Hardy left the jail shaken and confused. When he’d gone in to visit Maya, a February ball of pale egg yolk in the western sky was still dripping its feeble light onto the city. When he came out, his head still pounding, it was full night, and that added to his disorientation. The neighborhood around the Hall of Justice felt more than ordinarily bereft of humanity, but the emptiness seemed to go deeper.
A cold, hard wind was kicking up a heavy, dirty dust along with fast food wrappers from the gutters. Hardy had a walk of a few blocks ahead of him to get to where he’d parked his car, but when he got to Bechetti’s, the traditional comfort-food Italian place at Sixth and Brannan, he stopped long enough to consider going inside and having himself a stiff cocktail or two—although he knew it was a bad idea when you were in the first days of a murder trial.
Reason won out.
But he hung a left and walked a hundred yards down the street and knocked at a purple door set in the side of a gray stucco warehouse and waited about ten seconds in front of the peephole until the door opened and then he was looking at Wyatt Hunt.
“Trick or treat,” he said.
Hunt didn’t miss a beat. “I hope you like Jelly Bellies. That’s all I’ve got left.” He opened the door and stepped back. He was wearing black Nike-logo running pants and tennis shoes and a tank-top Warriors shirt and there was a shine to his skin as though he’d been working out. He certainly lived in the right place for it.
He’d converted an ancient decrepit flower warehouse into a one-of-a-kind environment. The ceiling was probably twenty feet high. The back third he’d dry-walled off into his living quarters—bedroom, bathroom, den/library, and kitchen. Which left an enormous open area, perhaps sixty by eighty or ninety feet, in front. Hardy had been here a few times before but every time was surprised by the fact that Hunt parked his Mini Cooper inside his domicile, just this side of the industrial slide-up garage-door entrance in the same wall as the front door. The other unique feature was the actual half-basketball-court floorboard Hunt had bought from the Warriors the last time they’d upgraded, for the fire sale price of four thousand dollars.
In the space between the court and his rooms on the other side of the court, he had several guitars, both acoustic and electric, out on stands. Amps, speakers, his stereo system. There was also a desk against the wall with a couple of computer terminals glowing with beach-themed screen savers.
But Hardy hadn’t gotten too far inside before Hunt called out, “You might as well come out now. I think the jig’s up,” and Gina Roake—barefoot, wet hair, running shorts, blue Cal sweatshirt—appeared from the back rooms, holding up a hand in greeting, a sheepish smile on her face. “Yo,” she said.
“Yo yourself,” Hardy replied. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. If this isn’t a good time . . .”
“Half hour ago,” Gina said, no shilly-shallying around, “wouldn’t have been a good time. Now the timing’s fine.”
“You can still have those Jelly Bellies if you want,” Hunt said, “but I think I’m good for a beer if you’d rather go in that direction.”
“If you’re going to twist my arm,” Hardy said.
“I’m starting to think she might actually be crazy.” Hardy, with his beer, was sitting on one of the tan stressed-leather easy chairs in the den—lots of books and magazines, CDs and DVDs, on built-in white shelves and a large TV. “Now she wants us to go after the killer.”
“Us?” Hunt asked. “With our huge investigating team and unlimited resources?”
“That’s kind of what I told her,” Hardy said.
Gina, next to Hunt, said, “I thought she was factually guilty.”
“Didn’t she tell you she did it?” Hunt asked. “I thought I’d heard that.”
“Not in so many words, but she never really denied it, and then she’s been acting all along like if she’s convicted, she deserves it. Not exactly an overt confession, but . . .” Hardy sipped from his bottle. “Anyway, so today she tells me she wasn’t with Levon and Dylan on the robbery either. Though maybe it was another one.”
“Another robbery?” Gina asked. “A different one?”
“Again ambiguous, but apparently.”
“Well, then,” Gina asked, “what would they have been blackmailing her about?”
“I asked her that. She said God was testing her.”
That struck Hunt funny. “Not just her,” he said.
Hardy nodded. “Tell me about it. So then she tells me she can’t believe I think she did this stuff. I mean, here we are almost a half year into this, and suddenly not only don’t we have what she’s being blackmailed about anymore, or what we thought it was, but now she wants us to find who really did these guys.”
“She’s trying to play you,” Gina said.
“That’s what I thought too. Maybe still think. I don’t know. But what’s in it for her if she plays me? What? She proves I’m gullible? So what? How’s it help her?”
Hunt cleared his throat. “This may be the obvious answer, and I’m not a lawyer of course and maybe don’t see the nuances like you two do, but if he or she does exist, and you find whoever it is, doesn’t that get her off?”
Hardy was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, and his shoulders sagged. “In other words,” he said, “what if she’s not playing me?”
Hunt shrugged. “It’s a thought.”
“Okay,” Gina said. “But why’d this just come up?”
“Didn’t you tell me Diz brought it up today at trial? The other dude. Maybe it’s the first time she actually thought about that option as something we could do.”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing, Wyatt,” Hardy said. “You know this whole evidence problem we’re dealing with anyway? Same holds true if there’s another suspect, even a guilty one, hanging out in the bushes. The thing I hate about this, because it’s true, is that Maya’s got not one, but two, great motives. She was at both places. And, I don’t know, if any of us were being blackmailed for ten years, we might have gotten pretty tired of it ourselves.”
“Definitely,” Gina said, “I would’ve cleaned their clocks a long time ago. And I wouldn’t have left any evidence either.”
“That’s my girl.” Hunt punched her gently on the leg. “Remind me to destroy those secret videos of us I’ve been taking.” Then, to Hardy, “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. If she’s telling me now, point blank, she didn’t do it, I’m still not sure if I need that to get her off. I just cannot see this evidence convicting her, not in this city.”
“Well”—Gina was going to add her two cents—“all other things being equal, Diz, I’d normally agree with you. But you’ve got the Kathy and Harlen connection . . .”
“There’s no evidence about them, either, and that’s—”
“Wishful thinking,” Gina said. “That is wishful thinking.”
“What is?”
“That you’re obviously thinking some evidence standard is going to apply, either to Maya in the trial or to Harlen and Kathy and Maya’s husband on all the forfeiture stuff. But, as you so eloquently noted in your opening today, this is not about evidence. And I’m not just talking the trial, I’m talking the whole megillah. Stier makes the case, even subversively, that the reason there’s no evidence is because Maya’s got friends in high places who have all the means and power to get rid of evidence, and guess what? She goes down. And them sitting there, the mayor, Harlen—nice show of confidence and all—but it’s not helping your client. And it sure as hell isn’t impressing Braun, who undoubtedly and maybe truthfully sees it as intimidation.”
“I love it when she gets all riled up,” Hunt said.
But Hardy wasn’t in the mood to laugh about it. “So your point is?”
“My point,” Gina said, “is if you’ve got any chance at all of finding at least a living, breathing human being to introduce as the famous other dude, I’d pull out all the stops trying to find him.”
“With no evidence?�
� Hardy asked. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Well, on that,” Hunt said, “I might have an idea.”
24
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Wayne Ticknor told his daughter Jansey.
With her bitten-to-the-quick index fingernail she picked at a little dried blob of ketchup on her kitchen table. The digital clock on the stove read 10:17. “That’s easy for you to say, Daddy. You’re not going to be testifying.”
“True. But they’ve already told you everything they were going to be asking you about, haven’t they? Coached you, even.”
“I know. But what if they don’t just stick to that?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Maybe they want to get me on the weed too. I mean, they mentioned that enough. Wasn’t I living off the proceeds? Wasn’t I helping with the business?”
“I thought they guaranteed they wouldn’t. Wasn’t that part of the deal?”
“Well, it wasn’t actually a real deal. More like I was just made to understand that if I could help them, they’d help me.”
“By keeping you out of the dope side of it?”
“I guess. Yeah. I can’t really deny that I knew about it.” She pouted and blew out a breath. “Or the defense guy? What if once I’m up there he starts getting into stuff about me and Robert? I mean, if people know about that, it’s going to look like we got together pretty soon after Dylan. And then, if they find out it was before too . . .”
“How would anybody find that out?” her father asked.
“I don’t know.”
“And even if they did, then what?”
“Then they might start putting it together that Dylan was hitting me. So here’s a guy who’s hitting me that I’m also cheating on. You see what I’m saying? It wouldn’t look good.”
“Yeah, but, honey, listen. They knew that already and they didn’t charge you or Robert with anything, did they? They charged Maya Townshend. They got her gun.”
“Okay, but everybody knows Dylan just took that from the shop.”
“I don’t think the cops do know that, hon. And I don’t think I’d volunteer it.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to volunteer anything.” Suddenly, running on nerves, she stood up, went over to the sink, wet a sponge, and brought it back to wipe and scour the table—the dried ketchup, a few days’ worth of coffee-mug stains, some petrified oatmeal. “It just worries me,” she said. “That’s all.”
“Well, it’s natural to be worried.”
She stood there squeezing the sponge. “I just don’t want them to see how good a thing it was, really, Dylan being killed. I know you shouldn’t say that about the dead, but . . .”
Wayne’s eyes went black. “You can say anything you want about him to me. You know that. He couldn’t have been gone soon enough.” Then, with an outward calm, he went on. “They will never in a million years think that you had anything to do with it. Plus, you’ve got Robert and you saying you were both here the whole morning. You’re not a suspect to anybody, hon. And you couldn’t ever be. So just answer the questions you know the answers to and leave the rest of it alone. How’s that sound?”
She lowered herself onto her chair, letting out a breath. “It sounds like a plan, Daddy. I’ll just try to keep remembering that.”
“You do that,” Wayne said, reaching out and putting a hand over hers on the table. “Now, how are you fixed for money lately?”
She gave him a weak smile. “Okay. I’ve been talking to the insurance guy. I got the feeling they were waiting for Maya to get convicted. When that happens, they won’t have any excuse left not to pay me. So we ought to get the check soon after that.”
“After they convict her? Just to rule you out? He didn’t say that.”
“Kind of. Not that anybody thinks . . .” She let the phrase hang in the room. “He just says if they’ve got the choice, having somebody else convicted makes it cleaner.”
“You’d think somebody else getting arrested would be enough.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not, though.” She pulled her hand out from under his and sat back in her chair, gripping the sponge in the other hand as though it were a tension ball. “I’d bet a lot from what he’s told me that no matter what, they’re going to wait until she’s convicted. On the chance that she might not be convicted, and then it would still be possible that it was me.”
“It was you who what?”
“You know. Killed Dylan.”
“I can’t believe he would actually say that.”
“Not exactly, no. But it’s what it feels like to me.”
Her father’s face closed down. He sat square to the table, fists clenched, glowering. “You got the insurance guy’s name? Maybe I’ll go and have a talk with him.”
But Jansey shook her head. Her father had had a “talk” with Dylan and it hadn’t helped at all. “You don’t have to do that. I don’t think it’s him personally. It’s like the company policy, that’s all.”
“You might be surprised,” Wayne said. “They tell you it’s company policy and then you find out they’re just trying to get a bonus or brownie points or whatever by denying benefits until the last possible moment and even then some.”
“Well, Daddy, I don’t think this is like that. He seems like a nice man.”
“Everybody thought your Dylan was a nice man too.”
She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”
“Well, no, nothing’s the same, really. But I bet I could talk your insurance company nice man into rethinking his position, or his company policy, or whatever it is.”
“I don’t think . . . I mean, I appreciate you trying to help me, but I don’t think I need it yet with the insurance.”
Wayne took a few breaths, relaxed his fists, and laid his palms flat on the table. “You didn’t think you needed it with Dylan either.”
“Well, as you say, that was different.”
“Maybe not so different, though. Somebody taking advantage of your good nature, thinking they can get away with anything. But I look at you, I see the hurt in your eyes, the hurt in your life . . .”
“It’s not all hurt. There’s good things too. Ben, and now Robert—”
“But no promises from Robert, yet, either.”
She shook her head. “Let’s not go there again, Daddy. It’s a little soon for promises. He’s still in med school. And he doesn’t treat me at all like Dylan did—”
“He’d better not.”
“He doesn’t, and for now that’s enough, okay? Please.”
Wayne reached out and again covered his daughter’s hand with his own. His voice, rather suddenly, was husky with emotion. “I just see what you’ve been through already. And now here’s another guy who’s essentially living with you and no talk of marriage or responsibility. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why you let yourself get in these situations.”
“This one isn’t bad. I promise.” And repeated, “I promise, Daddy.”
He let out a lungful of air. “All right, if you really think that. And you’re okay with money? You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Dylan left a lot of cash. I’m using that.”
“Drug money.”
“Probably.”
“You know, if you’re spending that to live on and you’ve got no claimed income, the IRS might ask you how you’re doing that. Maybe you should start thinking about a way to claim it.”
“I’m sure. Come on, don’t worry. I’m not spending that much. It’s not like I’m out blowing wads of dollars living high on the hog. All I do is buy groceries and stuff. And the IRS isn’t going to care about somebody like me. I mean, we’re talking probably less than ten thousand dollars.”
This was untrue, and said to palliate her father. In fact, Dylan had put away close to two hundred thousand dollars and they kept it—literally—in a secret place under a couple of loose boards in the crawl space under the house. She checked to make sure it was still th
ere every single night, and several times every day. And no one, not even Robert, knew of the money’s existence. But one thing she’d told her father was true—she wasn’t worried about cash.
“You’ve got that much lying around the house? Do you know how dangerous that could be?”
This finally brought a warm smile. “Daddy,” she cooed at him, “you ought to be a shrink.” She lifted her father’s hand and brought it up to her lips. “When you got over here, I was the one all worried about everything. Now it’s all you. So now I’ll tell you. You don’t have to worry. Not about Robert, or the insurance guy, or money or the IRS. Everything’s going to be fine. I promise. I really promise.”
Craig Chiurco pulled himself up so that his bare back leaned against the headboard of his queen-sized bed. “Maybe I should just find another line of work.”
Tamara, pulling a green silk bathrobe around her as she came out of the bathroom, stopped in her tracks. “Let’s see. Man makes love to his incredibly beautiful and sexually exotic girlfriend, rolls over, and, lost in the afterglow, says he wants to change jobs. The girlfriend is a) bemused, b) confused, or c) flattered? Hint, it’s not ‘c.’ ”
“I didn’t mean it had anything to do with us.”
“Though, as you might have noticed, we work out of the same office, and quitting your job would be more or less leaving me.”
“It’s not you.”
She made a show of turning around, checking the corners of the room. “Is there someone else here I’m missing that you were talking to?”
“No.”
“Good. Okay, that’s settled. So why do you want to change jobs?”
“I was just thinking about this Townshend thing. So far, I’ve embarrassed Hardy and Wyatt by showing up on Vogler’s list, and my total contribution to Maya’s case has been to confirm the worst piece of evidence connecting her to Levon’s murder. It was tons of fun telling the boss, ‘Yep, that’s her. She’s the one I saw there.’ Maybe I’ll become a vet. No, wait, I hate animals.”
“If your girlfriend thought you really hated animals, she would start seeing other men.”
Hardy 13 - Plague of Secrets, A Page 22
