Final Option

stop at the office of the Clearing Corporation to request copies of the relevant trading records and wait for them to be printed off.
    Back at my office I looked at my watch and called Stephen. He was in a meeting so I left a message with his secretary saying that I would probably be a little late for the Arthritis Foundation benefit and would meet him there.
    I wolfed down the Italian beef sandwich I’d picked up at a greasy little stand on my way back from the CBOT. Then I told Cheryl to call Sherman Whitehead and tell him I wanted to see him. Sherman was a first-year associate and my own personal favorite when it came to scut work. While he’d graduated first in his law school class, Sherman’s obvious lack of social skills made him less popular among the partners. With his dork haircut and crumpled suit he might have been cut from the same cloth as Tim Hexter, but unlike Tim, Sherman’s intellect made up for his other shortcomings.
    Sherman appeared in a few minutes. On his face was the same look of resignation and dread with which all associates greet late-aftemoon summonses to a partner’s office. I told him that computer printouts and trading tickets were due to be delivered any minute from Hexter Commodities. I explained that I needed the two sets of documents to be spot-checked against each other by morning. To Sherman’s credit he accepted the assignment with some grace and promised to report to me first thing the next day.
    I was just about to pick up the telephone to try Detective Ruskowski again when Lillian, the receptionist, called to say that there was a woman in the waiting room who wanted to see me. I could tell from her wary tone that my visitor did not fit the button-downed profile of the corporate clients who usually passed her desk. Also that she was standing close enough to Lillian that the receptionist couldn’t speak freely. At least it’s not a visit from the police, I thought to myself.
     
    The woman who came to my office was my age but from a world away. Thin and dark-haired, she had a pretty face, but it was marred by an expression of deep-seated dissatisfaction. She wore a churchy dress made of cheap, flowered fabric and painfully pointed patent leather shoes with high, high heels. I knew I’d seen her before, and recently, but out of context it took me longer than it should have to recognize the Hexter’s sullen-faced maid.
    “Hello, Elena,” I said, pulling her name out of the air at the last second. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”
    She took the offered chair and considered me with suspicion.
    “I come to find out what money Meester Hexter leave for me in his will.” Her voice was at once soft and defiant. From her accent, I guessed she was Latin American.
    “I am afraid that I’m the wrong person for you to ask,” I replied. “You’ll need to speak to Mr. Kurlander. He’s in charge of Mr. Hexter’s estate. I can call down to his office, and you can make an appointment with his secretary to see him.”
    “I cannot speak to Meester Kurlander,” declared Elena with feeling.
    “Why not? If you were mentioned in Mr. Hexter’s will I’m sure Mr. Kurlander will be sending you a letter in the next few days.”
    “I cannot speak to him,” she replied again. “He is a friend of that woman.” At this Elena made a sort of spitting sound that was distinctly foreign.
    “What woman?”
    “The Meessus Hexter.”
    “I am surprised that you feel that way about your employer.”
    “She eez not my employer,” Elena snapped. “She fire Elena. No give me notice. No give me severance. Nothing.”
    “I understand she’s let the entire staff go. She is planning to move to Florida.”
    “She not fire me because of Florida. She fire me because she say I too slow answering bell. She say I always watching her with my cow eyes. She not give me severance. She just say—‘Go, Elena. Pack your bags and get out.’ She throw Elena out into street.”
    “Mrs. Hexter’s husband has just been murdered,” I said. “Sometimes people who have suffered a tragedy act unlike themselves. Sometimes they do thoughtless, hurtful things.”
    “You tell me about hurt? I lose my job. I have no money, no food, no place to live. What does that woman know about hurt in her big house? What is tragedy is that Elena lose job because of what I know. Because of what the Meesus want to hide.”
    “You must be very careful about what you say, Elena,” I