John Lescroart - The Vig

"And what'd you do? First you broke in." The face closed up. "Johnny, B and E is not murder either. I don't give a shit if you broke the door down."

"We had an appointment. He was supposed to be there."

"Okay."

"So I'm inside, there's this body. I know Mr Tortoni's getting no money here. It really pissed me off. I wanted to throw something, knock something down."

"So you grabbed the lamp?"

"Yeah. Threw it down. It didn't help much."

"You ever get it worked out, the anger?"

Johnny seemed to be remembering something. He let out a breath. "I guess that's why they invented pussy," he said.

Hardy remembered the days when he had been so into his work at the D.A.'s office, the hours passed unheeded trying to piece together something that didn't fit, deciding on an interrogation strategy, formulating an opening or closing statement. Thinking hard. Caring so damn much.

He stood at the door to Tony Feeney's office-the dress-for-success assistant D.A. who had hated Rusty Ingraham was lost in his own musings. He was half-turned back to the window, feet up on his desk, far away from anything that was happening in his here and now. Reluctant to pull him from the reverie, Hardy knocked.

The feet came down, a hand came out over the desk. Shaking it, Hardy said, "Dismas Hardy, from the other day."

"Sure, how you doin'?"

Hardy said he was starting to feel like a cop again, doing legwork.

"You ever get over to see Hector Medina?"

Hardy kept standing. He shook his head. "He's not a happy man."

Feeney settled back a little into his chair. "No. No, I don't suppose he is. Did you read about his latest…?"

"Yeah. It's interesting."

"Anything to do with him seeing you?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. He called Ingraham last week. Then this dog thing. Something seemed to get him going."

Feeney sat up. "He called Ingraham? No shit?"

"No shit." Hardy pulled over a metal chair and sat down. "But I wanted to ask you about something else you said the other day."

"I was playing poker…" Feeney held up his hands, smiling, making a joke. Then, "What did I say?"

"You were telling me about how Rusty got Hector Medina into all this. There was some woman, you said. Somebody he was trying to prove something with."

Feeney didn't even have to think about it. He nodded. "Karen Moore," he said. "But she can't fit into all this. She and Rusty were years ago."

"Everybody in this got connected years ago." Hardy brought him up to date on the Baker investigation, or lack of it. "Hey, nobody else is looking. This old stuff could be related, that's all."

Feeney nodded, popping a Life Saver. "That's not an entirely unreasonable theory, but it's still a hell of a long shot. You still going on the assumption Ingraham is dead?"

"Ingraham is dead."

"That's what you said last time."

Hardy sat back. "How come nobody seems to want to believe this guy is dead?"

"Oh, I want to believe it. It would enhance my inner peace to believe it. I would very much like him to be dead, but we like bodies. Missing bodies aren't neat."

Hardy knew what he was saying. The case against Baker rested on his motive for killing Ingraham. Not Maxine. And the D.A.'s job, without an official finding that Rusty was at least dead, would be to try Maxine's murder before a jury that might have a hard time believing Baker killed Maxine when he had no motive, didn't even know her. The alleged death of Ingraham would be irrelevant and inadmissible. If he killed her because she was around and in the way when he killed Ingraham, well, okay. But without Ingraham an official homicide, it would be a hard sell.

"I'm convinced Rusty's dead," Hardy said. "His blood was all over his barge. He fell overboard, got washed out in the bay." Now he was going after Louis, he realized. Never mind his other doubts, he had to play this straight…

"Maybe he's scared. Maybe he's hiding."

"And maybe he's fish food."

Feeney smiled. "I'll grant that. It's possible, maybe even likely. And you don't think it's Baker?"

Hardy gave it a second. "That's what's funny. If I'd gotten this case when I was working here-I mean just the file on Baker, leaving out the other suspects, I'd do a number on it. As Glitsky tells me when he's being real professional, all the elements are there. Except the body, of course."

"Not exactly a detail."

"Except that a good expert witness, someone exactly like myself, should be able to convince a jury that Rusty collapsed overboard and the tide took him out."

"Which is what you believe."

Hardy chewed his cheek. "That one I'm going with."

"Well, if you buy that Baker was there, which I guess you've got to, what's the problem?"

"I just can't seem to convince myself, absolutely, that he's all of it. Problem is, I seem to be one of the players, and I don't know what game it is. It makes me nervous."

Feeney nodded.

"So I thought I'd start over at the beginning. You'd said there was a woman involved-with Ingraham there always was…"

"Right."

"And there was Maxine Weir dead on his barge."

"From what you've told me, I'd start with her."

"Her husband, you mean?"

Feeney nodded. "The stats don't lie. Look to the spouse. Especially this case. Money, jealousy, the works. Why didn't Glitsky take him in?"

"Well, he may have had an alibi-I'm not sure if he mentioned it to Abe-but they also had Baker."

"Ah, yes, the convenient Baker."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Baker solves two outstanding homicides -three if you include Ingraham- and that's good for the department's numbers." He ran a finger through his thick hair. "It might not be laziness. On paper, Baker's a righteous suspect."

"But you don't think he's guilty?"

Feeney held up a hand. "I'm just playing devil's advocate. You can't have it both ways. If Ingraham's dead-and I'm not saying he's not-then Baker's a good bet. So is Maxine's husband. But if Ingraham's not dead, it opens a few other cans of worms."

"I'm sure he's dead. Maybe Baker did him, maybe Weir."

"You said Weir had an alibi."

"Maybe an alibi."

"So find out. Why waste your time with Karen Moore?"

"Maybe it goes all the way back to Medina. Why is he part of the action again just at this time?" Hardy saw the skeptical look, but pushed on. "Look, whatever's going on here began with Ingraham. He's the reason I'm in it. Medina, Baker, Ingraham, me. Something started nine years ago. If it leads me back to Maxine Weir, I'll get back to Ray's alibi."

"And you think Karen Moore may know something?"

Hardy shook his head. "I don't know. She might not know what she knows."

Karen Moore was an investigator for the district attorney's office, a jurisdiction separate from the regular police department. One of her colleagues told Hardy that she was down at Hunter's Point trying to bring in a juvenile witness. She would be back sometime that afternoon, but he couldn't say when.

He was back in the corridor now, just after lunch, and people were reentering courtrooms after the recess. The halls were crowded. Hardy walked to a phone booth and called Frannie at work.

"Are you still mad at me?" she asked.

"I wasn't. I just had to go out."

"Eddie said that before he went out. He got killed."

"I'm not Eddie, Frannie. And I didn't get killed."

"And you're still out."

"I am."

She was silent. "Are you going back to your house?"

"Eventually, I suppose."

"Tonight?"

Hardy thought about it. "I don't know. What would you like? I don't want to fight you about every time I walk out the door."

"I'd like you to come back tonight."

"You know I've got to keep doing this until it's figured out?"