John Lescroart - A Plague of Secrets

“Why?” Bracco asked.

A shrug. “The usual stupid reasons, Darrel. He cut the dope with parsley and somebody didn’t like it. Or one of ’em graduated to crack and just went psycho. Or he stiffed a guy for five bucks. Or any one of a hundred other reasons. Have you talked to any of these people?”

“Some,” Schiff said. “There’s seventy-two of them, Abe.”

He nodded soberly. “I’m sorry about that, I really am. But it seems to me that at least you’ve got to talk to them, if only to eliminate. Find out who was where on that Saturday morning. I know it’s tedious, but that’s the job. Sometimes we’ve just got to grind it out.”

“What about Jerry Glass?” Schiff asked.

“I don’t know,” Glitsky said. “If I’d have been here, I might have suggested you two hold off on going that route for a while, at least until somebody pops up as a bona fide suspect that the forfeiture or the grand jury might squeeze. Now I think we just gotta hope he doesn’t get too much in the way.”

As was oftenthe case early on a workday, Craig Chiurco was lounging in the small reception area of The Hunt Club, Wyatt’s office in the heart of Chinatown, chewing the fat with his girlfriend, Tamara Dade, who answered the phones and occasionally did fieldwork-taking pictures, tailing female witnesses. Tamara, twenty-six, tended to dress for the office in brightly colored miniskirts with form-hugging tops, and there was ample form to hug over the tight, and often exposed, stomach with its tasteful little gold naval ring. Today only the ring’s shape showed under the orange leotard an inch or two before it disappeared into her black skirt-Halloween was coming up.

Craig, maybe five years her senior, had been going out with her now for about three years, although they still maintained separate apartments. After four years working with Hunt, doing anything he was asked to do, but mostly subpoena service and stakeout work, Craig had acquired enough hours in the profession to start the application process for his own private investigator’s license. But, of course, being on Vogler’s list, his career plans were in jeopardy. And he was saying so to Tamara.

Who dismissed the idea with a wave. “Wyatt already told you not to worry about that.”

“Oh. Okay, I won’t then.”

“Craig. Really. He’s the one paying you, so if it doesn’t bother him, how is it going to hurt you?”

“It goes on my record and I have to put that on my application…”

Tamara shook her head. “It’s a misdemeanor at most, Craig.”

“That would do it, though, Tam, which is kind of the point.”

“But you don’t even have that. The only way that happens is if they catch you with the actual weed. Being on this list isn’t proof of anything. And you’ve gotten rid of all your stuff, so even if they come and search your place-as if-then so what?” She gave him a tolerant look. “You’re just upset because you got caught. And because now Wyatt knows.”

“Maybe some of that.”

“Except he doesn’t care. You don’t think he’s smoked a little weed in his time?”

“I’d bet not much.”

“Well, you might be right there. But don’t you think he supposes you and me maybe were together a time or two that your alleged dope-smoking took place?”

Craig, reclining sideways with his knees up over the edge of the small love seat that was the only place for a guest or a client to sit, broke a small smile. “I didn’t rat you out, Tam. Promise.”

She favored him with her own smile. “I didn’t say you did, Gala-had, and I know you wouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean that Wyatt wouldn’t have put two and two together-or in our case, one and one.” She picked up an emery board from her desk blotter and started working on one of her fingernails. “I think the smart thing for you and me to do, which we’ve already done, is just take it as a wake-up call to be a little smarter, give the stuff up altogether.”

Chiurco, arms crossed, pursed his lips at that request.

“What?” Tamara asked. “Would that really be so hard?”

“Not really hard. More like just unnecessary. I like the stuff. You like the stuff. Everybody agrees it shouldn’t be illegal. So why should I be coerced to give it up entirely?”

Tamara held up one finger. “Me, me, Monty, call on me. How about because it is illegal? Whether it should be or not. And you want to work around law enforcement. You get caught with it-you said it-it’s on your record. It can affect things-your application, for example. So there’s a reason to give it up right there.” She pushed back her chair and turned to face him. “The thing is, though, in real life nothing’s going to happen around this. Your name is on a list that may or may not have been this guy Vogler’s clients. It might have just been people who owed him money.”

A short laugh. “That too.”

“Well, that’s fine. You may know that. But the police just can’t know anything, or prove anything, about anybody on that list. Even if everybody else owned up and said they were his customers, that still wouldn’t prove that you were. And, by the way, if you’re worried that the paper might print it, forget it. They’d get sued from here to Italy. It won’t happen.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m convinced.”

“Good. I mean, bottom line is we just don’t do it anymore. Easy enough, right?”

“It should be,” Chiurco said.

“Well, there you go. Done deal.”

Wyatt Hunt looked briefly out onto Grant Street through the one window across from Tamara in the reception area, then turned back to his employees. “I will entertain even the smallest crumb of an idea.”

“Do we have a hint,” Chiurco asked, “of what we’re looking for? Or some kind of timeline?”

“Hardy thinks when she was in college, so ten to fourteen years ago. In the city here. Something she was embarrassed by, or worse. Obviously, he thinks, something she could still get in trouble for if word gets out.”

“Well,” said Tamara, who had taken her share of criminology classes as well, “the statute of limitations would have run out on almost anything she did back then, except if she killed somebody. What did Vogler do that got him in prison? Could she have been involved in that?”

Hunt pointed a finger at his secretary. “There you go. There’s someplace to start. If she was any part of that, and Vogler took the fall for it… how well did you know him, Craig? Did he ever talk about that?”

“Not to me. I barely knew him at all, except through the coffee shop. Maybe we could get our hands on that list and ask some of those people what they know?”

“I wouldn’t bank much on that. Besides, I’m thinking what Tam suggests is probably going to be more productive. See if he had an accomplice or two and go talk to them.”

“Hardy should just ask her,” Chiurco said. “Whatever she tells him, it’s privileged, right? Nobody else would have to know. I don’t see the problem.”

“Well, one problem, Craig, not to sound mercenary, is if he asks her and she tells him, there goes our fee. But the other thing is that she’s evidently cut a deal with her husband-his name’s Joel-that she’s not going to be seeing Diz except with him there with them too. So what’s that leave?”

Tamara raised her hand like a good student and spoke right out. “She doesn’t want Joel to find out.”

“Ten points.” Hunt nodded. “That’s my guess too. Which of course means it might not be a criminal thing at all. Just some behavior she’d rather he never knew about.”

“She had an abortion,” Tamara said.

Again, Hunt nodded. “Not impossible. Especially being a good Catholic and all like she is, like they are.”