Monday morning brought a small surprise.
When I arrived at the office, I left a message for Joe Stone. He called me back fifteen minutes later. "What's this message you left me, Larsen? You want to do your 'civic duty'?"
"That's right," I assured him solemnly. "I've come into possession of some documents that might be evidence in a murder case. Therefore--"
"In what case?"
"The Emerson murder."
"What documents?"
"Three anonymous letters that Helen Emerson received during the week before she was murdered. I also received a threatening phone call on Friday."
"Oh, right," he scoffed. "Those letters. Andrew Emerson called me about that last week. He claims he forgot to mention them when I questioned him the night of the murder. Supposedly, he was going to have someone look for them."
"Well, he did, and they were found."
"And you expect me to believe this load of bullshit?"
"Believe whatever you want, Stone. Do you want the letters? I don't want to be accused of withholding evidence."
"Sure, I do. Even if they're not evidence against her killer, I can use them to prosecute you and Andrew Emerson for fabricating evidence in a murder case."
"You think we wrote those letters?"
"I think you're capable of anything, Larsen."
"What possible reason would we have for--"
"Where are these supposed letters?"
"Here in my office." I didn't mention the safe in my library, because it was a sore subject with Stone. I'd acquired the item in conjunction with a case a few years earlier, and Stone still claimed it was stolen property. Unfortunately for him, its alleged owner was dead and far beyond the possibility of ever testifying in a court of law. Nevertheless, Stone had thought long and hard about trying to prosecute me.
It seemed to be a common theme in his life.
"I'm sending someone over for those letters," Stone told me. "Have you touched them?"
"No. I had copies made, but we were careful not to disturb any fingerprints."
"What about the envelopes?"
"Same thing. Of course, there's no return address."
"Too bad," he growled. "I was hoping it would be yours."
The surprise came a few minutes later. Ann appeared in the doorway to my office, chewing on the end of her ball point pen, as always, but looking even more pensive than usual.
She removed the pen from her mouth. "Do you have a minute?"
"Of course. I read your labor law memo over the weekend. Nice work."
"Thanks," she said without emotion. "I've been looking through the Emerson files. They're a mess."
"That figures. So was the Empress. Any sign of a will?"
"Not yet. But I did find her most recent checking account statement."
There was a peculiar edge in Ann's tone. I leaned back in my chair. "And?"
"Her very last check was written to Max Deacon. The private detective. We worked with him in the Preston case."
"She hired Max Deacon?"
"That's right," she said. "He died last week."
"I know. He committed suicide. I attended the funeral." I frowned. "I don't like that. Did she indicate why she was hiring him?"
"The only reference on the check is two words: 'Retainer, Florida.'"
"Florida?"
She nodded. "Florida."
"And it doesn't say what the retainer is for?"
"Not a clue. Just those two words. You know, even if his death was just a suicide, it's possible that he was working on something that--"
I nodded. "I agree, Ann. I met his daughter at the funeral. I think I'll call her and find out what this is all about. What was the amount of the check?"
"Five hundred dollars. It's dated two weeks ago."
"Thanks," I told her. "I'll let you know what I find out. Meanwhile, please keep looking for that will."
"Okay." She padded out of my office.
I turned to my computer and got online. It took about a minute to find Max Deacon's phone number. A recording told me I had reached the office of Max Deacon, private investigator. After the beep, I said that I was hoping to reach January Deacon, and I left my name and number.
In less than thirty seconds, the phone on my desk was ringing. Diana Hollister's crisp British voice announced, "There's a Jana Deacon on line one. She says she's returning your call."
It took me a second to figure out the Jana part. Then it dawned on me. Jana was short for January. "Thanks, Diana."
I pressed the line one button. "This is Adam Larsen."
"Hi, Mr. Larsen. This is Jana Deacon. I was in the other room and couldn't get to the recorder."
"Thank you for calling me back. And Adam would be just fine. How are you doing?"
"Oh, so-so, I guess. I'm cleaning out my father's office. That's pretty hard. There are a lot of memories floating around here."
"I can imagine. If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know."
"Thank you. I thought I might have a problem with one of the insurance companies, but it looks like we've got things worked out."
"Good. Jana, I have a little problem, and I'm hoping you can help me."
"You need my help?" she said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "How can I help you?"
"I'm representing the estate of a client who died recently. Her name was Helen Emerson."
"I read about that in the newspaper. Isn't she the woman who was blown up?"
"She was. And there's an odd coincidence. At least, I hope it's a coincidence."
"What do you mean?"
"The last check she wrote before she died was made out to your father."
There was a long silence. "That's really eerie. Why would she be writing a check to him?"
"I don't know. I'm hoping you can tell me. The only reference on the check is, Retainer, Florida."
"Florida? The last time Dad was in Florida was when I was a little girl. He and Mom took me to Disney World. Are you sure?"
"That's what it says. And evidently this was business. Would you mind pulling the file on Helen Emerson, to see what your father was investigating? It may be nothing, but, on the other hand, she started receiving death threats the week before she died. It's possible your father was hired to look into the matter."
"Weird," she said. "Do you want to hold on a minute? All of his files are in the other room."
"Sure." There was a clatter as she set down the receiver. I pressed the speaker button and leaned back in my chair to wait. After about five minutes, she came back on the line. "I'm not finding anything."
"You're not?"
"No. There's no file on Helen Emerson."
"It could be listed as under Emerson Mining and Development."
"If so, I would have found it. There are no Emersons at all, except a Harvey Emerson, but that was an old file having something to do with a liquor licensing application."
"Liquor licensing?"
"Oh, sure. When you apply for a liquor license, you have to have someone go out and collect signatures in support of the application. Dad used to do a lot of that."
I didn't like this. "How were his files arranged? I mean--"
"Alphabetically. He was very organized."
"If she had hired your father but he hadn't opened a file yet, would there be any other record of it?"
"I don't think so. He would have opened a file right away. But-- You say she paid him?"
"Right. Five hundred dollars. As a retainer."
"Let me see if there's a ledger."
Again she set down the receiver. This time it only took her thirty seconds. "There is a ledger sheet. He kept those together in a separate folder. It shows the retainer payment, but it doesn't say what it was for. It also shows one cost entry. Twelve dollars and fifty cents. The reference is, 'online records search. Fla. DMV.' I assume that Fla. means Florida, and I know that DMV was his abbreviation for Department of Motor Vehicles."
"But there's no indication what he was searching for in Florida?"
"No. I've read you the entire entry."
"Is there any way to find out how much time he spent on the case?"
"Only if we can find the file. He kept the time records for each client in that client's file."
"That makes sense. Jana, is there anywhere else you could look for a Helen Emerson file?"
"Not really. The only thing I can think of is to go through all of his files, from A to Z, just to make sure it didn't get misfiled."
"Would you mind doing that?"
"Do you think this is something important?"
"I don't know. It just seems odd that there's no file." I added, thinking aloud, "More than just odd."
"I agree," she said. "I'll go back through his files. I'll let you know what I find."
"Thank you."
After we hung up, I touch-toned extension two four, Ann Stivornik's office.
Ann said, "Hi."
"I just spoke with Max Deacon's daughter. She's found a ledger for Helen Emerson, but she can't find a file."
"How odd," she muttered. "Are we concerned?"
"Probably not. But in your search of the rest of Helen Emerson's files, will you keep an eye out for a Max Deacon file--or anything that might tell us why she hired him?"
"Of course. Is there some other way we could find out?"
"Well, do you know any good psychics?" I said lightheartedly.
"No," she answered in her flat monotone. "I don't believe in those things."
"Pity. It may be the only way we'll ever find out what secrets Helen Emerson took to her grave with her."
"Could be," she agreed. "By the way, still no luck on finding the will."
"Now that's something we are concerned about. Please keep looking for it."
"Will do," she promised.
As I hung up, Diana appeared in my doorway. "Joe Stone is here to see you." She eyed me in an odd, amused way. "Jana Deacon?"
"What do you mean?"
She shook her head in disgust. "You're totally oblivious, aren't you? They swarm around you like flies."
"Maurice is the one who--"
"Maurice," she interrupted curtly, "attracts a certain type of woman. The ones seeking danger and excitement. The rest of them go ga-ga over you. They know you'll protect them. You make them feel safe." Before I could respond, she added, "I'll send Stone back."
She turned and headed down the hall. A minute later, Stone burst in. As usual, he came to an abrupt stop in front of my desk where he stood, rigidly upright, like a drill sergeant. Stone almost never sat down in my office. That might imply some hint of civility.
"Sorry, I don't have any dead bodies for you to find," I said. The last time he had been to my office was to investigate a murder that had been committed in my law library.
"Unless it's your body, who cares?" he answered, with that familiar look of distaste on his face. "Otherwise, a corpse is just a corpse. I'm here for those letters."
I raised my brows. "In person? I'm impressed." He didn't react. You couldn't have a normal conversation with Stone. The man had no social skills. Reaching into the center drawer of my desk, I pulled out a thin manila folder that contained the three letters and their accompanying envelopes. I was glad they were in my desk. Otherwise, we would have had our usual argument about the safe. He grabbed the file out of my hand and opened the cover. I watched as he scanned the topmost letter.
When he was done, I said, "Have you made any progress in finding out who killed her?"
He stared at me as though I had asked about his sex life--as though I would ever want to know about anything that nauseating.
"I have a legitimate interest in this one," I reminded him.
He set his jaw, realizing that I had a point. "We haven't identified any suspects."
"How hard is Detoneatine to acquire? Is it possible to trace--"
"Like we didn't think of that?" he interrupted, shifting irritably on his feet. "The woman owned a mining company, Larsen. There's an entire storage room full of the stuff up in their Briggsdale facility. Plus dynamite, TNT and God knows what else. The most volatile stuff is kept in a special storage area. But the Detoneatine just sits on an open shelf in an unlocked room--which probably violates half a dozen federal laws. Almost anyone could have walked into that storage room and taken everything he needed."
I knew from having read the package of materials I'd received from Dennis Breckenridge that one of the union's many grievances was that Emerson Mining was lackadaisical in its control and handling of explosives. The union claimed that its members weren't being adequately protected.
Out of curiosity, I said, "Did you happen to work on the Max Deacon case?"
Stone snapped to attention the way you'd expect NORAD to react if a North Korean airplane were spotted flying low over Washington, D.C.
"What?" he demanded.
"Max Deacon. He was a private detective who--"
"I know who he was. What's it to you?"
I had obviously blundered into something sensitive. "Was there something questionable about his death?"
"Why do you want to know, Larsen?" he demanded, leaning forward aggressively.
I decided not to tell him just yet. Whatever Helen Emerson had hired Deacon to do might be something she didn't want made public.
"Relax, Stone. You'll blow a gasket. Deacon and I worked on a case together a couple of years ago. I met his daughter at the funeral, and was just wondering what could have caused him to--"
He pounded his fist on my desk. "Damn you, Larsen! Why do you keep sticking your nose into all of my cases?"
I shrugged philosophically. "I don't. Not deliberately. I've tried to tell you this before, Stone. Our fates are intertwined somehow. I don't like it any more than you do. But it's some weird cosmic--"
"Yeah? Well, it pisses me off! And if you get in my way, I'll charge you with interfering with an official investigation!" He stormed toward the door. "Cosmic bullshit!"
After he was gone, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes so that I could think. It was obvious from Stone's reaction that Max Deacon's death was a pending case, and not just a closed file.
Maybe Ann had stumbled onto something important. Could Max have been murdered? And, murder or not, did his death have had anything to do with the Empress? I thought about everything I knew about Deacon and his sudden demise. That's when I realized something that jolted me.
Max died the same day as Helen Emerson.