Shadow of Death by William G. Tapply

you?”

    â€œSame reason you told me the tire got shot.”
    â€œTo convince you to do your duty,” he said. “Right. Well, so far, nothing. They haven’t dug into it yet. The M.E. hasn’t had a chance to look at what’s left of Gordie’s body. He always procrastinates with charred corpses, for some inexplicable reason. The tire was obvious, though, and all by itself it tells us this was murder. And that, by God, should be enough for you.”
    â€œRoger,” I said, “that is plenty for me. But I’m not the one who counts here. I will talk to my client again, given this new information. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, though. My client has very good reasons for wanting to preserve our confidentiality. Anyway, Cahill had lots of clients, plus I imagine he accumulated a goodly number of enemies over the years, probably going back to his undercover days with the state cops. Those mob families have long memories.”
    â€œYeah,” he said. “I’m looking into that angle. There’s too damn many suspects, actually. I just want to make sure I don’t overlook anybody.”
    â€œWhatever you come up with on your own is fair game, I guess,” I said. “But you can’t expect me to help you.”
    â€œI haven’t ever helped you?”
    I sighed. “Sure you have.”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œWhat did you find in his office?”
    Horowitz laughed sarcastically. “You kidding? Cahill was worse than you when it came to protecting his clients’ damn privacy. You’d think, an ex cop …”
    â€œI’ll talk to my client again,” I said. “That’s all I can do.”
    After we hung up, I tried Jimmy D’Ambrosio’s cell phone. His voice mail invited me to leave a message. I declined. I
figured he’d know what I wanted and take his time returning my call, if he ever bothered to. I’d keep trying.
    I swiveled around and turned on my computer. Having my own home computer was Evie’s idea, and I was still trying to get used to it.
    I checked my e-mail. A dozen or so new messages had come in since last time I looked. Charlie McDevitt, J. W. Jackson, Doc Adams. Fishing reports, probably, or maybe, even better, fishing invitations. I’d read them later.
    There were a couple of commercial solicitations, which I deleted without opening, and a short note from Joey, my younger son, reporting from Stanford, where he was a sophomore.
    Joey was a dutiful e-mailer, though his notes rarely amounted to more than Hi-I’m-fine-how-are-you.
    Billy, my older son, was a fishing guide and ski instructor in Idaho. He didn’t own a computer and, as far as I could tell, rarely even had access to a telephone.
    I read Joey’s letter. He was still fine. He liked his classes. He was writing for the school paper.
    I didn’t recognize the e-mail handle of the last message. When I opened it and saw who it was from, I got a shiver.
    Gordon Cahill. A message from a dead man. He’d written it at one o’clock Sunday afternoon. Less than twelve hours before he died.
    â€œThese two boll weevils, they’re brothers, they grow up in the cotton fields of Alabama,” his note began, without so much as a Dear Brady. “One of the boll brothers decides to head off to Hollywood and seek his fortune. The other one stays behind, eating cotton and making life miserable for the farmers. The first weevil becomes a famous movie star. The
second one doesn’t amount to a damn thing, and he’s known among his acquaintances as … Well, I’ll tell you what he’s known as when I see you tomorrow. I’m attaching some documents here for you. Look them over, and we can talk about them Monday morning. Don’t forget to bring coffee and muffins. And give some thought to those weevils.” He signed it “Gordie.”
    Damn you , I thought. The last thing you say to me in