At the office everything seemed quiet. Calm. Orderly. Misleading.
In the conference room were Warwick, Shumaker and Dorita.
Warwick looked stricken. Angry and stricken. Shumaker looked like Shumaker. Imperturbable. Dorita looked as nervous as I’d ever seen her. She was smoking. In the same room with Warwick.
Things had come to this.
Seriously? I asked.
Dead seriously, Dorita said.
Warwick and Shumaker nodded glumly.
The rest are on their way, said Shumaker.
The rest of the partners, I deduced. The whole ugly crew. Coming in on a Saturday. Jesus. This was big. This might be the end of the firm.
What the hell happened? I persisted.
We don’t know, exactly, Shumaker said in his even tone. We’re awaiting a report from the DA’s office.
Nothing? I said. We know nothing?
First indications are suicide, Shumaker said.
Warwick shook his head.
Jesus. Warwick was screwed. Hell, the whole firm was screwed. Fifteen million a year out the window.
He fell from the thirty-third floor, said Dorita, instantly rendering my thought both comical and just plain bad.
Jesus, I said. Fell? Jumped? Was pushed?
We don’t know anything yet, said Dorita.
Has anyone talked to Jules? I asked.
Warwick gave me a withering look.
Why? he asked. You think the kid did it? You want to do this pro bono now?
He had a point. I’d sort of forgotten that Jules’s defense was a paying job. And our paycheck had just hit the road. Hard. Still, could we just leave Jules high and dry?
Has anybody talked to the twins? I asked.
Warwick threw up his arms.
They’re at the police station, said Shumaker.
I looked at Dorita. She gave me a tiny nod. She knew what I was thinking.
I excused myself. Went to my office. I was a little surprised to find that it was still there. I called Butch. He wasn’t available. I paged him. I knew he’d call back.
While I waited I reflected on the fact that Warwick hadn’t physically attacked me as I came in the door. FitzGibbon, it appeared, hadn’t called him to complain about our conversation of yesterday.
You would have thought he’d have called the minute we’d left. Two partners of the firm to whom he entrusted millions’ worth of business, violating his trust? Practically accusing him of murder? It’s a wonder he hadn’t put out a hit on me.
Damn, I thought. For all I knew he had.
I needed to know the time of death.
Dorita came in just as the phone rang. It was Butch.
Butch, I said. I knew I could count on you.
Sure, Rick. No problem. But I can’t talk.
Two quick questions, Butch. You in on this FitzGibbon thing?
Sure. Everybody’s in on it. It’s the biggest thing around here since Rockefeller.
Okay, just two things. Then maybe we can meet later.
Sure thing, Rick. But I don’t know when. I’ll have to call you.
All right. First thing, were the twins there?
When he fell?
Right.
Seems they were.
Okay, second thing. Exact time.
Ten thirty-four, he said.
They were at the office at ten thirty at night?
You said two questions, Rick.
Okay, Butch. That one was rhetorical. Didn’t count. Call me when you can.
Will do.
I looked at Dorita. I nodded my head. The twins had been there. Ten thirty-four. In his office. I presumed his office. It was on that floor. And hours after we’d left.
All those hours to call Warwick.
But he hadn’t.
Something had come up, Raul had told us.
It must have been something big.
So, Dorita said. Theories?
We spooked him into it.
Fear. Or remorse. Or both.
Ramon pushed him.
Raul pushed him.
They didn’t want to wait for their inheritance.
A time-honored motive.
Jules pushed him.
Hm. Not with the twins there, he didn’t.
He’s in cahoots with the twins.
There you might be stretching it a bit.
He got drunk and fell.
Unlikely.
Too much of a coincidence?
It’s hard to believe that it didn’t have something to do with our conversation with him.
Yes. The problem being.
That if it did, it doesn’t eliminate even one of the theories.
Exactly.
All we’ve got are theories.
Well, we still have our jobs.
Today.
Tomorrow?
Unlikely.
I just had a great idea, I said.
Yes?
Let’s have a drink.
Rick?
Yes?
You’ve got a problem.
Thank you.
And anyway, do you think we should be letting time go by? Cold trail and all that?
It won’t take long, I said, fishing in the cup of pencils on my desk for the small key that opened my bottom desk drawer.
You’re kidding, right?
Would I kid you? I asked, pulling out a half-empty – well, in the circumstances half-full – fifth of Scotch and two small glasses.
Dorita made a face. But she drank hers down.
That felt good, I said, relishing the distraction of a good gut-burn.
Can’t deny it.
Hey, I said, pouring myself a refill. I never got an answer. Has anybody talked to Jules?
He’s at the station too.
They picked him up on this?
Well, wouldn’t you? Closest blood relative? History of animosity? Suspect in recent murder?
Yeah, I guess so. Jesus, why didn’t he call me?
Maybe he doesn’t know your number.
He knows my number.
Maybe he doesn’t want to see you.
That doesn’t make any sense.
Anything make sense around here for the last month?
You’ve got a point there.
I usually do.
The little moron. Who else is going to help him?
I can’t answer that question. Not enough information. It does, however, betray a rather excessive amount of self-regard.
Damn, I said.
What?
I got a call last night. Just before yours. I ignored it. Probably that was him. Calling from the station.
Could be.
I’m going down there.
Not without me, you aren’t.
I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.
Okay. Give me a few. I’ve got to make a couple of calls. Cancel a few things.
Dorita left. My chest felt tight. I thought about Steiglitz. Shit. I didn’t want to think about Steiglitz. I didn’t want to think about anything.
I eyed my empty shot glass. It looked lonely. I reintroduced it to some mediocre Scotch.