Final Option

long sigh and ran a trembling hand through his hair.
    “There’s still the question of what to do about the apartment,” I urged, quietly. “I think it’s probably best if you make the payment as scheduled today. I can arrange it through Ken. That way at least the earnest money won’t be forfeited. I’m sure I can put Miss Lloyd off for a while until things calm down a bit; then we can decide what to do. It can even be sold later.“
    “Do whatever you think is best,” he replied wood-enly.
    There was a knock at the door, and Tim burst in breathlessly. “Sorry, but it’s your wife on the phone. She says it’s an emergency,” he blurted.
    Barton reached for the phone. He listened gravely for a moment. “Where are you? Don’t worry. I can be there in ten minutes. Just don’t do anything without me.” He was on his feet before he hung up the receiver. “What’s happened?” I demanded.
    “That was Jane,” he said. “She’s at the hospital. Her water broke during rehearsal. Her contractions are close together. I’m going.”
    “Good luck,” I called, but he was gone so fast I’m sure he didn’t hear me.
     
    * * *
     
    I sat at Bart Hexter’s vast mahogany desk and looked through the record of checks that Hexter Commodities had issued to Deodar Commodities over the past three years. Loretta had sent over a young woman from the accounting department who explained to me that once the checks were cut they were, as a rule, taken straight over to Hexter’s office where they were given to Tim, or more often, the great man himself. I sent her off to find the canceled checks, but I was pretty certain that she would not succeed.
    “Excuse me,” said a male voice. I looked up from the checks. “I’m looking for Mr. Bart Hexter.” It was a bicycle messenger, one of the kamikaze cyclists who weave through traffic and pelt the wrong way down one-way streets all in the name of speedy deliveries. He wore a yellow jersey with his company name on the back, black bicycle shorts, and a purple helmet. In his arm he held a courier pack of documents.
    “Mr. Hexter senior or junior?”
    “I didn’t know there was a junior,” he replied, obviously puzzled to find me sitting in Hexter’s chair. “This goes to the older guy who’s always here in this office. I've got a delivery for him.”
    Tim Hexter appeared in the doorway with a sheaf of papers in his hand.
    “Hi Gary,” he said. “I can take those from you.“
    “You know better than that, Tim,” admonished the messenger. “I’ve got to hand this to Mr. Hexter, personal.”
    “Don’t you read the papers?” asked Tim. “Hexter’s dead. Somebody shot him. You’d better just give it to me.”
    “No can do. I’ll just take it back to the office. I’ll have my supervisor call you.”
    “Oh, cut the crap, Gary,” declared Tim. “Just give it to me.”
    “I can’t do that,” insisted the messenger, clutching the package to his chest as if he were afraid that Tim would snatch it from him. “Delivery is to Mr. Bart Hexter—hands only.”
    “His hands are six feet under ground,” replied Tim, practically shouting with frustration.
    “Why don’t you let me handle this, Tim,” I suggested. Tim gave me a dirty look and retreated to the doorway, a sullen onlooker to the proceedings.
     
    The matter of the courier took much longer to resolve than it had a right to. The young man with the bicycle helmet was employed by a company called Couriers International, Inc., a firm that specialized in hand-carrying documents between countries. Bart Hexter had a regular monthly delivery contract with them and, as the supervisor patiently explained to me over the phone, the terms of their contract specified that all deliveries be made to Bart Hexter personally. Unfortunately, there was no contingency in the contract in the event of Bart Hexter’s death. It was one of those idiotic situations that just suck up time. I knew that in the end the documents would rightfully be released to me. So did everyone I spoke to at the courier company. But that did nothing to assuage their fear of being sued if, in the end, trouble came of their making their delivery to me.
    Finally, I succeeded in reaching the president of the courier company who agreed to release the documents to me if I drafted a waiver of liability that met with his attorney’s approval. I dictated something that seemed appropriately impressive over the phone to Cheryl, who faxed it to the