The Firm

white cowboy hat he looked like an ad for a cigarette. The Marlboro Man.

'Yeah, it's me.'

Lomax walked closer, to the other side of the cannon. They stood like Confederate sentries watching the river.

'Have you been followed?' Mitch asked.

'No, I don't think so. You?'

'No.'

Mitch stared at the traffic on Riverside Drive, and beyond, to the river. Lomax thrust his hands deep into his pockets. 'You talked to Ray, lately?' Lomax asked.

'No.' The answer was short, as if to say, 'I'm not standing here in the sleet to chitchat.'

'What'd you find?' Mitch asked, without looking.

Lomax lit a cigarette, and now he was the Marlboro Man. 'On the three lawyers, I found a little info. Alice Knauss was killed in a car wreck in 1977. Police report said she was hit by a drunk driver, but oddly enough, no such driver was ever found. The wreck happened around midnight on a Wednesday. She had worked late down at the office and was driving home. She lived out east, in Sycamore View, and about a mile from her condo she gets hit head—on by a one-ton pickup. Happened on New London Road. She was driving a fancy little Fiat and it was blown to pieces. No witnesses. When the cops got there, the truck was empty. No sign of a driver. They ran the plates and found that the truck had been stolen in St. Louis three days earlier. No fingerprints or nothing.'

'They dusted for prints?'

'Yeah. I know the investigator who handled it. They were suspicious but had zero to go on. There was a broken bottle of whiskey on the floorboard, so they blamed it on a drunk driver and closed the file.'

'Autopsy?'

'No. It was pretty obvious how she died.'

'Sounds suspicious.'

'Very much so. All three of them are suspicious. Robert Lamm was the deer hunter in Arkansas. He and some friends had a deer camp in Izard County in the Ozarks. They went over two or three times a year during the season. After a morning in the woods, everyone returned to the cabin but Lamm. They searched for two weeks and found him in a ravine, partially covered with leaves. He had been shot once through the head, and that's about all they know. They ruled out suicide, but there was simply no evidence to begin an investigation.'

'So he was murdered?'

'Apparently so. Autopsy showed an entry at the base of the skull and an exit wound that removed most of his face. Suicide would have been impossible.'

'It could have been an accident.'

'Possibly. He could have caught a bullet intended for a deer, but it's unlikely. He was found a good distance from the camp, in an area seldom used by hunters. His friends said they neither heard nor saw other hunters the morning he disappeared. I talked to the sheriff, who is now the ex-sheriff, and he's convinced it was murder. He claims there was evidence that the body had been covered intentionally.'

'Is that all?'

'Yeah, on Lamm…'

'What about Mickel?'

'Pretty sad. He committed suicide in 1984 at the age of thirty-four. Shot himself in the right temple with a Smith & Wesson .357. He left a lengthy farewell letter in which he told his ex-wife he hoped she would forgive him and all that crap. Said goodbye to the kids and his mother. Real touching.'

'Was it in his handwriting?'

'Not exactly. It was typed, which was not unusual, because he typed a good bit. He had an IBM Selectric in his office, and the letter came from it. He had a terrible handwriting.'

'So what's suspicious?'

'The gun. He never bought a gun in his life. No one knows where it came from. No registration, no serial number, nothing. One of his friends in The Firm allegedly said something to the effect that Mickel had told him he had bought a gun for protection. Evidently he was having some emotional problems.'

'What do you think?'

Lomax threw his cigarette butt in the frozen rain on the sidewalk. He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew in them. 'I don't know. I can't believe a tax lawyer with no knowledge of guns could obtain one without registration or serial number. If a guy like that wanted a gun, he would simply go to a gun shop, fill out the papers and buy a nice, shiny new piece. This gun was at least ten years old and had been sanitized by professionals.'

'Did the cops investigate?'

'Not really. It was open and shut.'

'Did he sign the letter?'

'Yeah, but I don't know who verified the signature. He and his wife had been divorced for a year, and she had moved back to Baltimore.'

Mitch buttoned the top button of his overcoat and shook the ice from his collar. The sleet was heavier, and the sidewalk was covered. Tiny icicles were beginning to form under the barrel of the cannon. The traffic slowed on Riverside as wheels began to slide and spin.

'So what do you think of our little firm?' Mitch asked as he stared at the river in the distance.

'It's a dangerous place to work. They've lost five lawyers in the past fifteen years. That's not a very good safety record.'

'Five?'

'If you include Hodge and Kozinski. I've got a source telling me there are some unanswered questions.'

'I didn't hire you to investigate those two.'

'And I'm not charging you for it. I got curious, that's all.'

'How much do I owe you?'

'Six-twenty.'

'I'll pay cash. No records, okay?'

'Suits me. I prefer cash.'

Mitch turned from the river and gazed at the tall buildings three blocks from the park. He was cold now, but in no hurry to leave. Lomax watched him from the corner of his eye.

'You've got problems, don't you, pal?'

'Wouldn't you say so?' Mitch answered.

'I wouldn't work there. I mean, I don't know all that you do, and I suspect you know a lot you're not telling. But we're standing here in the sleet because we don't want to be seen. We can't talk on the phone. We can't meet in your office. Now you don't want to meet in my office. You think you're being followed all the time. You tell me to be careful and watch my rear because they, whoever they are, may be following me. You've got five lawyers in that firm who've died under very suspicious circumstances, and you act like you may be next. Yeah, I'd say you got problems. Big problems.'

'What about Tarrance?'

'One of their best agents; transferred in here about two years ago.'

'From where?'

'New York.'

The wino rolled from under the bronze horse and fell to the sidewalk. He grunted, staggered to his feet, retrieved his cardboard box and quilt and left in the direction of downtown. Lomax jerked around and watched anxiously. 'It's just a tramp,' Mitch said. They both relaxed.

'Who are we hiding from?' Lomax asked.

'I wish I knew.'

Lomax studied his face carefully. 'I think you know.'

Mitch said nothing.

'Look, Mitch, you're not paying me to get involved. I realize that. But my instincts tell me you're in trouble, and I think you need a friend, someone to trust. I can help, if you need me. I don't know who the bad guys