John Lescroart - A Plague of Secrets

“We don’t know,” Bracco said. “If we’ve got a blackmail situation, that’d be something we’d be forced to consider.”

Schiff expanded on the theme. “It might have just been an ongoing thing covered in his salary. So it wasn’t like she was paying him every month out of her own cash.”

“Even the ninety wasn’t enough,” Jansey said. “It was only sixty after taxes, you know. Why do you think he needed to sell weed? If he was blackmailing her, he could have just asked for a raise, and she would have had to give it to him, right?”

“Maybe,” Bracco said. “But also maybe she told him she was at the limit, she couldn’t or wouldn’t go any higher. Her husband wouldn’t let her, I don’t know, something. Did he tell you he wanted to ask her for more money recently? Something that would have made him a danger to her again?”

“He always wanted more money.” She looked across from one of them to the other. “You’re right, though, about him not being afraid of her, or of losing the job.”

“But he never talked about why?” Schiff asked.

“The most he ever said was that she owed him.”

“There you go.” Bracco leaned forward. “Did he say what she owed him for?”

For a second she appeared to think about it. “It wasn’t like we really ever talked about it,” she said. “Once or twice he might have said something like, ‘She won’t fire me. She owes me her life.’ But that was just Dylan being dramatic. She owed him her life. I’m sure.”

“If that’s a grieving woman,” Bracco said as soon as they were rolling in their car again, “I’m the shah of Iran.”

“I don’t think there’s been a shah in Iran for a few years, Darrel.”

“Lucky for me,” Bracco replied. “And I don’t really want a leadership role in Iran anyway. Just think about it, no booze, no women. Talk about dull parties. I can’t even imagine what the inaugural ball must be like. But I wasn’t so much talking about Iran as the grieving part. If those two don’t have something going on, they will soon, don’t you think?”

“If body language talks, it’s already happening. And the little kid’s gone every morning for four hours when Tripp’s home. I’m tempted to give them fifteen minutes and go back and catch them in the act. Then we’ll at least have caught the future Dr. Tripp in a lie, and it might lead to something else, like their meshing alibis.”

“You think it might have been them together?”

“I think that if they’re an item, and let’s pretend they are, they both wouldn’t mind seeing Dylan dead.”

“Why wouldn’t she just have left him?”

Schiff, driving, thought for a while. “This isn’t a complete list, but offhand here are the first reasons that occur to me. Because of the beatings he had power over her. Two, Ben was Jansey and Dylan’s kid together. Or maybe Tripp wasn’t that serious, just some recreational sex while the old man was at work. Then, finally, Dylan brought in the money and lots of it, where Tripp’s a destitute student. That enough?”

“It’ll get us started, Debra. In fact, assuming Tripp and her are serious, killing Dylan’s a solution to three of their problems, maybe even all four if Tripp’s good for taking over the father role. But I’ll tell you something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m getting sick of all this theorizing. You ever get tired of people lying to you?”

“No. It’s my favorite. But who this time?”

“Jansey.”

“You think she knows what the blackmail’s about?”

“You don’t? She’s lived with the guy for like five or six years and doesn’t know something that basic to Dylan’s work? To their whole situation? If Dylan was blackmailing Maya, she might have known about it, might have even been part of it.”

“Might might might.”

“I know. I agree. And if she-Jansey-and Dylan were in cahoots on that, where does that take us?”

“It gives her less of a motive to shoot him, if that’s their business together. And that puts Maya back square in the middle of the picture.”

“Except if Jansey’s really in love with Tripp and wants out with Dylan.”

“So we’ve got Maya alone? Or Jansey alone? Or Jansey and Tripp together? Or a random shooter out for a stroll?”

“I’m not leaning toward random shooter.”

“No, me neither.”

The two inspectors rode along in silence for a couple of blocks, until at last Schiff said, “We’ve got to figure out a way to turn up the heat.”

Hardy showed upby surprise with deli sandwiches and Diet Cokes in Farrell’s office, but they’d barely unpacked the lunch when Hardy took the call from Frannie. The partners were both sitting on the dilapidated couch, their food and napkins and bags of chips and cans of soda untouched on the low table in front of them.

Frannie told him that she’d just gotten off the phone with Treya and they had brought Zachary out of the induced coma and done something called a “pinch test” and that he’d reacted, which apparently was very good news. The swelling had gone down considerably and they were now talking about reinserting the dura mater and closing up the brain again within the next couple of days.

The doctors were starting to think, and had told Treya and Abe, that their son appeared to be out of immediate danger, on the mend, and that he might recover completely. Although with these types of injuries there would be a long watch-and-wait period to determine if there were going to be any ongoing problems with development, cognition, or motor skills. This still sounded quite serious to Hardy, and Frannie agreed with him that it was, but compared with what they’d been looking at for the past four days, it was the best possible news.

Hanging up, Hardy, with a great sense of relief, reached for his drink and sat back on the couch. “See?” He recounted the gist of the conversation, concluding with, “Things sometimes do turn around for the better.”

Farrell still wasn’t much in the mood to agree with him. In fact, his confidence and spirits had retreated so far that he’d worn a regular business suit to work today, and without a funny T-shirt under it. He’d gone out earlier in the morning and trimmed his thick gray-brown hair to a length that qualified as relatively normal. Now Wes hunched on the couch, holding his sandwich over the table in front of him, shredded lettuce spilling, condiments dripping. “Sometimes they do, and I’m glad as hell for Abe’s kid, and for him. But I haven’t even told you yet about Jeff Elliot’s call this morning.”

“What did our paper’s most esteemed columnist have to say?”

“He just wanted to give me a heads-up ’cause we’re friends. The Chronicle ’s talking about running the weed story and including the whole list of us alleged dope-smoking fiends.”

Hardy was shaking his head. “Can’t happen. Won’t happen. Never in a million years.”

“Why not?”

“Because your name on a list on somebody’s computer doesn’t mean anything. You didn’t admit anything to Schiff when she called and asked you about it, did you?”

“I’m sure.” Farrell rolled his eyes. “What, I’m retarded?”

“That’s my point. You’re not. So you didn’t cop to it. So she’s got nothing she can prove. Besides, no way does this make ‘CityTalk.’ That doesn’t sound like Jeff.”

Farrell chewed and swallowed, chasing with Coke. “No. He was talking regular news. And you might be right about the libel problem, but the Chron ’s got to be tempted. It’s a great story.”

“It’s a nonstory. They can’t run it.”

“Okay, good. But evidently there’s more than a few semipublic figures on the list, not including yours truly and Wyatt’s guy. And the public would like to know.”