The Vig

by John Lescroart

  “So what happened with Hector Medina?”

  “Well, I think that’s mostly why I broke it off. He just had to prove to me that he was right about Medina. He’d said it in front of a group of us, and he wasn’t going to back down. We fought about it. I wanted him to just let it go. I mean, what did it matter? Medina might not have been a great cop, but he wasn’t worse than a lot of others. He had a family, all that. Why stir it up? The original investigation had cleared him. But Rusty got on his high horse and there was no getting him off.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? At first, no doubt about it, he thought it impressed me, or would impress me. Solo prosecutor takes on the police department and district attorney’s office and brings in a righteous conviction. He thought it would make him more romantic. The Serpico of San Francisco …”

  “And that passed, the part about impressing you, I mean?”

  “Well, it never really worked, but after he committed himself …” She shrugged. “But that was just Rusty. His ego.”

  “And to hell with Medina, right?”

  “Oh, Medina didn’t even exist to Rusty. He was just another trophy, like I was, I guess. He eventually got off again anyway.”

  “But lost his job.”

  “I know. No one believed him after the second investigation, but there wasn’t enough evidence to bring him to trial, so he walked, but to everybody he was a killer cop.”

  “Do you think he was?”

  “He had a reputation for being mean. Little things lots of guys do—maybe an extra thwack with the sap, cuffs tight enough to cut—nothing heavy, but they came out in the investigation.”

  “You know about now, the accusation against him?”

  “Killing that dog? He might have done that.”

  “And how about Rusty? Killing him?”

  “After all this time?”

  Hardy explained about the connection through the Valenti and Raines situation. Putting Medina back into the action.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it could’ve powered him up. But if he didn’t do it when it was fresh, would he now?”

  “Except back then he was married, had a good job, a future. Now he’s divorced, raising a daughter alone, his job is nothing. Maybe it brought back all he’s lost, all that Rusty made him lose. He snapped over it …”

  Karen slipped off the desk and walked over to the window. She put her hands on her hips and did a couple of waist rolls, keeping loose, stretched like a cat, turned around. “Stranger things have happened, but you’ve got to believe time heals at least a little. If Rusty did something else, something new, I could see it better. You get any sign of that?”

  “Nope. In fact, Medina told me he hadn’t seen Rusty in years, although he’d called him recently.”

  “To say what?”

  “Nothing. He said he changed his mind, hung up.”

  There was another question in her eyes but she didn’t ask it. Instead she said, “It might be worth checking his alibi.”

  Hardy, sitting, ran his fingers over the keyboard in front of the terminal. “I’ll do that,” he said.

  She came up behind him, looking over his shoulder at the screen, which still held the information about Rusty’s car. “Back to basics, huh? He was driving an old Volkswagen?”

  Hardy squinted at the glaring green terminal. “Does that mean something?”

  “It means he must have had a bad streak at the track. He used to say he’d never drive less than a Lincoln. He’d rather walk.”

  “So what’s the track have to do with it?”

  “I thought you said you knew him.”

  To Hardy, Rusty had been another red-hot young attorney much like himself, trying cases and winning them, putting bad guys away. They got along fine in the office, once in a while had drinks and discussed work. That was it. “I guess not,” he said.

  “If you didn’t know his gambling, you didn’t know him at all.” Karen came around and sat on the desk again. “The track is what broke us up, much more than Hector Medina, if you want to know the truth, although it was all part of the same thing, I suppose, the winning thing. He said the ponies were the ultimate challenge. He really believed, or wanted to believe, that you could learn enough, follow the jockeys and horses closely enough, so you’d never have to lose. He used to say it wasn’t even gambling, you could make it a sure thing. Not every race, you understand, but when you were sure, you jumped.”

  “And he was successful?”

  “He did pretty well.” She glanced over at the screen again. “Except when he lost.”

  “Which was often?”

  “No, but which tended to be big when he did.” She shook her head. “An old Volkswagen … who would’ve thought it? He must’ve been losing. Big.”

  Hardy’s fingers drummed some more on the desk. “And that’s what broke you up?”

  “Well, it just showed me who he was. It’s why I eventually came to feel sorry for him. Nobody wins all the time, I don’t care how good you are, what you know. But it was like a personal affront to him every time he lost. He’d go crazy. The universe was against him. Nutso.”

  She was lost in the memory now. “A couple of times he hit on me for my check after blowing his, losing on what he thought was a sure thing, and not believing he could go out and lose my check the same way on the next race.” She met Hardy’s eyes. “It was very sad really, the addiction. It was like he won at everything else, so he purposely picked something he couldn’t win at so it could verify that he was really, at the bottom, a loser. Or that’s how he saw himself.” Abruptly, she brushed at her hair with her hand as if something of Rusty had stuck in it and she wanted it out. “That’s just my two-bit psychology, but it makes sense to me.”

  “So you think he was a loser, deep down?”

  “All the way down. There was just what he’d won and what he’d lost. He just wasn’t there—no person holding it all together, giving any kind of focus. And I think his biggest fear was that people would find out he wasn’t the fantastic winner he tried to appear to be. So he couldn’t lose anything, ever.”

  “And yet he constantly tested that at the track?”

  “I said it was a sickness. He couldn’t help himself. The track was his litmus test. When he beat it, he could beat anybody. If it started to beat him, he’d nose-dive all over his life. We finally broke up in one of the down cycles.”

  Hardy thought of the Rusty who’d come into the Shamrock the week before—a little down and out, clothes not pressed, riding public transport because his car had been stolen. He still had the gab, the line, the presence, but he wouldn’t have impressed anybody as a man who could take on the universe. Hardly a winner.

  Karen pushed herself off the desk. “But the horses didn’t kill him, did they?”

  “No,” Hardy said. “It was somebody with opposable thumbs.”

  18

  Okay, Ray Weir was thinking, I’ve waited long enough.

  He had gone to the service that morning, waited with Courtenay and Warren until they brought out the urn with what was left of Maxine. Then they’d all ridden out under the Golden Gate with one of Warren’s money friends who owned a yacht—champagne, toasting Maxine’s memory, dumping the ashes into the sea, freezing their butts off.

  Now he was back home, and he’d waited long enough. It was a legitimate question, and he had all the paperwork here in front of him.

  He had to wade through four receptionist types before he got someone who could talk to him.

  He gave the number of the policy on Maxine’s life, then the dates of both the accident and the settlement agreement. “I’m just checking the status of the payment,” he said.

  The woman asked him to wait and returned after most of “I Write the Songs” had finished playing in Ray’s ear. Across the miles her voice was tiny. “You haven’t received it?”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “It must be in the mail
,” she said.

  Ray’s hands tightened on the mouthpiece. “The check’s in the mail? When did you mail it?”

  She cleared her throat, but didn’t come back any louder. “Just another minute, please.” Some Connecticut radio station was playing “Soft Hits All The Time”—soft hits for the soft brained, Ray thought as they rocked into a Muzak version of “I Am, I Said.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “There must be some mistake. We sent the check for the full amount, eighty-five thousand dollars, ten days ago by registered mail, return receipt requested, overnight delivery, and it was signed for by”—she paused—“by Maxine Weir.”

  Ray suddenly felt light-headed and had to sit down. “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, when was this?”

  After a short silence, figuring it out, “We sent it out on Friday, so it probably, yes, here it is, it was delivered on Monday, last week. A week ago today.”

  “To Maxine Weir?”

  “Yes, sir. The signature is very clear. Would you like me to send you a copy of the receipt?”

  Ray almost had to laugh. He hung up.

  Well, it was possible the check was still at her apartment. The policy was in both of their names—either of them could sign it. Maybe the police had found it and hadn’t notified him yet.

  Or she could have taken it down to the bank and deposited it. They still had a joint account, not that there was ever much in it. He would call customer service.

  He lit up a joint and punched buttons on his telephone. No, there had been no deposit made to the account, would he like to talk to a manager?

  He didn’t know what he’d like to do. The world was spinning.

  Though he was back in the Hall, Glitsky did not check into Homicide. If he ran into Batiste or one of the guys he would say he was feeling better and had decided to come in. Otherwise he’d keep it casual. He might do a little work. He was still thinking L.A., but there were items to tie up here and his father was right. If you’re going to do it, don’t do it half-assed.

  The Filipino boy in the lab, Ghattas, had been a help on Saturday, and he had no trouble locating the gun again—Ray Weir’s gun—and bringing out the report on it. He had stood on the other side of the counter while Abe did a quick scan of the results …

  “You understand, sir, it was found in mud under about sixteen feet of water?”

  “So you wouldn’t expect any prints?”

  “Prints are funny, you know. Oil-based. It’s not so much you wouldn’t expect them. It wouldn’t be a shock either way …”

  Abe looked up from the report. The boy had something else to say. “But?”

  “Well, in fact we didn’t find any.”

  Abe tried to hide his disappointment.

  “But I got to thinking.”

  Abe was starting to like this guy. He grinned his scar-slashed grin.

  “What’d you get to thinking?”

  “Well, as I said, the gun didn’t have any prints, but it didn’t even have any smudges. It was like it had never been held.”

  “But it had been fired?”

  “Oh yeah, no question about that. But still, even with the mud and salt water, you’d expect something. Some oil residue.”

  “So?”

  “But there wasn’t anything. Which is, maybe, I don’t know, a little suggestive. So I did a trace test for Armor All.”

  “Armor All?”

  “You know, the car stuff? Hell’s Angels got wise to this first. You wipe a weapon down, then spray it with Armor All and you won’t leave a print.”

  “And there was Armor All on this gun?”

  “Right.”

  “And so?”

  “And so that means that whoever shot the weapon knew about Armor All.”

  “Uh huh?”

  He leaned over the counter, eyes shining in his excitement. “It means the perp was a pro. Anybody else would have just wiped it down afterward, don’t you think?”

  Glitsky acknowledged that. “Okay.”

  “So your shooter is in the business. This isn’t high tech, but I wouldn’t say it’s general knowledge either. So if you got two suspects and one is, say, a civilian, then maybe that one isn’t so likely to be your guy.”

  “Ray Weir,” Abe said, “the husband. A live one, up to now.”

  “It’s something to think about, is all I’m saying.”

  Drysdale was going over the ground rules again. Outside the window, cars were starting to back up on the freeway heading toward the Bay Bridge. Gubizca leaned backward and could make out the clock on the Union 76 sign—4:38. The day had been shot to hell on this idiocy, and it wasn’t over yet.

  Fred, still enthusiastic and confident, was in the process of getting hooked up by the polygraph technician, a woman in uniform who with Drysdale would be the only people present when Fred was questioned. This was Manny’s great concern. Polygraphs didn’t work with distractions—with a trained subject, they didn’t work at all—and Manny would not be in the actual room when the procedure took place. There would be no court reporter, no other attorneys, no one except Fred, Drysdale, and this woman, who would probably sit behind Fred, out of his line of vision.

  This wasn’t as bad as it could be because Drysdale had already presented Manny and Fred with a complete list of the questions he would be asking, all either yes or no, and lawyer and client had gone over them for the past hour, making sure there was nothing Fred might slip on.

  So Manny listened with half an ear, figuring that if Drysdale was planning on a blindside attack, there was almost no possibility he would do it now.

  “So as I say,” Drysdale droned on, “this isn’t any formal proceeding, but the nature of your allegations”—here he smiled at Treadwell, at Gubizca—“are so … so unusual, that I believe you’ll get more”—again searching for the right word—“more enthusiastic cooperation from this office in general …” Drysdale spread his hands out, smiling, everybody’s friend. “This isn’t me, gentlemen. I’m selling the whole package both to my boss and my staff, and there is some concern—possibly justified at this stage, I’m afraid—well, let’s just say your cooperation here, Manny, will enhance your and your client’s credibility.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Treadwell said.

  “Fred, please.” Gubizca wasn’t about to have his client get into an off-the-record discussion with Art Drysdale, who beneath his benign exterior was one of the craftiest attorneys Gubizca had ever opposed.

  “Me?” Drysdale acted shocked. “I totally believe you. That’s why I’m doing this, we’re doing this.” He hiked a leg up on the table where the polygraph sat. There was no guile on his face, he wasn’t trying to sell anything, just convey information. “Manny, of course, is right to treat this as though we’re adversarial here. But, without mentioning names, I’m not giving anything away when I say that certain members of the staff here are skeptical. But this, today, this is just ammo to use against those people, so in a real sense, for today at least, we’re on the same side. You tell me what happened with Hector Medina, the polygraph corroborates it—okay, so it’s not formally admissible—it’ll get the team behind this case. And that’s what we both want. It makes my job easier.” He spread his arms again, his wide and sincere smile.

  The technician was finished now, and Manny walked up behind Fred and whispered that he should remember to stick to the questions asked and above all to try to keep calm. Then he left the room.

  “You can sit back if you’d like,” Drysdale said. He himself pulled up an old office chair covered with yellow leather and crossed one leg over the other. “As you know, we ask only yes and no questions, so we’ll start with the easy stuff to calibrate this thing. Your name is Fred Treadwell?”

  Fred nodded.

  “Please say yes or no.”

  “I’m sorry. Yes.”

  “Your name is Fred Treadwell?”

 
“Yes.”

  They ran through the usual opening questions-name, address, day of the week—getting used to the slight scratch of the pencil on the lined paper, the hum of the machine.

  “This isn’t so bad, is it?” Drysdale said.

  “No,” Fred said, and Drysdale noted the skip in the pencil. So it was getting to him. Actually, the subject didn’t have to say anything to get a reading. The body reacted even when the words weren’t said. Drysdale knew this, was counting on it, and on Treadwell not understanding it.

  “Okay, let’s tell a couple of lies.”

  “But if I know I’m not trying to deceive by giving a false answer, the machine will register true, won’t it?”

  Drysdale gave him a broad grin. “You get this stuff, don’t you? You’re right. So try and deceive me a little on this next set, okay.” He leaned forward in his chair. “We’re still in the test phase here, all right?”

  Fred nodded, licking his lips. He looked to the door behind Drysdale, as though seeking assurance that Manny was out there to help him if he needed it.

  “You have worked at your current job eight years, is that correct?”

  “Yes.” True.

  “And you’ve lived two years in your apartment?”

  “Yes.” False.

  “Two years?” Build on the falsehood and see what he does. “And you have painted it during that time?”

  “The time I live there or the last two years?”

  Very good, Fred, Drysdale thought. He said, “I’m sorry, have you painted the apartment in the past two years?”

  “No.” True.

  “And your apartment is on the second floor?”

  “No.” False.

  “So it’s on the third floor?”

  Pause. “Yes.” False.

  “But if you fell from the third story, wouldn’t you do more than sprain your ankle?”

  “That wasn’t one of the questions.” A light sweat had broken on Fred’s forehead.