He nodded, no-nonsense. “All right,” he said. “But let me do the talking.”
At ten-thirty that night Hardy threw the next-to-last dart of his round at the Little Shamrock bar and it landed in his “out” spot of double eleven. He plocked the next shot directly in the center of the bull’s-eye, ending the game. He was playing “301” and he’d gone out ahead of his opponent, Wyatt Hunt, by hitting his last eight throws in a row, a fairly nice run.
And all too underappreciated by Hunt, his firm’s private investigator, who now owed him not only the tab for the three beers they’d each consumed in the three-game minitournament, but the extra hundred bucks they’d put up as the pot. No sooner had Hardy’s winning shot landed than Hunt handed him the Franklin and offered to go double or nothing.
“That’s a sucker bet, Wyatt, as you well know.” Hardy took the bill and put it into his wallet. “But I’ll buy you a consolation drink to help assuage the agony of defeat.”
“Assuage is a good lawyer word,” Hunt said. “You don’t hear people say assuage every day.”
“No indeed, you don’t,” Hardy replied. “And yet, sometimes it is the perfect choice, le mot juste, as Hemingway would have said.”
“Or me if I spoke French.”
The private eye went about six three, two ten, an athletic hunk comprised of about equal parts gristle and testosterone. If you could be handsome in an ugly way, that’s what Hardy would have said he was. He’d grown up in foster homes, done a stint in Iraq I, then worked a dozen or so years in Child Protective Services, taking kids from abusive environments away from their parent or parents, pretty much the apogee of thankless jobs. Now, and for the past seven or eight years, he ran a private investigations business called The Hunt Club, and Hardy’s firm used it almost exclusively.
Wyatt was leading the way as the two men moved from the dart area and into the narrow recesses of the bar proper, which was having a relatively slow night. Two stools stood open in front of the taps, and they got themselves seated. “That was an obscene run of darts, you know.”
“Admittedly. I’m sure I couldn’t do it again. Although you’ve got to figure that a guy who’s got a board on the wall of his office and his own customized darts probably spends a few minutes playing the game. He’s going to get a lucky run from time to time.”
Hunt was grinning. “I’ll try to keep it in mind.”
Moses McGuire appeared in front of them and they ordered—a club soda for each of them. McGuire, on a club soda regimen himself for the past couple of years, still couldn’t help himself. “Whoa,” he said. “Katie, bar the door. Want those babies full-strength up or on the rocks?”
“The great thing about drinking here”—Hardy ignored his brother-in-law and spoke directly to Hunt—“is the commentary.”
“I knew there was something,” Hunt replied.
“Rocks,” Hardy said, coming back to Moses, “and hold the pithy observations, thank you.”
McGuire pulled the drinks, and Hardy held up his glass to clink Hunt’s. “I feel a little guilty inviting you down here and then taking your money, but thanks for coming.”
Hunt sipped his soda. “Long day?”
“Actually, fairly brutal.” Hardy filled him in on the dramas surrounding both Glitsky and Wes Farrell, which had continued into the night as Hardy, after dinner at home, went to the hospital to check on Abe and Zachary—Abe still a zombie, Zachary unchanged.
Hardy had stayed on with Abe for a long half hour, then patted his friend’s knee and told him to hang in there, call if he needed anything, and left. Unable to make himself go back home to Frannie, Treya, and Rachel, he’d stopped by the Shamrock and called Farrell, who’d apparently turned off his telephones. Getting an idea, then he had called Hunt. “Anyway, between Abe and Wes, it’s like I’m knocked off my horse. I can’t seem to get my arms wrapped around this Dylan Vogler situation. Not just what it’s done to Wes, or potentially could do.”
“You’re really worried about that?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
“Well, let me lighten your load, Diz. You can get over that. Nobody outside of Singapore cares about who smokes weed. Certainly nobody in law enforcement in this town. ’Course, the bad news in Singapore is they hang you for it. But the good news is we’re not there. Not even Wes. But I’d warn him if he’s thinking about making the trip.”
“I’ll do that,” Hardy said with a strained tolerance. “But in actual fact Wes is an officer of the court. He’s a rainmaker for the firm, he’s—”
Hunt held up a hand. “It’s only going to increase his street cred among his potential clients, Diz, all of whom probably light up a doob with some regularity. The guy’s one of them.”
“Judges won’t think that’s a plus if it gets out. I promise.”
“How are they going to prove it? So his name’s on a list. So what?” Hunt drank. “He’s not really thinking of quitting, is he?”
“He offered.” A shrug. “I told him to think about it some more.”
“Well, before he does anything dumb, at least he ought to talk to Craig.” This was Craig Chiurco, one of Hunt’s operatives, working on his own private investigator’s license. At Hardy’s look Hunt went on. “This guy Vogler had a good book, I’ll give him that.”
Hardy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Craig was on this list too?”
Hunt bobbed his head. “Yeah, and he’s actually a pretty big number. He came and told me about it yesterday. I mean that the cops had called him about it. He was worried it might affect his license chances.”
“Same story. If they could prove it, it might, but without a confession, forget it.”
“Right,” Wyatt said. “And I don’t really see anybody going to go out of their way to bust these guys, even if they could prove anything. At the most it’s casual use, and then only if they in fact catch ’em in flagrante. Hundred bucks if anybody actually cares enough to write you up, which they won’t. Not in this town.”
“So what’d you tell Craig?”
“I told him to dump his stash and give it up. But really, Diz, it’s a nonissue. Vogler, maybe not. But Wes and Craig and whoever else, nothing.”
Hardy glanced over at his companion and lifted his glass. “Okay, since you’ve got all the answers tonight, let me ask you another one. There’s a piece missing somewhere and I can’t put my finger on it.” He ran down what he’d learned about Maya up to this point—the mysterious call from Vogler on Friday night, the early morning trip to BBW, Maya driving away from the body, her concern about her supposedly profligate fling in college, and then bringing the story around to Dylan’s exorbitant salary, the gun, and so on.
When he finished, Wyatt nodded. “Can you say ‘blackmail’?”
“Okay. For what?”
“I don’t know. Something she’s ashamed of or worried about. Probably when she was having her wild time back in college.”
“That’s pretty much what I’d come to. But I didn’t want to let myself believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Because blackmail comes with implications.”
“She’s done something bad?”
“In the past, yeah. But nearer the present is the real concern.”
“You’re thinking she did it?”
Hardy hesitated for a few seconds. “If he was blackmailing her and she went down there on Saturday morning? The blackmail was the missing piece. If it’s in there, the picture gets a lot more clear and maybe real ugly in a hurry.”
“You think Bracco and Schiff have put it together?”
“If they haven’t already, they will soon.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I thought I’d ask you to see what you could find out.”
“About her college years?”
At Hardy’s nod Hunt went on. “Not that I couldn’t use the work, but why don’t you just ask her? Tell her you figured out she was being blackmailed, see what she does.”
“Well, I could. But a couple of things. First, her husband kind of made it clear that he didn’t want her seeing me without him being there too. So if he’s the one she doesn’t want to know whatever it is—and that’s a decent bet—she doesn’t tell me no matter what. Next, I might be wrong and the accusation might piss her off. Maybe even enough to where she wants to fire me, which would be letting a potential big one get away. Finally, if whatever she did was bad enough that she killed Vogler to stop it coming out, no way she’s just giving it up, even privileged, to a lawyer she barely knows. I’d be wasting my breath even asking. Better if I find out what it is on my own, then hold on to it and use it as things develop.”
“Knowledge being power and all.”
“Truer words,” Hardy said.
“And why do you want to know all this, exactly?”
The question seemed to stump Hardy for a minute. “If I’m going to defend her, it would help to know who she is.”
“But you’re going to bill her to find out something she doesn’t want you to know?”
“If it’s going to help her in the long run. If it turns out I need her history, which now I’m thinking I might. Otherwise, I step in it without ever seeing it coming. And she winds up screwed.” He tipped up his glass, brought it down slowly. “So what do you say?”
Hunt nodded. “I could give it a couple of days. See what pops.”
“That’s all I’m asking. She gave me three thousand as a retainer. You can spend a good chunk of it. How’s that sound?”
“Doable,” Hunt said. “I’ll give it a run.”
10
Hardy wasn’t wrong when he said that Schiff and Bracco wouldn’t be far behind him in coming to the conclusion that Dylan Vogler was blackmailing Maya Townshend.
They’d gotten to it almost by osmosis the next morning. At a few minutes after nine A.M. they knocked at the front door of Jansey’s house, figuring that she would most probably have known what dirt her man had had on his boss that he had used not only to keep himself gainfully employed, but that also allowed him to treat her as an underling when she came into her own store.
Last night, in spite of their great frustration at having Dismas Hardy show up at the Townshends’ to limit the free flow of information, the inspectors had learned a great deal. Most importantly, Maya had lied to them about her alibi on Saturday morning. Beyond that, she’d admitted that she’d actually been called down to the murder scene by the victim and had discovered his body and then opted not to call the police and report it. In the eyes of the inspectors these two revelations elevated Maya in a hurry to a person of interest in the homicide.
She had had both the means and the opportunity to have killed Dylan Vogler. If Bracco and Schiff could establish a compelling motive, they would be well on their way to establishing her as their prime suspect. And the fact that Maya had apparently been at Vogler’s beck and call—coming down to the store before dawn on a Saturday morning?—argued strongly, in spite of Hardy’s disclaimers, that theirs was not a simple business relationship.
Vogler must have had something on Maya that she didn’t want revealed. And maybe he’d been threatening her with just that—upping the ante on what she was paying him, making new demands. Maybe she’d just had enough and decided to put an end to it.
It wasn’t much of a leap for either of them to imagine her killing him. And the why of it led them to Jansey’s door again this morning.
She was barefoot in cutoff jeans and wearing her usual T-shirt. “You guys put in some serious hours, you know that? You got another warrant?”
“Not this time,” Schiff said. “We were hoping you’d talk to us about Maya.”
Her forehead crinkled. “Why? I don’t even know her.”
“You know who she is,” Bracco said.
“Well, yeah, of course I know who she is. She owns the shop. Do you guys hang out with the chief of police?”
“I take your point.” Schiff didn’t want to antagonize Jansey, who was at this point about their best hope. “Do you think we could come in and talk for a minute?”
“About Maya? Look, I really don’t know anything about Maya.” But the cops simply nodded until Jansey hesitated, looked behind her, then shrugged, indicating they should follow her. “Robert’s over having some coffee with me,” she explained in advance.
As Maya turned to lead the way back into the house, Bracco flashed his partner a knowing look, and Schiff acknowledged it with a nod as they fell in behind their witness.
In the kitchen Robert Tripp sat at the table, again in his green medical scrubs. He’d heard the doorbell and then the discussion at the door and appeared, if not actively enthusiastic about the police presence, then at least engaged. “Hey.” He stood up, coming around the table and shaking both of their hands. “Jansey and I are just having a cup,” he said. “It’s hot and fresh. Bay Beans’s finest.”
“Sounds good to me. Black.” Schiff would take anything that would give her and Bracco more time to chat with Jansey and Robert. “Where’s Ben this morning?” she asked.
“Preschool. Eight to twelve.” Jansey looked at Bracco. “Inspector? Coffee?”
“Sure,” he said. “Why not? Two sugars, please.”
Jansey was grabbing mugs and putting them on the counter when Tripp declared, “White sugar’ll kill you.”
Bracco let out a halfhearted chuckle. “That,” he said, “or something else. I promise you, sugar’s the least of my worries.” He pulled a chair around and straddled it backward. “So, Robert, let me ask you this. When do you go to school?”
The question, perhaps intended to get a rise, drew only a muted reply. “I got off at midnight. I’m back in at noon. Twelve on, twelve off, this week. Oh, and I’m on call during the off hours every third day, lest we start to catch up on sleep. That would be wrong.”
“They don’t want you to sleep?” Schiff asked. “Isn’t that dangerous for patients?”
“If it turns out it is,” Tripp said, “you’re out of the program. If sleep’s more important to you than medicine, you don’t want to be a doctor bad enough anyway. If lack of sleep affects your performance, you don’t have what it takes. I don’t think there’s an American-trained doctor in the world who hasn’t gone through five years of serious sleep deprivation. It’s part of the culture. If you can’t hack it, get another gig.”
Jansey set the mugs in front of the inspectors. She put a quick hand on Tripp’s shoulder. “Robert’s record is four days without a minute of sleep.”
“That’s a long four days,” Bracco said.
Tripp broke a tired smile. “That was a long month, Inspector, let me tell you. I finally fell asleep outside an OR, standing up in the hall, which I didn’t think was possible until then. Luckily, one of the nurses noticed and got me onto a gurney, pushed me into an empty room.”
Schiff blew over her coffee. Bracco took his first slurping sip and pulled his tiny portable tape recorder out and put it on the table.
Jansey got herself settled into the chair next to Tripp, reached over and touched his hand on the table, then brought her hands back, clenched in front of her. “So, back to what you came for, I don’t really know what I can tell you about Maya. I’ve only met her a couple of times.”
Bracco and Schiff exchanged a glance and Bracco took the lead. “We’re looking at the possibility that Dylan might have been blackmailing her.”
The news didn’t seem to startle Jansey. Still, she asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Couple of reasons,” Bracco went on. “First, his salary. She paid him ninety grand a year. For comparison the same job at Starbucks pays around forty.”
“Yeah, but he’d been there nine years.”
“Okay, so say he got raises every year. That brings him up to fifty, or even sixty. Ninety’s still a good ways out of the box. Second, some employees at the shop have told us that when Maya came in, which wasn’t very often, Dylan treated her like she was the help, like he had something on her.
And if he did, it’s hard to believe he wouldn’t have mentioned at least something about it to you at some time.”
The young woman stared down at the table.
“Jansey,” Schiff put in, “if he was blackmailing her, it may have been part of the reason he was killed.”
This brought her head up. “You mean she might have killed him?”
“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.”
A Plague of Secrets Page 9