Final Option

people’s things made me feel like a thief. I was also worried, as my list of possible numbers grew, about how much patience the Bank of Bermuda was going to have for playing “is this the code number?” with me.
    With a sigh I took a seat behind Tim’s desk. Everywhere I looked there was the familiar red, white, and blue of Cubs memorabilia. On one corner of his desk he’d taped the team’s spring training schedule. In the margins he’d penciled the scores of the games that had already been played. In front of me lay a stack of material all related to an elaborate fantasy baseball league, of which Tim Hexter appeared to be commissioner. I opened the top middle drawer of his desk and began my search. For a moment I just stared. Stacked in one long, neat row, was an assortment of matchbooks—each from a different restaurant on the island of Bermuda.
    I sat for a moment, contemplating my own idiocy. Detective Ruskowski’s words rang in my ears. Lawyers—we take what’s easy and make it hard. Of course. Take my brains, boil them, mash them, and serve them with butter. Of course. It was Tim, the gofer, who had been making the runs to the Bank of Bermuda. Tim, the trusted nephew who’d been trusted with the joint accounts. I’d assumed it was Savage, but Tim made so much more sense. It would be hard for Savage to be away from the office for any length of time. Besides, Tim was family, and by all accounts Hexter believed in family loyalty.
    Family.
    I was so stupid. The police said that the only people with access to Hexter’s gun were members of his family. Elliott and I had assumed that meant his wife and three children. But Tim was his nephew. Mrs. Titlebaum had even told me that Tim went to Hexter’s house on Saturdays to drop off the final tally of the week’s trades. I had just been too stupid to put two and two together. Last Saturday Bart and Pamela had been on the golf course, but that didn’t mean that Tim hadn’t used the opportunity to go out to the house, remove the Deodar statements from Hexter’s briefcase, and take the gun from the drawer.
    My new theory explained so much—Hexter’s bad temper, his wanting to change his will. Presumably he’d decided to disinherit his nephew after he’d tried to transfer the funds to pay for Torey’s condominium and discovered that money had been siphoned from his account. No wonder Bart had gone home Friday complaining that everyone was trying to stab him in the back.
    I heard the click of the lock as the door handle turned.
    “Barton?” I called out, flushed with excitement at my discovery.
    The door opened.
    “Afraid not,” replied Tim grimly from the doorway.
     
    “Your secretary told me that you were in Bermuda yesterday. Did you have a nice trip?” he asked, coming around beside me. He sat on the edge of his desk, looking down at the still open drawer in front of me. He towered over me. In his hand was a hunting knife.
    I didn’t speak.
    “I hope you enjoyed yourself, since it’s probably the last trip you’ll be taking—well, the second to last.“
    “I’ve already called the police,” I lied. “They’re on their way here right now.”
    “I don’t think so,” replied Tim mockingly. “I think you’re bluffing. Once you’re out of the way my problems are over.”
    “You’re wrong,” I said with a growing sense of alarm. “Getting rid of me isn’t going to solve your problems. Whoever takes over my files will pick up right where I left off. You would be making a terrible mistake.”
    “By the time they figure out what’s happened to you, I’ll be long gone. There are a lot of places a man can hide with four million dollars—warm places, with palm trees. I’ll be thinking of your rotting corpse while I sit on the beach drinking pina coladas.”
    “I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough to steal from Hexter. How did you expect to get away with it?” I demanded, switching to the offensive. “I could tell you were a loser when you jumped me at the Merc. I bet you felt like a tough guy sitting there with blood in your mouth.”
    “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed.
    “And you rode to a murder on your bicycle,” I continued, keeping my eyes on the knife. “I bet the papers are going to have fun with that. You know the cops found your footprints by the road where you waited for Hexter. That’s the kind of physical evidence that killing me won’t change.”
    “Shut your stupid mouth.”
    “Everything you touch