“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.
“Am I ever going to get any satisfaction out of this situation?” Sommers was demanding. “I’m sorry about the agent: that was a terrible way to die, but it’s no joke to come up with all that cash for a funeral, Ms. Warashki.”
“I’m going to talk to the company tomorrow, to see if they’ll offer a settlement.” I was going to pitch it to them as a way of building PR ammo against Durham, but I didn’t think it would help relations with the client if I told him that. “If they offer you something on the dollar, would that be acceptable?”
“I—let me think about it.”
“Very wise, Mr. Sommers,” I said, tired of standing around in the dark with my smelly dogs. “Your wife should have a chance to tell you I’m trying to rob you. Call me tomorrow. Oh—do you own a gun yourself?”
“Do I—oh, I see, you want to know if I’m lying about killing that agent.”