for him. Perhaps
a hitman who, years before…
That sort of slim chance was all Dain lived for.
8
Teddy Maxton’s office was in the penthouse of a new high rise with a good view of Sears Tower and the Chicago River snaking
through the Loop. The office was expensive without distinction, relentlessly modern, reflecting a designer’s tastes rather
than Maxton’s. The lawyer was on the phone with a client when the door was opened by Jeri Pearson, his thirtyish executive
secretary. Maxton looked up, irritated.
“I told you no—”
“A Mr. Dain? He seemed to think—”
Maxton, mollified, made a beckoning gesture. It was after 4:00 P.M. , so he had a drink at his elbow. He said into the phone, “Something’s come up, I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
Jeri ushered in Dain, shut the door as she left. Dain was dressed in a conservative business suit and a Sulka tie. In his
left hand was his usual leather-bound book. He stopped in the middle of the room as Maxton moved his glass andraised an eyebrow, almost smirking to see him there after all.
Dain shook his head, wiped away Maxton’s self-satisfied look by saying, “I get ten percent of anything recovered against a
twenty-five K guarantee. I cover my own expenses.”
“Ten percent!
I told you he stole two million dollars. Ten percent is an absolutely outrageous—”
“My fee is not negotiable.”
Maxton came around the desk, his hands clenched and his face dark with anger. “Everyone’s fee is negotiable.”
Dain sat down in the visitor’s chair, laid his leather-bound book on the edge of the desk. After a moment, Maxton went back
behind the desk to get his drink, jaw aggressive.
“You had two other P.I.’s looking for him for a week before you came to me, and don’t even know which rest room he uses.”
“You mean he’s a fucking
fag?”
“No. I mean that you know nothing about him, yet you handpicked him to be Lorimer’s attorney with power to cosign on that
box with her. Who or what made him desperate enough to steal from you? Was he being blackmailed? If so, over what? Was he
a gambler in debt to a shylock? Is he a cokehead? In love?”
Maxton exclaimed, “How do you expect me to know anything like that? He’s a fucking
law clerk,
for Godsake!”
“Exactly. You said the substitution probably won’t be discovered until Mrs. Lorimer’s death, if then. Does she know about
the theft? Do you plan to return the bonds to her?”
There was a long silence. Maxton finally turned to the window behind the desk, stood with his face so close to it that when
he spoke his words left small puffs of steam on the glass.
“Zimmer agreed to substitute forged bonds I supplied for two million worth of the genuine ones. He was to get a hundred thousand,
tax-free, for that service.”
“And just in case, you made sure you couldn’t even get into the box—only Zimmer,” said Dain. “That way, if the substitution
was discovered, Zimmer would take the fall.”
Maxton turned back into the room. “That’s right.”
Dain leaned forward with a friendly look on his face.
“So the question is, why did
you
have to steal the bonds?”
Maxton slammed his empty glass down on the desk so hard it cracked in his hand. He threw it into the wastebasket.
“None of your fucking business.”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Dain. “Your wife found out you were fooling around and filed for divorce. She wanted the usual—alimony,
house, car… But I’m assuming she also wanted a lot of tax-free cash under the table—
or else.”
Maxton said softly, “Or else what?”
“Normally I’d expect her to wake up dead in a garbage pail somewhere, but instead you trot out and try to steal two million
bucks to keep her happy. So she’s really got something—probably something the fraud division of the IRS or your playmates
with the ini-names would like to know. So she’s got an edge on you.” He suddenly snapped the words. “Does
a hitman who, years before…
That sort of slim chance was all Dain lived for.
8
Teddy Maxton’s office was in the penthouse of a new high rise with a good view of Sears Tower and the Chicago River snaking
through the Loop. The office was expensive without distinction, relentlessly modern, reflecting a designer’s tastes rather
than Maxton’s. The lawyer was on the phone with a client when the door was opened by Jeri Pearson, his thirtyish executive
secretary. Maxton looked up, irritated.
“I told you no—”
“A Mr. Dain? He seemed to think—”
Maxton, mollified, made a beckoning gesture. It was after 4:00 P.M. , so he had a drink at his elbow. He said into the phone, “Something’s come up, I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
Jeri ushered in Dain, shut the door as she left. Dain was dressed in a conservative business suit and a Sulka tie. In his
left hand was his usual leather-bound book. He stopped in the middle of the room as Maxton moved his glass andraised an eyebrow, almost smirking to see him there after all.
Dain shook his head, wiped away Maxton’s self-satisfied look by saying, “I get ten percent of anything recovered against a
twenty-five K guarantee. I cover my own expenses.”
“Ten percent!
I told you he stole two million dollars. Ten percent is an absolutely outrageous—”
“My fee is not negotiable.”
Maxton came around the desk, his hands clenched and his face dark with anger. “Everyone’s fee is negotiable.”
Dain sat down in the visitor’s chair, laid his leather-bound book on the edge of the desk. After a moment, Maxton went back
behind the desk to get his drink, jaw aggressive.
“You had two other P.I.’s looking for him for a week before you came to me, and don’t even know which rest room he uses.”
“You mean he’s a fucking
fag?”
“No. I mean that you know nothing about him, yet you handpicked him to be Lorimer’s attorney with power to cosign on that
box with her. Who or what made him desperate enough to steal from you? Was he being blackmailed? If so, over what? Was he
a gambler in debt to a shylock? Is he a cokehead? In love?”
Maxton exclaimed, “How do you expect me to know anything like that? He’s a fucking
law clerk,
for Godsake!”
“Exactly. You said the substitution probably won’t be discovered until Mrs. Lorimer’s death, if then. Does she know about
the theft? Do you plan to return the bonds to her?”
There was a long silence. Maxton finally turned to the window behind the desk, stood with his face so close to it that when
he spoke his words left small puffs of steam on the glass.
“Zimmer agreed to substitute forged bonds I supplied for two million worth of the genuine ones. He was to get a hundred thousand,
tax-free, for that service.”
“And just in case, you made sure you couldn’t even get into the box—only Zimmer,” said Dain. “That way, if the substitution
was discovered, Zimmer would take the fall.”
Maxton turned back into the room. “That’s right.”
Dain leaned forward with a friendly look on his face.
“So the question is, why did
you
have to steal the bonds?”
Maxton slammed his empty glass down on the desk so hard it cracked in his hand. He threw it into the wastebasket.
“None of your fucking business.”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Dain. “Your wife found out you were fooling around and filed for divorce. She wanted the usual—alimony,
house, car… But I’m assuming she also wanted a lot of tax-free cash under the table—
or else.”
Maxton said softly, “Or else what?”
“Normally I’d expect her to wake up dead in a garbage pail somewhere, but instead you trot out and try to steal two million
bucks to keep her happy. So she’s really got something—probably something the fraud division of the IRS or your playmates
with the ini-names would like to know. So she’s got an edge on you.” He suddenly snapped the words. “Does
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