John Lescroart - The Vig

"I don't know. I guess I been afraid he'd accuse me of something again-trespass, I don't know. Something. It's his style. And I'm the right guy to do it to. People are lined up to believe bad shit about me."

Glitsky gave it a moment, finishing his beer. "But nothing about Ingraham?"

"I never said a word to him and that's God's truth."

Glitsky stood up, stretched out his back. "You know, Hector," he said, "you've been in this business so you know. There's a feeling you get when people aren't telling you everything. They may not be lying exactly, but there's something else happening."

"I never talked to him!"

Melanie jumped next to her father. He patted her leg and she leaned into him, staring now at Glitsky.

"That's what you said. For the record, though, do you remember where you were Wednesday night, three days ago?"

Medina didn't even have to think. Knew right off. "I worked a double shift that day, eight to four, four to midnight. It's in the log."

Glitsky nodded. "I'm sure it is."

Medina patted his daughter again, this time on the head. "Let's do the tires next, honey," he said. She jumped up and ran over to the bucket. "Look, I got this kid to raise. That's what I do. I lead a quiet life, keep out of trouble."

"But you went to Treadwell's."

Medina looked up at the white sky and drained his beer. "Hey, sometimes you gotta do something for your soul." He gestured around the hopeless plot. "You think this is enough?"

Abe took it in, nodded, and thanked Hector for his time.

Back on the freeway Glitsky opened his car windows and let the wind blow over him. Hector Medina talking about the good of his soul rang as true as ex-Interior Secretary Watt claiming a deep and abiding concern for the environment. And if talking to Treadwell was good for his soul, worth threatening the quiet life he had with his daughter, how much more satisfying would it be to have aced Rusty Ingraham? Now that would have been real good for the soul.

Of course the log said he had worked a double shift on Wednesday, so he had an alibi, but alibis were made to be broken. His name might be in the log, but Glitsky wondered if anybody had actually seen him. And even if they had, it wasn't a far stretch to imagine that a guy like Medina knew people who did bad things-either returning favors or for cash up front.

So now he had two out of three suspects with a reason to dust Ingraham. If only he could count on the fact of Rusty's death. And maybe Hardy would find something…

He guessed it all came down to the lab. If there were prints or hairs or fibers on the barge that belonged to Ray Weir, he'd have probable cause and go get the guy. On the other hand, what if they found evidence that Baker or Medina had been there? Then, even without a body, Glitsky had to admit that things started to look bad for Rusty Ingraham. And maybe for Hardy too.

When he had been released from prison, Louis Baker was given his two hundred dollars gate money. Buying the paint for Mama's place, the windows, some food, had run him $161.19 all told. And he'd given the Mama a ten for the tennis shoes. The bus ride home, this and that, had come to another ten, give or take some change, and breakfast this morning had been three and a half.

So he was down to fifteen bucks. And no place to stay, and still no gun.

It was different than it had been before he was sent down. Every pawnshop had bars on the windows now. He could see the thin tape around all the doors and windows with the alarm trip-wires, and although he'd always been able to pick a lock, he had never really been much of a B and E man. The technology made him cautious.

But the fact was he needed money, and he needed a weapon. He was not about to be brought back in, even for questioning. If they tried to take him back down, he'd take some of them with him. He was thinking about the wardens, about Ingraham, about Hardy, about all the people who'd done it to him. There might even be something fun about shooting it out, going out in a blaze. Quick and easy. And it sure wasn't shaping up that he was going to have much of a life on the outside.

It was a small liquor store. He'd been watching the traffic for about two hours, a small steady trickle of people in and out. There had been bars up across the windows before it opened, but now they were tucked back accordion-style on both sides of the front door.

Louis walked in out of the afternoon sunshine. He was pretty sure when he'd been outside, but once he was inside he was positive. The location was right. A white guy running a liquor store in this neighborhood ought to have a gun under the counter, but you couldn't always bet on it. But when you saw the National Rifle Association calendar over the cold cabinets you could start putting your money down.

He came in the door, saw the counter ran along the wall to his right about fifteen feet. The man was in his mid-fifties. He sat on a stool behind the register, and Louis nodded at him, friendly as you please, as he came in. He'd made sure the place was empty, but he hadn't gotten five feet inside the door when a police car pulled up out front and a guy in blue got out.

Shit.

Louis walked casually to the back left corner of the store. What he wanted was something long and relatively heavy. The cop went to the back, opened one of the cold shelves and stood looking at soft drinks.

You didn't want to start with the cop, especially with his partner out in the car. A lone guy, you could maybe get him from behind, put him down, but if he did that here the proprietor would probably shoot him, and if he didn't the partner would.

Louis kept scanning the shelves as though he were looking for something, thinking c'mon, c'mon, c'mon. Finally, the cop found his 7-Up or whatever cops drank and was at the counter.

He had to stall a minute or two, but he couldn't take very much longer without getting somebody suspicious. He reached into his pocket and made a pretense of counting his money. Showing he already had money, that was a good idea. Counting to see if he had enough to buy that special bottle of something.

He heard the register ring. Okay, it was time. He reached up to the top shelf and took down a bottle of Galliano. It was made for this kind of work.

But the cops were still there, parked right at the curb. Louis looked right at them. "Bright out there," he said.

The man turned his head and squinted a little. The cop in the passenger seat was lifting the can to his mouth. Louis saw a display of sunglasses at the other end of the counter. Come on, he kept thinking. Drive.

The man behind the counter had taken the bottle and was ringing it up. Louis put on a pair of shades, looking at himself in the mirror above the display. The cop was saying something to his partner, laughing. Goddamn, move.

"That all?" the proprietor said.

Louis left the pair of glasses on, reaching into his pocket for his money. The car outside made a clunk noise, dropping into gear, and Louis smiled. "I think the shades, too."

The man had put the bottle into a paper bag and Louis threw some bills on the counter, picking up the bottle.

The man leaned forward to pick up the money. "I don't think this is…" was as far as he got before Louis swung, hitting him over the left ear.

Before the man hit the ground Louis had vaulted over the counter. A snub-nose revolver hung by its trigger guard from a nail under the counter. There was a box of cartridges next to it on the shelf. Louis put the gun and the cartridges into his pants pocket, jabbed at the register until it opened and took out all the bills. He lifted the tray and found two hundreds and five fifties. He put a foot against the man's head on the floor and gave it a nudge. He was out cold and would not be waking up in the next thirty seconds, which was all Louis needed.