“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.”
11
Hardy showed up by 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.”
“Like who?” Hardy asked.
“Jeff, God bless him, didn’t want to name names to me. But at least one judge, more than a couple of city department heads, several prominent educators, two supervisors, a few actors and like that, public personalities, and, oh yeah, some DAs…”
“You want to talk screwed,” Hardy said. “Just on the innuendo, those DAs are screwed. At least the ones that didn’t have the sense to get medical marijuana cards.”
“Yeah, heads are gonna roll for sure. If I still worked here, I’d swoop and scoop ’em up cheap and get ’em on our payroll.”
“You’re still working here, Wes. Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m not worried about getting fired, Diz.” He looked sideways down the couch. “Tell you the truth, I’m just embarrassed as all shit to have exposed the firm like this. You and Gina don’t deserve it, and it doesn’t exactly put on the best face for the associates, either, does it?”
Hardy waved that off. “Wes, it’s marijuana in San Francisco in the twenty-first century. It’s going to blow over in a week, maybe two. I appreciate your feelings but truly, nobody really cares.”
“They will if this murder turns out to be about a little benign weed.”
“It won’t come down like that. Whoever shot Dylan, he didn’t steal any of it.”
“How do you know that?”
“He was still wearing his backpack, which was full of it. How about that?”
“How about if he also happened to be pushing a shopping cart loaded with the stuff and the shooter ran off with that?”
That proposal stopped Hardy short for a second, but then he shook his head, banishing the unwelcome thought. “That didn’t happen, Wes. Look, worst case, if the Chronicle does the story, it’ll sell a few papers, but it’s a nonissue to everybody else.”