Rough Trade

look around on our way out?” asked Eiben.
    “Not if you have a search warrant.”
    “Well then, I guess we’ll be on our way.”
    “Let me show you out,” I said, following them through the kitchen and walking them back out to their car. In the little time we’d been talking, the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. I blew on my hands and watched the detectives as they got into their car and drove away. In spite of the cold I stood there long after they’d disappeared from sight.
    No pun intended; Milwaukee was a town where the Monarchs were king. For years the Rendells had been among its most prominent citizens. All things considered, I’d expected a lot more bowing and scraping with profuse apologies thrown in for intruding at this terrible time of tragedy. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the more I found the detectives’ hard-nosed and businesslike approach profoundly disturbing.
     
    There are no secrets for the dead, especially the rich. Lawyers and accountants turn their lives inside out like a pair of pants, looking for loose change. As I made my way to Beau’s study I consoled myself with the fact that wherever Beau was, at least he was no longer in a position to object. Not that anyone familiar with Beau’s current balance sheet would have mistaken him for wealthy. Still, Chrissy was so furious at Feiss for presuming to speak for the family that she asked me to have a look through Beau’s papers. At least that way there would be someone who would be able to tell if something turned up missing later.
    Beau’s study was a large, masculine room that was part office, part refuge, and part shrine to football. The massive credenza was crowded with power photos, honors, and awards. Autographed footballs sealed in Lucite sarcophagi, trophies, and plaques of every shape and size filled the bookshelves. Signed jerseys of famous Monarchs players were stretched, framed, and displayed on the walls like fine art.
    Of course, all these were just token symbols of the much larger prize. When it comes right down to it, an NFL team is the biggest, best, and most testosterone-induced trophy of them all. After all, there are only thirty of them, and together the owners form the most exclusive old boys’ club in the world. This was the place where Beau had come to savor it. Looking around, I suddenly understood the desperation he must have felt at the prospect of having to give it all up.
    The room still smelled of his cigars. The soft leather of his chair still bore the impression of his body. On his desk beside the telephone was a roll of blueprints held together with a red rubber band and a pencil that lay exactly where it had left his hand. What had he been thinking, ten days I away from losing it all?
    I sat myself down in his chair and unrolled the blue- prints, expecting to see the architect’s drawings for the proposed new stadium in suburban Wauwatosa. Instead, I was surprised to find a set of ambitious renderings for the proposed renovation of the existing Monarchs Stadium downtown. Curious, I laid them flat and examined them one by one.
    From what I could tell, it looked like a daring plan, one that called for the existing structure to be almost totally rebuilt and the field to be lowered eight feet. This would make way for a new deck of luxury seating. In addition, the present-day lower deck would be ripped out and replaced with restaurants and restrooms. I loved the concept, but then again, concepts are cheap. I wondered if the city also had a plan for how to pay for it.
    I looked in the folder that lay underneath the drawings and found my answer. Inside was what looked like a scribbled term sheet, probably handwritten during the course of a meeting, which outlined a proposal that cobbled together a package of deferred tax credits, income from a naming fee for rechristening the renovated stadium, additional parking revenues, and an 8 percent sin tax on tobacco and alcohol. Quickly adding the numbers in my head, I realized that with a little bit of creative massaging, they might be stretched to cover the deficit with the bank, as well. Unfortunately, there was no way of telling whether what I was looking at represented what Beau had asked for or what the city was offering.
    I made a mental note to call the mayor’s office, pleased at the prospect of possibly having another variable to play with. Then with a sigh I turned my attention to the rest of Beau’s