“Thank you but, no, it’s not that.”

I closed my notebook and waited.

Forester shifted again. “Look, if something should happen to me, which of course it’s not going to, but if someone tries to…I don’t know…harm me, I want you to look into it.”

“What exactly are you talking about?” I said.

“I’m healthy as a horse.”

“Right, I know that.”

“It’s been three years since the heart attack, and you know everything I’ve done-how I’ve changed my eating, my exercising?”

“Right.”

“And this morning, I had a physical with my cardiologist. Stress test, EKG, the whole rigmarole. I passed with flying colors.”

“Good. I’m glad. So what do you mean about someone trying to harm you?”

Forester paused, which was unlike him. “I’ve had some problems at Pickett Enterprises. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been getting letters telling me I need to step down. That I’m too old for the job.”

“Sent by whom?” I said, indignant.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s a prank.”

“Possibly.” Another pause. “It’s just the damnedest thing.” Forester shook his head. “There’s also the matter of this homeless man. Twice outside Pickett I’ve been approached by a homeless gentleman.”

“And of course you gave him twenty bucks.” Forester could never pass up an opportunity to help someone on the street.

“Something like that. But he spoke to me. He said something disturbing.” Forester’s face, perennially sun-kissed from hours at golf courses and gardening, seemed to pale slightly. I noticed the lines crinkling his face. “He said to be careful. Otherwise I would join Olivia.”

I inhaled sharply. “Are you sure?”

Forester met my eyes. “Positive. The next time I saw him, I gave him money again, and he said the exact same thing.”

I crossed my hands on my desk and squeezed them together. Suddenly, I felt my youth. As Forester’s attorney, I was meant to advise him, but I had no idea what should or could be done. “Did you call the police?”

“No. There’s no crime. No extortion or anything.”

“We’ll get you a security detail then.”

Forester made a face. “Izzy, you know me better than that.” He cleared his throat and sat taller, as if throwing off the conversation.

“Then let’s call John Mayburn,” I said, referring to the private investigator the firm hired for big cases.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m handling this for now, and nothing is going to happen to me. I’m sure it’s all a coincidence.” He gave me the kind smile he was known for, and he changed the topic.

Since that conversation, I’d worried about Forester, but I did what he wanted, and I let him manage the situation. And now he was dead. I stared at his body covered by the hospital sheet.

“God, I can’t believe it,” Shane said, wiping his face. He took a step back. “Sorry about that, Izzy.”

“Don’t be.” I sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, then pushed the chair back a few feet. “What happened?”

“Annette made him dinner and left. But she forgot something and came back about forty-five minutes later and she found him. He was dead. Out on the patio.”

I put my hand to my mouth. Poor Forester. What had he gone through in those last moments? “What do the doctors say?”

“Heart attack. You know he had that heart attack a few years ago?”

“Yeah, but he had the angiogram after that and he’s been so diligent about everything-his diet, the medications, the Chinese herbs, the exercise.”

“You know about all that?”

“Your dad and I were close.”

Shane nodded. “He thought of you like a daughter.”

“I also know that he had a stress test a few weeks ago.”

Shane looked surprised. “He did?”

“And an EKG. And he was told everything was fine.”

“Well, I know if you’ve had a heart attack once, it can happen again.”

“I guess.”

We both looked at the covered form on the bed. I felt an intense urge to cry. I took a huge breath. “Shane, why is he still here? I mean, the body. Shouldn’t they take him out or something?”

“They will. Any minute. We’re just waiting.” He laughed, a raw sound. “I guess I’m just waiting. He’s not really here anymore is he?”

“Will they do an autopsy?” I asked.

“They say they have to.”

“Good.” My mind raced. Had someone hurt Forester or was it as tragically simple as Shane had suggested and just another heart attack?

Shane slumped forward, shaking his head back and forth.

“Shane, are you okay?”

He righted himself and nodded.

“Has anyone been here with you?”

“Walt just left to start calling people.”

“Good.” “Walt” was Walter Tenning, the chief financial officer of Pickett Enterprises and the most efficient of men.

“I called my aunts and uncles,” he said, “but they all live down south. They’re coming in tomorrow.”

It seemed incongruous that Forester, a man who was loved by everyone he touched, would have so few people at his deathbed. I couldn’t believe that Forester-wonderful Forester who had done so much for so many-was gone. He’d given both Sam and me our careers, and Sam had always said Forester had been the best teacher, not just about business, but about life.

“Where’s Sam?” Shane asked, as if reading my thoughts.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I thought about making up an excuse for my fiancé. But nothing came.

“I don’t know,” I said to Shane. “I have no idea where Sam is.”

8

After Forester’s body had been taken away, Shane and I hugged one last time in front of the hospital, and I went to my place in Old Town. I lived on Eugenie Street, in a brick three-flat converted to condos. I had bought the top unit, mostly because it gave me the rooftop deck with the city view, while the other owners had to make do with a balcony or patio. The downside was the three-flight walk up. Those stairs had never seemed so long as they did the day Forester died.

When I finally reached the landing and began to push open my door, I felt a twinge of optimism peek its head through my grief. Maybe Sam was here. He had spent less and less time at his place in Roscoe Village lately, and in a few short months, after our holiday wedding, he’d be living here officially.

But the place was dark, and over the kitchen bar top, I saw Sam’s orange coffee mug, sitting at the side of the sink where he’d left it that morning. Now the kitchen was bathed in a cold pool of moonlight that filtered through the window. Where was he?

The only upside to not finding Sam was that I didn’t have to tell him about Forester’s death. Forester meant the world to him and he would take this news hard.

I turned on the overhead lights and stared around the condo. The polished pine floors and the marble turn-of-the-century fireplace with its bronze grate had seemed cozy when we left this morning. Now the place felt cold. I called Sam’s two closest friends. Neither had heard from him that night. I called Sam again. It went right to voice mail without even ringing. Had his battery died or had he turned off his phone? If he had turned it off, then why? My head reeled with possibilities-an accident, a robbery, a sudden all-encompassing desire to scare the living shit out of me?

I tried his home phone once more, then the office again. I repeated the process five more times. Insanity is sometimes defined as repeating the same action over and over again, expecting a different result. I pondered this as I dialed Sam one more time.

Then a new thought hit me-it was Tuesday night, which meant the Chicago Lions rugby team practiced tonight, which meant the team would be out boozing at this moment. Sam had taken this season off, in preparation for the wedding, something that had drawn merciless taunting from his teammates. But maybe sweet, responsible Sam had flipped under the pressure. The team didn’t usually go out after practice, but maybe they’d headed to McGinny’s Tap, their favorite post-game hangout. Maybe Sam had gotten loaded, and maybe he was even cheating on me with one of the women who chased around the team.