Final Option

who’ve been testifying against Folkman. They’re all pissed that Hexter didn’t get croaked while he was at his office. The Chicago cops say they’ve been robbed. Seems that some of the guys in Lake Forest have been letting on that this one’s a dunker.”
    “What’s a dunker?”
    “From a homicide detective’s point of view, there are only two categories of murder: whodunits and dunkers. Whodunits are genuine mysteries. Dunkers are easy shots. Word on the street is that they’re close to an arrest.”
    I pushed my plate away as cement fingers wrapped themselves around my stomach.
    “I hope,” I said in a small voice, “the person they end up arresting isn’t me.”
     
    When I got into the office I found Sherman waiting for me, obviously distressed.
    “I was here until midnight last night,” he complained. “I’ve been trying to do the comparison between the trading record from the Clearinghouse and the original trading tickets, but the tickets they delivered are a mess.”
    “What do you mean they’re a mess?” I demanded.
    “They’re a mess! They’re not sorted by date or commodity, and they’re turned back to front and every which way. It’ll take days to sort them out.”
    Sherman led me down to the small conference room where he’d been working. I could see that he’d tried sorting the sheets, each not much bigger than a playing card. There were hundreds laid in piles according to date on the polished mahogany table. I could also see that there were literally thousands more still to be sorted. The little he had done had taken all night. As Sherman talked, it took a few minutes before the obvious struck me. The trading tickets had been deliberately shuffled.
    I returned to my office cold with fury at a dead man. His motives may have been a mystery, and there were games being played with the CFTC that I had yet to understand, but one thing seemed abundantly clear. Even dead, Bart Hexter was still jerking me around.
    I didn’t need to look at the calendar to know that it was already Wednesday, two days before Hexter Commodities’ answer was due at the CFTC. My first instinct was to go back to Herman Geiss, on my hands and knees if necessary, explain the situation, and beg for another continuance. But when I thought about it I realized that if Geiss was looking for a way to bring Hexter Commodities down, I would just be telling him that it was time to close in for the kill.
    The real power of a firm like Callahan Ross lies not in the intelligence and experience of its attorneys, but rather in the interlocking web of associations and favors that it has woven around itself like a mantle. I sent Cheryl to the library for biographical information on the CFTC commissioners. Then I trawled my partners for anyone who might have an inside track on the Commission. I worked the phones until lunchtime, pleading my case with those to whom Geiss would have no choice but to listen. It wasn’t until after twelve that I remembered my promise to Elliott to have Torey Lloyd’s personnel file messengered over to him.
    I picked up the phone and called Hexter Commodities. I waited on hold for a minute before Barton Jr. himself picked up the line.
    “Kate?” he demanded. I almost didn’t recognize his voice it was so thick with rage. “I was just about to call you. I have a bit of a situation here. Can you come to the office?”
    “Now?” I asked, taken aback.
    “I’d hurry if I were you.”
     
    When I arrived at Hexter Commodities I didn’t have to ask where to find Barton. I just followed the shouting. The door to Carl Savage’s office was closed, but the rumble of his deep bass and the more strident tones of Barton’s tenor could be clearly heard. The words were unintelligible, but there was no mistaking the angry nature of their duet. The Hexter employees stood in silent little groups, clustered together like children outside the room where their parents are fighting.
    I felt the stares of everyone on the trading floor burning through my back. I knocked on the door, but there was no response. No doubt they hadn’t heard me over their own shouting. I just took a deep breath, turned the handle, and waded in.
    Both men were on their feet, squared off, while the phone rang hysterically, unanswered. Savage, the veins in his bull-neck throbbing, was screaming at Barton Jr.: “Screw you. I have a contract that runs through January. I’ll sue your ass. You’ll be bleeding legal fees for