Rough Trade

As soon as the police pulled into the driveway, I ran outside to intercept them. Thankfully, the reporters were too busy hanging on Feiss’s every cliché to notice. No one ever accused TV journalists of being newshounds.
    Two men with neat ties and shiny shoes got out of a white Caprice, flashed their badges at me, and identified themselves. They were both middle aged, rheumy eyed, and remote. The taller of the two said his name was Eiben. He had a lean, pockmarked face and a brush cut. He spoke with the kind of bland courtesy that’s taught in customer service training courses. The other man’s name was Zellmer. He was older, thicker, and wore his thinning gray hair in a comb-over that was remarkable if only for its ambition. Everything about them said cop.
    I led them down the garden path and through the garage into the house so that they wouldn’t bump into anybody. Then I ushered them into the bookless room that Beau Rendell had called his library. It had white shag carpeting, black leather furniture, and a wet bar. All it was missing was a painting of Elvis on black velvet.
    “We’re here to speak to Jeffrey Rendell,” said Eiben, looking around and taking it all in.
    “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s not possible right now,”
    I replied, doing my best to sound apologetic.
    “I’m not sure I understand. When we spoke to his attorney at the stadium, he promised to make him available to be interviewed when we came out this afternoon.”
    “Unfortunately, he’s been given a sedative on doctor’s orders. He’s sound asleep.”
    “Now why would he need a sedative?” inquired Eiben earnestly, as if he really wanted to know.
    “I don’t know. You’d have to ask the doctor.”
    “I’m asking you.”
    “I don’t like to speculate, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that Jeff was very upset by his father’s death.”
    “How upset?”
    “I don’t know,” I shot back. “How upset would you be if your father had just died?”
    “My father died when I was four,” deadpanned Eiben. “He got drunk and fell down a well. When do you think that Mr. Rendell might be available to make a statement?”
    “I would think sometime tomorrow.”
    “Would you mind explaining to us exactly what your relationship is to the Rendells?”
    “I’m a personal friend of Jeff and his wife. I’m also their attorney.”
    “So who was this guy Feiss we talked to this morning?”
    “He was Beau Rendell’s lawyer and business adviser.”
    “That’s a lot of lawyers. I guess it’s the money that attracts you guys—kind of like maggots and old meat.”
    “What a delightful metaphor,” I replied in my best imitation of my mother at her most charming. “I hope you don’t mind if I use it sometime.”
    “So I take it you knew the Rendells pretty well,” he continued, ignoring my attempt to be irritating.
    “I guess you could say that.”
    “So how would you characterize the deceased’s relationship with his son?”
    “Jeff and his father were very close. They had worked together every day for nearly a decade.”
    “Would you say they got along?”
    “No better or worse than a lot of fathers and sons.”
    “Would you say that Jeff and his father argued a great deal?”
    “I’d say that Beau argued with everyone. I’m sure you read the sports pages.”
    “You can’t always believe everything you read in the' papers,” observed Zellmer sagely.
    “True. Beau was the Monarchs’ owner. His son was the team’s general manager. Owners and general managers disagree all the time about what’s best for the team. Jeff’s personal relationship with his father was a close one.”
    “So you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Jeff Rendell and his father had a violent argument this morning?”
    “I told you, Detective. Owners and general managers invariably disagree, often acrimoniously, and especially when a team is doing as badly as the Monarchs are this season. So, to answer your question, no, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
    The two detectives exchanged a quick glance, like the shorthand of two people who have been married a long time, and they rose to their feet in unison.
    “Well, thank you for your time,” said Eiben, patting his pockets and extracting a business card. “You’ve been very helpful.” He handed it to me. “Please make sure that Jeff Rendell gets in touch with us as soon as he’s able.”
    “Of course,” I replied.
    “Do you mind if we have a