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afternoon.”
    “Very well.” He sort of waved in the direction of the viewing rooms.
    “I don’t suppose any other lawyers have stopped by,” Wally said.
    Grayber snorted and rolled his eyes. “Who knows? I can’t keep up with you people. We had a service last week for an illegal Mexican, got himself pinned under a bulldozer, used the chapel there,” he said, nodding at the chapel door. “We had more lawyers here than family members. Poor guy’s never been so loved.”
    “How nice,” Wally said. He had attended the service last week. Finley & Figg did not get the case. “Thanks,” he said and walked away. He passed the first viewing room—closed casket, no mourners. He stepped into the second, a dimly lit room, twenty feet by twenty, with a casket along one wall and cheap chairs lining the others. Chester was sealed up, which pleased Wally. He put his hand on the casket as if fighting back tears. Just he and Chester, sharing one last moment together.
    The routine here was to hang around for a few minutes and hope a family member or friend showed up. If not, then Wally would sign the register and leave his card with Grayber with specific instructions to tell the family that Mr. Marino’s lawyer stopped by to pay his respects. The firm would send flowers to the service and a letter to the widow, and in a few days Wally would call the woman and act as though she were somehow obligated to hire Finley & Figg because they had prepared the will. This worked about half the time.
    Wally was leaving when a young man entered the room. He was about thirty, nice looking, reasonably dressed with a jacket and tie. He looked at Wally with a great deal of skepticism, which was the way a lot of people initially viewed him, though this no longer bothered him. When two perfect strangers meet at a casket in an empty viewingroom, the first words are always awkward. Wally finally managed to state his name, and the young man said, “Yes, well, uh, that’s my father. I’m Lyle Marino.”
    Ah, soon-to-be owner of a nice collection of baseball cards. But Wally could not mention this. “Your father was a client of my law firm,” Wally said. “We prepared his last will and testament. I’m very sorry.”
    “Thanks,” Lyle said, and seemed relieved. “I can’t believe this. We went to the Blackhawks game last Saturday. Had a great time. Now he’s gone.”
    “I’m very sorry. So it was sudden?”
    “A heart attack.” Lyle snapped his fingers and said, “Just like that. He was at work Monday morning, at his desk, all of a sudden he started sweating and breathing hard, then he just fell on the floor. Dead.”
    “I’m very sorry, Lyle,” Wally said as if he’d known the young man forever.
    Lyle was patting the top of the casket and repeating, “I just can’t believe this.”
    Wally needed to fill in some blanks. “Your parents divorced about ten years ago, right?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Is your mother still in the city?”
    “Yes.” Lyle wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
    “And your stepmother. Are you close to her?”
    “No. We don’t speak. The divorce was ugly.”
    Wally suppressed a smile. A feuding family would run up his fees.
    “I’m sorry. Her name is …”
    “Millie.”
    “Right. Look, Lyle, I gotta run. Here’s my card.” Wally deftly whipped out a business card and handed it over. “Chester was a great guy,” Wally said. “Call us if we can help.”
    Lyle took the card and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He was staring blankly at the casket. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
    “Figg, Wally Figg.”
    “And you’re a lawyer?”
    “Yes. Finley & Figg, a small boutique firm with lots of business in all major courts.”
    “And you knew my father?”
    “Oh yes, very well. He loved to collect baseball cards.”
    Lyle took his hand off the casket and looked square into the shifty eyes of Wally Figg. “You know what killed my father, Mr. Figg?”
    “You said it was a