Free Critical Mass by Sara Paretsky

to pimps for a single pipe of crack. It’s not the only reason I left the public defender’s office, but it was high on the list.
    Kossel said, “If I look at the basement, there’s something you can do for me. See if you can find any of Ricky’s old pals in Chicago, see if someone up there wanted him dead. I’ve got my eye on a couple of rival dealers down here, but they all have pretty good alibis for when Ricky likely was shot.”
    So that was why the sheriff had called, all cooperative with a private eye in a way the law usually isn’t. “I’ve been hoping I could get through the rest of my life without looking at another drug user,” I said.
    “Told you you’d seen your share of scumbags,” he mocked.
    “How about we trade? I’ll get a hazmat suit and rake through that garbage pit in Ricky’s backyard, and you come up here and start hanging out with local drug dealers.”
    “Big-city gal like you can’t handle a little heat? Just wear a bulletproof vest and make sure your will is up-to-date and you’ll be fine.” The sheriff laughed heartily and cut the connection.
    He called back a second later. “Ricky’s short for Derrick, not Richard.”
    I drew little circles on my desk with my forefinger. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to let other people move their problems into the center of my stage. I did not care who killed Derrick Ricky Schlafly. I did not care what had become of Judy Binder. My only involvement in the Binder world was to give Kitty sixteen hours of hunting for her grandson.
    I turned back to my own investigative issues. It was when I’d made my third mistake, confusing a bookstore’s problems with those of a completely unconnected yoga center, that I realized Martin Binder’s face was coming between me and my clients.
    Kitty Binder had mentioned a boy who’d been Martin’s high school friend. She was one of the more unreliable narrators I’d listened to indecades of hearing dubious stories, but if she was telling something close to a fact, I could find him.
    I hadn’t made any notes when I was with Kitty, but the friend’s name had made me think of television. Not David Sarnoff or Aaron Spelling. David Susskind. Martin’s friend was something Susskind. Toby.
    I found three Susskinds in the Skokie area. LifeStory, another subscription search engine, came up with a family that included a Tobias the same age as Martin. They also had a daughter three years older and another son starting high school. Jeanine Susskind was a social worker with the Cook County Department on Aging; her husband, Zachary, worked for a big accounting firm.
    It was almost six now. I reached Jeanine at home, but she was not going to share any confidential information with a stranger on a phone.
    “I think you’re wise, ma’am,” I said, wishing she weren’t. “Can we meet for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine this evening? Martin Binder has disappeared, and I’d like to talk to someone who knows him. Kitty Binder said your son and Martin are friends.”
    I heard grease sputter: Jeanine had the phone tucked between head and neck while she stirred something into a pan. Mushrooms and broccoli, I imagined, feeling suddenly hungry.
    There was a muffled conversation in the background. Jeanine came back on the phone and asked for more information, first about Martin, then about me. After another consultation, she decided I could come to their house when they’d had supper. She wasn’t enthusiastic, but who could blame her—a strange woman claiming to be a private eye, wanting to talk to her son, calling at the end of a long workday—I wouldn’t be enthusiastic, either.
    I had about two hours to get home, walk the dogs, and eat my own mushroom broccoli surprise. Instead, I picked up the phone and dialed an old friend at the public defender’s office. Stefan Klevic had stayed on long after the rest of us gave up in despair.
    Stefan wasn’t any more excited than Jeanine Susskind at hearing from me.