Indemnity Only by Sara Paretsky

thick pancake. “Mr. McGraw is in conference and can’t be disturbed.” Her voice trembled. I felt like a creep—I couldn’t find a girl or a murderer, but I sure knew how to rough up middle-aged secretaries.
    McGraw’s office was soundproofed, but noise of the conference came into the antechamber. Quite a conference. I was about to announce my intention ofsitting and waiting when one sentence rose above the din and penetrated the rosewood door.
    “Goddamnit, you set my son up!”
    How many people could possibly have sons who might have been set up in the last forty-eight hours and be connected with the Knifegrinders? Maybe more than one, but the odds were against it. With the sausage curls protesting loudly, I opened the door into the inner office.
    Not as large as Masters’s, but by no means shabby, it overlooked Lake Michigan and a nice little private beach. At the moment it was none too peaceful. Two men had been sitting at a round table in the corner, but one was on his feet yelling to make his point. Even with his face distorted by anger I didn’t have any trouble recognizing the original of the picture in the Fort Dearborn Trust’s annual report. And rising to his feet and yelling back as I entered was surely my client. Short, squat without being fat, and wearing a shiny gray suit.
    They both stopped cold as they saw me.
    “What the hell are you doing in here!” my client roared. “Mildred?”
    Sausage curls waddled in, her eyes gleaming. “I told her you wouldn’t want to see her, but no, she has to come barging in like she’s—”
    “Mr. McGraw, I am V. I. Warshawski.” I pitched my voice to penetrate the din. “And you may not want to see me, but I look like an angel compared to a couple of homicide dicks who’re going to be after you pretty soon…. Hi, Mr. Thayer,” I added, holding outa hand. “I’m sorry about your son—I’m the person who found the body.”
    “It’s all right, Mildred,” McGraw said weakly. “I know this lady and I do want to talk to her.” Mildred gave me a furious look, then turned and stalked out, shutting the door with what seemed unnecessary violence.
    “Mr. Thayer, what makes you think Mr. McGraw set your son up?” I asked conversationally, seating myself in a leather armchair in a corner.
    The banker had recovered himself. The anger had smoothed out of his face, leaving it dignified and blank. “McGraw’s daughter was going out with my son,” he said, smiling a little. “When I learned my boy was dead, had been shot, I just stepped in to see if McGraw knew anything about it. I don’t think he set Peter up.”
    McGraw was too angry to play along with Thayer. “The hell you say,” he yelled, his husky voice rising. “Ever since Annie started hanging around with that whey-faced, North Shore pipsqueak, you’ve been coming around here, calling her names, calling me names. Now the kid is dead, you’re trying to smear her! Well, by God you won’t get away with it!”
    “All right!” Thayer snapped. “If that’s the way you want to play ball, that’s how we’ll play it. Your daughter—I saw the kind of girl she was the first time I set eyes on her. Peter never had a chance—innocent young kid, high ideals, giving up everything his mother and I had planned for him for the sake of a girl who’d hop into bed with—”
    “Watch what names you call my daughter,” McGraw growled.
    “I practically begged McGraw here to leash his daughter,” Thayer continued. “I might as well have saved my pride. This type of person doesn’t respond to any human feeling. He and his daughter had earmarked Peter for some kind of setup because he came from a wealthy family. Then, when they couldn’t get any money out of him, they killed him.”
    McGraw was turning purple. “Have you shared this theory with the police, Mr. Thayer?” I asked.
    “If you have, Thayer, I’ll have your ass in court for slander,” McGraw put in.
    “Don’t threaten me, McGraw,”