

“What do you mean?”

Fred shook his head. “I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? We were discussing the wife and her indiscretions.”

I made a mental note to return to this point and asked, “How did he find out?”

Fred shrugged again. “I think he suspected for some time. I’m sure that once he had the nerve to ask one of his friends, he got an honest enough answer.”

“Not knowing might have been better for him,” I said.

“Because he killed himself?” Fred asked. “I thought so, too. Most people did. But then after the funeral, it all came out.”

“What came out?”

“His financial troubles. He had lost everything and his company was on the verge of bankruptcy.”

“It folded?”

“I’m sure it will,” Fred said, “given enough time. Mr. Stoll only passed a month ago.”

“A month?”

He nodded. “Yes. And the biggest question everyone had was whether he killed himself over his wife’s affair or over his financial troubles. Or was it a combination of both?”

That wasn’t the biggest question I had.

Fred didn’t have any more worthwhile information, except for the name of the local constable that had investigated the case. He promised to call ahead for me. Before I left, he let me look at the archived stories on the Stoll suicide. The only thing of note was the name of Stoll’s personal attorney, Brian Carter. I looked him up in the phone book and on the way to the police station, I stopped at his office.

Brian Carter had a florid face, pitted with acne scars. He wore a fashionable suit, but it wasn’t flashy. He would have been at home in any business meeting.

His secretary was out to lunch, too, and I wondered if, in a town so small, she was out with the secretary from the newspaper.

Carter’s handshake was firm but not crushing. He offered me coffee and a seat in a comfortable, high-backed chair. His friendliness faded a bit when I told him why I was there.

“I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you that wouldn’t violate attorney-client privilege,” he said.

“I’m not asking for that,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure things out here.”

“Who is your client again?”

I paused. “I guess I don’t really have one.” I told him about being hired by Richard. His lips pressed together in distaste at the hockey player’s name.

“I don’t know anything about that man’s situation with Mrs. Stoll,” Carter said. “Frankly, I’m glad to see both of them have left town.”

“Why?”

“He was arrogant and a francophone, for starters. And she…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“She was what?”

He met my eyes. “She was my client’s wife.”

“But you didn’t like her.”

“That is irrelevant,” he said.

I shrugged. “At one time, it probably was. But now that he’s gone, I think you can safely say how you felt.”

He didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “Death does not sever an attorney’s obligation to his client.”

“I’m just asking if you liked her, Mr. Carter.”

“No, I did not.”

“Why not?”

“It was my considered opinion that she was marrying him for money.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Did she sign a pre-nuptial agreement?”

“That’s confidential.”

“It’s a matter of public record, isn’t it?”

“No, Mr. Kopriva, it is not. If it were to exist, it would be a private contract between my client and Mrs. Stoll.”

I frowned. “Isn’t Mrs. Stoll your client now?”

“No. I worked directly for Mr. Stoll.”

“She didn’t hire you after his death?”

“I don’t know that I’d have taken her on if she had,” Carter said. “But in any event, she had her own attorney.”

“Who was that?”

“Someone from Quebec, I believe.”

“Patrick Bourdon?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s it.”

I found Lynn Petruk at the small police station downtown. She, too, was alone in the building. Once I told her that Fred had sent me, her severe features lightened a bit, though with her broad forehead and full mouth, she’d never be beautiful.

“He called ahead,” she said, and offered me a chair in her office.

“How many police officers do you have in Trail?” I asked her.

“Four,” she said. “We work twelve-hour shifts. The Provincial Police back us up when we need it.”

“Is that what happened at Mr. Stoll’s suicide scene?”

She nodded. “Anything that serious, they take right over.”

“Sounds like the FBI.”

“I’m sure they’d get along.”

“Still,” I said, “a local cop was probably the first on scene, right?”

“Perry Winfield was, yeah. All he really did was secure the scene and make a phone call, though.”

“Could I talk to him?”

Lynn checked her watch. “He’s probably deep in REM sleep right about now.”

I shrugged. “I was just curious if he saw anything strange at the scene, is all.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked at me, an odd expression on her face. “What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Kopriva?”

I sighed. “I don’t know that, either.”

I told her everything, from Richard hiring me to Bourdon paying me. She listened carefully and didn’t interrupt. When I’d finished, I spread my hands. “What do you think?”

Lynn pursed her lips. I could tell she was measuring her words. “I think that I’d be suspicious, too. But most people would take the money and be done with it.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve got the time to look into things, I guess. And more than that, I don’t like the idea of being used.”

She watched me for a moment, then said, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

I leaned forward. “I want your cop sense of this thing. Did Mr. Stoll kill himself? If he did, why? If he didn’t, who murdered him and why?”

Lynn shook her head. “I can’t help you with that, Mr. Kopriva, other than to say the official ruling by the Provincial Police was suicide.”

“Was there a note?”

“Yes, but-”

“Did he say why he did in his note?”

“Yes. Now-”

“What was his reason?”

Lynn sighed in exasperation. “You told Fred you used to be a cop, right?”

“No,” I answered, and I hadn’t.

She cocked her head at me. “Really? He must have researched that as well.”

“Researched?”

“Fred did more than just call ahead, Mr. Kopriva. He did some background on you. He told me about your famous shootout when you were a police officer.”

I didn’t respond, though I could feel the tension in my jaw. I knew what was coming next.

“He told about the little girl you let die.”

“That was a long time ago,” I whispered.

She shrugged. “I don’t know you. All I know is that I don’t want you being some kind of a cowboy in my jurisdiction, or screwing things up.”

“That was a long time ago,” I repeated, a little louder this time.

“It’s all I know,” she said, just as loud. “Now, do you need directions out of town?”

I was two hours away and a little more than half way to River City before the burn from that conversation faded enough to think. I stopped for gas in Colville and bought some convenience store coffee, mixing in a little cocoa to temper the bitterness. Poor man’s mocha, we used to call it when I was a cop.