Rough Trade

things up when it comes to your career.”
    “Is it that bad?”
    “I’m sure they’ll eventually stop blaming you for losing the firm a quarter of a million dollars.”
    “What’s going on in the rest of my life?”
    “I don’t know. You tell me. Stephen called this morning and started asking me all these weird questions. What’s going on with you two?”
    “We kind of broke up.”
    “So I gathered. Congratulations. It’s about time.”
    “Is that what you told Stephen?”
    “I didn’t tell him anything. I just played dumb. I mean, you can’t expect me to do everything for you. I take it you like the car?”
    “I do, but it’s a big change from the Volvo.”
    “Well, if you decide that it’s too nice for you, you can always pass it along to me. I’m sure if I look hard enough, I could find some decrepit old heap to replace the Volvo.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied. “Now, if there are no more areas of my life you desire to make over, can you get Paul Riskoff on the phone for me?”
     
    * * *
     
    That night Chrissy went to bed early. She’d spent the day alternately weeping, cleaning, and obsessively calling Mrs. Mason every fifteen minutes to reassure herself that the baby was safe. By nightfall she was exhausted. I was glad. Talks had gone well with our possible white knight, and after a few false starts, I felt that I had finally been able to craft an agreement that was acceptable to both parties.
    However, even someone of tremendous wealth doesn’t keep their millions in their checking account. Even if they were willing to accept our proposal and transmit a letter of intent and a credit letter from their bank by close of business that day, it would take seventy-two hours for the funds to actually transfer—not in time to cure the default with First Milwaukee. Still, I had not come this far to have it not work. I told myself that I would think of something.
    I made myself a peanut butter sandwich and checked the doors and windows to make sure that the house was secure. Then I switched on the security system. Thus reassured, I grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and took my plate upstairs to the guest room. There on the bed, I made myself comfortable and set about going through the accordion file of documents that Elliott had left with me that morning.
    The first thing I pulled out were glossy eight by tens of Beau’s body lying face down at the bottom of the stairs. I gave a little scream of surprise. I don’t know what I was expecting—a little warning perhaps—or maybe it was just that my nerves were getting as frayed as Chrissy’s. I quickly turned them over facedown on the quilt, saving them for later.
    I read through the witness reports. The first consisted of an interview with a woman named Rebecca Galen, the young woman from accounting who was filling in for Beau’s secretary. She reported that she’d taken in a pile of checks for Beau’s signature around nine forty-five and found his office empty. There was another statement from a man who worked in media relations. He said that he’d come up to ask Beau about doing an interview with Sports Illustrated at—he thought—sometime around ten-twenty, but had turned away halfway to the owner’s door when he heard the sounds of voices raised in argument.
    Coach Bennato had also given a statement. He reported that he’d come up to see Beau at ten-thirty for their usual postmortem on the Vikings game, but when he arrived, he found the owner’s door closed. Even though the police had pressed him, he’d refused to offer an opinion about who might have been arguing with Beau. However, another statement, this time given by an accounting clerk, indicated that when she was heading down to Beau’s office, she ran into Bennato, who told her it would probably be best if she came back later, seeing as Jeff and his father were behind closed doors and did not wish to be disturbed.
    I found Bennato’s loyalty both touching and infuriating. No doubt he thought he was acting in Jeff’s best interest by refusing to cooperate fully with the police, not realizing how his stubbornness had ended up having the opposite effect of casting suspicion upon him.
    The next reports I came to were from hair and fiber. Apparently fibers matching the carpet in the dead man’s office were found on his clothing, not just on his shoes and the bottom of his pants, but also on the back of his jacket and in his hair. The report