Bitter Business

my godson, you know. He told me everything. Do the police know what happened to her yet?” His voice was weak and he spoke very slowly, every word an effort. I had to bend my head close in order to hear him.
    “They won’t know until they do the autopsy.”
    “How is Jack?”
    “I don’t know. I plan to talk to him today. Last night I went to see a private investigator I know. I want Jack to hire him. The police are good, but I don’t want to take any chances. If six months or a year from now Dagny’s death is still an open file—just another unexplained death—Jack won’t be able to live with himself, and frankly, neither will I.”
    “Leave it to the police,” Daniel said sharply. “You and Jack will have enough to worry about.”
    “Don’t you think that Lydia will let this business about her shares drop? At least for a little while?”
    Daniel gripped my hand. “Expect the worst from Lydia,” he counseled. “I guarantee she’ll never let you down.”
     
    I left the hospital with limbs like lead and grief pushing on my chest like a wrestler’s fist. When I got to the office, Cheryl, whom I’d phoned from the car to tell her about what had happened, was especially solicitous, bringing me a king-size bag of M&M’s with my coffee and parrying all of my calls without complaint. Heartened by her kindness, I did what I always do when I feel the earth shift beneath my feet. I crawled into the solid refuge of my work and stayed there until the worst of the tremors passed.
    I took the top file off of the stack and dove in. When I finished with that one I moved on to the next—phoning, dictating, delegating. The practice of securities law is not earth-shattering stuff. But I find a certain satisfaction in sorting out the conflicts and confusion of commerce, a kind of harmony in making all of the pieces fit together.
    There are days when you just have to hang on to whatever sense of peace comes your way.
    At noon Cheryl knocked softly on my door and told me that Jack Cavanaugh had called. He was at his house on Astor Place and wanted to see me. Jack Cavanaugh was my client and we had matters of importance to discuss. But I had been dreading his summons nevertheless. I spent the entire cab ride wishing I were going somewhere else.
    As I climbed the steps to his front door, I could not help taking a backward glance across the street at Dagny’s house. The curtains were all drawn and I felt a fresh stab of compassion for her father, whose windows would forever look out onto his loss. Willing these morbid thoughts from my head, I stepped up and rang the bell.
    Peter McCallister, Lydia’s son, came to the door. Awkward in his grief, he accepted my condolences and led me to his grandfather’s study. He told me, in response to my question, that Claire had been under sedation ever since she learned of her mother’s death.
    Jack Cavanaugh crossed the room like an old man and took my hand. His pale skin was clawed by grief, his shark’s eyes red-rimmed with tears.
    “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. The words sounded hollow and inadequate and I felt unprepared for the situation I found myself in. I had neither Daniel’s wisdom nor experience. I had, after all, become a lawyer expressly to avoid dealing with emotions.
    “The police were here last night and again this morning,” Jack told me in a beaten voice after we both sat down. “They told me how you found her. But they wouldn’t tell me... they couldn’t tell me...” He struggled for the words. “They didn’t say whether she suffered.”
    “She didn’t suffer,” I lied, adding, “It was all over very quickly.”
    “The police are asking whether there could be some kind of chemical leak from the plant that killed them both. They’re so stupid. It’s true that there are poisonous compounds used in plating, but they would have to be mixed with acid in order to turn into gas. If that happened, the first person who’d be killed would be the fool who’d done the mixing. But they won’t listen. They’re shutting us down. Philip’s there right now with the health department. It’s a shame. He should be with the family...”
    “So they still have no idea yet what happened?” I ventured.
    “I told you, they’re fools.”
    “I know a man,” I said, unsure how to begin. “He’s a private investigator and he’s very good. He used to be in the prosecutor’s office. I spoke with him yesterday. He said that he’d look into it