He had a voice mail from Wyatt Hunt on his cell phone, telling him that he’d be having lunch at Lou the Greek’s if Hardy wanted a report on what he’d been doing out at BBW, and suddenly-if for no other reason than he was perpetually somewhat morbidly curious about the Special-that seemed like a good idea.
So he hung back until his client and Stier and most of the crowd had dispersed from the courtroom, then snuck out, walked the two flights down to the throbbing lobby where it was too crowded for anyone to notice him. Outside, trench-coat collar up and head down in an overcast chill, he jaywalked across to Lou’s, stepped over the sleeping or dead body in the outer doorway, then descended the half-dozen ammonia-tinged steps that took him to the restaurant’s entrance proper, swinging double doors covered in red leather.
As usual at lunchtime patrons stood three deep at the bar. Each of the twenty-odd tables was taken as well. Hardy recognized several cops, Harlen Fisk at a small table alone with Cheryl Biehl, five or six of his fellow attorneys, and a couple of members of his own jury at one of the side tables; and somewhat to his surprise, at the largest table in the house, Glitsky and Treya and Debra Schiff and Darrel Bracco along with District Attorney Clarence Jackman himself, scowling and listening intently to whatever Bracco was saying. Nobody at that table looked happy enough to interrupt, and besides, Hunt was holding up a hand flagging him from one of the booths, so Hardy picked his way through the mob and the cacophonous din and slid in across from his investigator.
“Souvlaki lo mein,” Hunt said by way of greeting.
“That actually sounds edible.”
“It does, I know. But I predict a secret ingredient. Octopus, something like that. All those little legs and the noodles mixed up together so you can’t tell which is which.”
“Octopus legs and noodles? I could tell the difference.”
“You could? How?”
“The legs are probably going to be thicker. And have those little suction cups on ’em. That’s the giveaway.”
Just at that moment the proprietor stopped at their table. Lou was mid-fifties or so, with thick black hair, short legs, a solid round stomach under his starched white shirt. “Hey, Diz, Wyatt. Lunch or just drinks?”
“We’ll have the octopus,” Hardy said, “if you can cut the suction cups off the legs for Wyatt here. He thinks suction cups suck.”
Lou’s face clouded over in something like real pain. “No octopus. Noodles and lamb, maybe some hummus and hoisin. Delicious.”
“Can Chiu put some octopus in mine?” Hunt asked.
“Come on, guys, can’t you see I’m hoppin’ here? We don’t do substitutions, you know that. How long you been comin’ here? You eatin’ or not?”
“Two Specials,” Hardy said.
“There you go. Water, tea, beer, what?”
Both men chose water, and Lou was gone, on to the next order. Hardy jerked his head a little out toward the room. “Check out the summit meeting.”
“I know. They got here a few minutes after me. I don’t think it’s a birthday.”
Hardy looked over and again noted the tension around the table. “Maybe they just aren’t as enthusiastic as we are about the Special.”
“Those are our guys, aren’t they? I mean our case.”
“Schiff and Bracco, yeah.”
“Maybe they screwed up.”
“They’ve probably got ten other cases, but we can always hope.” The water arrived-pint jars with ice chips-and Hardy took a drink. “So how you doin’ on our list?”
“Slow,” Hunt said. “But we were right about all the staff being in on it. They really, really don’t want to talk to the actual police.”
“Are they still dealing out of there?”
“It wouldn’t shock me. Though not at the level Dylan was. At least not yet.”
“So who? The new manager?”
“Ruiz. Sharp guy. But he says there’s a guy, he thinks called Paco, who got in a beef with Dylan while Levon was there maybe a couple of weeks before he got killed.”
Hardy sat up. “They were both there together, Dylan and Levon?”
“Oh yeah. Pretty frequently, at least every time Levon came for his pickup.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Except there’s no Paco on the list. I’ve got Ruiz watching for him if he comes in again, but he says he hasn’t seen him since the big day. And, of course, he could be making it all up.”
“Of course.” Hardy threw another quick glance at Glitsky’s table-just as cheerful as last time. “I had a chat with your man Craig this morning, you know.”
“Yeah. He called in. Can he do anything for you?”
“Well, so far he puts Maya at Levon’s, but he doesn’t put her inside. So if I need him for something on the stand, he won’t do too much damage with that.”
“Actually, it might be a little better than that. The way it sounds to me, she’d just got there and couldn’t get in, as opposed to she was just coming out.”
“Big difference,” Hardy said.
“No shit.” Wyatt hesitated for a second. “But how did he seem?”
“Who, Craig? Fine. Why?”
Hunt shrugged. “He and Tamara broke up. I think he’s having some problems. But he was okay?”
“He seemed fine.”
“Good. Just checking on the puppies.” Hunt turned his glass around in its condensation ring. “I did get something else, maybe. Actually, Gina got the hunch from something else I was saying. If it’s anything.”
“You think you got enough qualifiers in there?”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
“I’ll be on diligent guard. Meanwhile, at this point,” Hardy said, “I don’t care if Daffy Duck is your source. I’ll take it.”
“Okay. What do you know about Tess Granat?”
Hardy felt he’d be nothing without his memory, and he had his answer in a second. “Movie star. Falling Leaves, Death by Starlight. Died here in the city, didn’t she? Hit by a car when she was pregnant, if I remember.”
Hunt nodded. “Hit-and-run. Mom and unborn kid both died. Driver never found.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Did you know she was Kathy West’s sister?”
With his water halfway to his mouth Hardy stopped cold and slowly replaced the jar on the table. The words unborn kid went jangling around in his brain. As did the details of his interview with Maya in the attorney visiting room at the jail-when she had talked about the innocence of the unborn but had denied ever having had an abortion. Her words came back at him with a visceral force.
Lou had a lunch staff of two white women and two Filipino men-all middle-aged-that delivered food from the kitchen and never slowed down, and one of the women showed up and plopped their Specials down without fanfare between them, then threw after them their utensils wrapped in paper napkins.
Hardy finally found his voice again. “When did this happen, the hit-and-run?”
“March of ninety-seven,” Hunt said. “Maya was a junior that year. It’s when things seemed to go south for her.”
“How’d you get this?” Hardy asked. “Or Gina?”
“We were just talking about how I got started on all this, and I mentioned running into an article about Tess Granat being Maya’s aunt in USF’s newspaper. And I ask Gina what was it that happened to her. So Gina, being senior to me, which I never let her forget, remembers the hit-and-run, the whole story, and then it hits us both at the same time.”
“There’s a connection?”
“Maybe worth asking about.”
“So you’re thinking the blackmail might not have been about a robbery?”
“I’m not thinking anything. I’m just wondering. Granat’s death was a big deal at the time. A huge deal.”
A muscle worked in Hardy’s jaw.
“They were an item back then, too, you know? Maya and Dylan.” Hunt stopped to let that fact settle, then continued. “Although by senior year, or maybe sooner, they broke up, and she goes back to being Junior League and finds religion again.”