Final Option

can’t imagine what could have become of that girl,” snapped Mrs. Hexter as we waited in vain.
    I could imagine any number of scenarios. Elena on the phone trying to sell her exclusive story to the Daily Enquirer. Elena in the garage flirting with a handsome policeman. Elena on the phone, calling friends, serving up the news of her employer’s death while it was still piping hot.
    In the end I assured Mrs. Hexter that I would be able to find my own way, but once I got downstairs I regretted my optimism. The house was enormous and confusing, a warren of dimly lit hallways and pointlessly overdecorated rooms. Music room, trophy room, gun room, game room, I passed through them all in my quest for the dead man’s study. By the process of elimination, I found a hall that I thought would lead me back to the front of the house, but when I came to the end of it, I found myself, inexplicably, in the kitchen. Large and white, the room was as clean, scrubbed, and brightly lit as a surgical suite. At one end I saw a door to what I supposed must be a butler’s pantry. Surely, I thought, that must lead into the dining room, which must be in the main section of the house.
    But when I opened the pantry door I found my way blocked by the broad back of Detective Ruskowski. He appeared to be engaged in an argument with someone smaller and more soft spoken than himself. When he turned at the sound of my approach, I was surprised to find that that person was Ken Kurlander.
    Kurlander was a partner at my firm, a trust and estates attorney who had spent his long career serving his old-moneyed clients, sheltering their fortunes and shepherding their legacies from one generation to the next. Approaching the firm’s mandatory retirement age of seventy, Kurlander looked every inch a prince of the law. White-haired, firm-jawed, he was dressed, as always, in a plain black suit. It was a joke at the office that Kurlander’s closet was probably one of the darkest places in Chicago.
    To say that Ken Kurlander doesn’t like me is to tell only a small portion of the story. Ken has always taken my presence at Callahan Ross as a kind of personal affront. To Kurlander, I am nothing less than a traitor to my class. That I have chosen the frankly mercenary world of corporate law seems especially to gall him. It pains him that I spend my day structuring transactions, negotiating mergers, and representing the likes of Bart Hexter, when I should be at the country club, enjoying the sheer restfulness of my good breeding. I, on the other hand, find Kurlander to be a complete pain in the ass.
    “Ken,” I demanded, with more candor than tact, “What are you doing here?”
    “Pamela called me first thing, poor woman,” he replied.
    “Funny she’d think to call you first,” interjected Ruskowski, not sounding one bit amused. “Most people’s first reaction to discovering that their husband has been murdered is to call the police.”
    “As I’ve already explained to you. Officer,” replied Kurlander in a tone of weary condescension, “under the circumstances, it was only natural for someone in Mrs. Hexter’s position to seek advice. Remember, it was I who instructed Mrs. Hexter to dial 911 as soon as she hung up with me.”
    “Then why don't you go upstairs and instruct Mrs. Hexter to make herself available to the police. I have some more questions to ask her.”
    “I must insist, as Mrs. Hexter’s attorney,” replied Kurlander, puffing himself up with indignation as he spoke, “that Mrs. Hexter not be disturbed any further this morning. Her physician has been called. She has already been questioned, graciously consented to having her house searched, and submitted to being fingerprinted. You would think it would be common decency to give someone who’s just found her husband murdered a bit of privacy.”
    I saw Ruskowski look at Kurlander the way he had looked at me right before he launched into his diatribe about the prerogatives of a homicide detective. I took hold of one Kurlander’s perfectly laundered cuffs.
    “Would you mind, Detective, if I had a word in private with my colleague?” I asked. Ruskowski, disgusted, nodded.
    I drew Kurlander into the kitchen where we retreated to the farthest corner to confer in whispers.
    “What’s the problem?” I demanded. “I just talked to Mrs. Hexter. She’s very composed. Why not just let her get it over with?”
    “It’s not me,” replied Kurlander. “It’s Pamela. That