Dead Man's Rule by Rick Acker Page A

ten o’clock last night and had headed out the door again at six forty-five that morning. He was beginning to feel it. “Maybe the big-firm life wasn’t so bad after all,” he muttered as he rubbed his eyes and yawned.
    He got up and walked over to the coffeemaker in the file room. The pot held about two inches of poisonous-looking black sludge. “Oops!” said a voice from behind him. “Would you like me to make a fresh pot?”
    Ben turned and saw Susan Molfino, his office manager/receptionist/secretary/file clerk, bustling in, nearly hidden by a large stack of folders. Susan was a tiny and tirelessly perky woman with the energy of a toddler on espresso. She never drank coffee and therefore didn’t always keep as close an eye on the coffeemaker as she should. She was an otherwise-outstanding employee, however, so Ben and Noelle forgave this flaw—though Ben in particular occasionally suffered for it. Fortunately, there was a good coffee shop less than a block away, and it was open late.
    “That’s okay,” said Ben as he flipped off the machine and poured the syrupy mess into the sink. “I’ll just go down to the Mud Hole. I could use a little fresh air anyway.”
    On his way out of the office, Ben stuck his head into Noelle’s doorway and saw that she was back at her desk. “Hey, I’m about to make a Mud run. Want to come with?”
    She looked up from a pile of financial printouts and smiled. “Sure. I haven’t seen you all day.”
    The Mud Hole had only three small tables, but it did a brisk takeout business among Chicagoans who knew their coffee. The two brothers from Seattle who ran the place were as passionate and expert in the art of making caffeine-based drinks as any sculptor or painter was at his art. They had even built a hot-sand pit in the back of their kitchen to make true Turkish and Greek coffee. “Hello, Ben. Hello, Noelle,” said Brett, the younger brother, as the Corbins walked in. “What would you like this afternoon?”
    “I’ll have a decaf mocha,” said Noelle.
    “And I’ll have a double Turkish Hammer,” said Ben.
    “That’ll keep you up until midnight,” Noelle warned. “Or is that the point?”
    Ben sighed. “I’ve got a mediation statement due tomorrow in the Bock case, and I haven’t even started it. It’s going to be another long night for me.”
    “That’s two in a row, Ben. Is it going to let up anytime soon?”
    He shook his head. “I’m overcommitted this month. It seems like I’ll be spending half my time on Circuit Dynamics , half on Ivanovsky , and half on all my other cases.”
    “Do you need to head back to the office?”
    “Not quite yet. Something just happened that I’d like your thoughts on. Are you up for a quick walk in Grant Park?”
    “Sure,” said Noelle, looking at him with curiosity. “I’ve been stuck inside all day.”
    Grant Park is a long strip of green between downtown Chicago and the lakefront. It’s bordered on the north by a cluster of upscale apartment buildings, on the south by Soldier Field, and on the west by the business district. To the east are the wide waters of Lake Michigan. The park is a favorite spot for joggers, bikers, open-air-concert organizers, and anyone who wants to escape from the constant rush of business in the Loop. As Ben and Noelle turned from the crowded sidewalk onto a quiet, maple-lined path, Noelle turned to Ben and said, “Okay, so what’s up?”
    Ben described his conversations with Elena and Dr. Ivanovsky. “And now I know why he’s ‘a person of interest’ to the FBI. He’s hiding something, but I’m not sure what,” he concluded.
    They walked along in silence for several seconds, the fallen leaves crunching under their feet. “Well, do you think he’s hiding something problematic?” Noelle asked.
    Ben shrugged. “He doesn’t have a lot of guile, so I think I can generally tell when he’s lying to me. I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth about why he doesn’t want to talk