Rough Trade by Gini Hartzmark

office-induced pallor of my skin stood out in stark relief against the mass of my dark hair, giving my face a haggard look I found depressing. I sighed and slipped gratefully into the bathrobe, telling myself that it was going to get worse before it got better. I picked up the telephone from the bedside table and dragged the cord across the room to the overstuffed chaise and dialed my office to pick up my voice mail. There were calls from all of the usual suspects, including a half a dozen messages from one or the other of the Brandts. I was also half expecting a message from Stephen Azorini saying that he was bailing out of our meeting with the decorator that was set for tomorrow, but I was disappointed. Although I’d made enough of an issue out of it for him to be there, this time I actually found myself wishing for one of his hurried excuses on the tape. With everything else that was going on, wallpaper was the absolute farthest thing from my mind.
    I hung up the receiver and hugged the telephone to my chest for a minute before punching in the other number. No matter how many times I told myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I still always felt guilty for calling Elliott. I couldn’t help it. I’d spent the last three years trying to deny that there was anything more than a professional relationship between us. Of course, now that I had no cases he was working on and we were still on the phone a couple of nights a week, the fiction was getting harder to maintain.
    Elliott is the other man in my life, the one that I am not moving in with. He’s a former prosecutor and an exmarine who struck out on his own as a private investigator and has built a thriving business specializing in the investigation of white-collar and financial crimes. In Chicago, a city filled with experts, he is simply the best there is. He has also never made any secret of how he feels about me. I am the one who is confused, who alternately rushes toward him and then pulls away.
    “Are you okay?” he asked at the sound of my voice. It was his standard greeting.
    “Why do you always assume I’m in some sort of trouble?” I demanded.
    “Because you usually are. Where are you? I just called your apartment a couple of minutes ago and got the machine.”
    “I’m in Milwaukee. Beau Rendell died this afternoon.
    He was—”
    “He was the owner of the Milwaukee Monarchs,” cut in Elliott. “I know that because I have a Y chromosome. Is there anybody that you don’t know?”
    “Are we talking domestic or foreign?”
    “I’m serious. How do you know the Rendells?”
    “My friend Chrissy is married to his son.”
    “Who is now the new owner of the Monarchs. They’re saying on the news that he died of a heart attack. They just did a piece on him on SportsCenter. When’s the funeral?”
    “I don’t know yet. It’ll probably be in a couple of days. In the meantime you’ll be thrilled to know that you are now speaking to the new attorney for the Milwaukee Monarchs football team.”
    “Wow. I’m impressed. Can I ask you something?”
    “Ask away.”
    “What the hell do you know about football?”
    “What the hell do I know about doing a striptease?” I countered. “That hasn’t stopped me from representing Tit-Elations. Business is business.”
    “Have you had a lot of reporters?” he asked, as if he were inquiring about an infestation of roaches or any other kind of pest.
    “Not too bad. Of course, we’ve gotten a million calls, but we haven’t found anybody going through the trash yet.”
    “You will.”
    “Why? What have you heard?”
    “Nothing. But that’s not going to make any difference.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s human nature. For some reason people don’t seem to be able to accept that famous people die just like everybody else. We expected extraordinary things from them in life, and that’s what we want from them in death. Dropping dead from a heart attack is just too ordinary. Americans think