“How well did you know Thomas Hardy?”
She considered that one for a full two minutes, chewing on her lower lip with yellowed dentures. When she finally answered, it was like a woman talking to herself, debating some concern that has been preying on her mind.
“It’s past thirty years,” she said, eyes focused on a point across the room, ignoring Remo. “Don’t suppose it matters now, though some folks have long memories. Indeed they do.”
She blinked twice, turned to face him, leaning forward with arms folded. in her lap. “What kind of trouble am I looking at if I refuse to answer you?” she asked.
“There’s no statute of limitations on a homicide,” he told her truthfully. “You’re well beyond the prosecution deadline now, on any crime except for murder. Trouble is, if I don’t wrap this up the easy way, somebody may decide it’s worth grand-jury hearings. You’d be called to testify; and since you have immunity from prosecution, there’s no Fifth Amendment you can hide behind. Refuse to answer on the witness stand, and they can jail you for contempt until you change your mind or the grand jury issues its report.”
“How long is that, you think?”
“I’ve seen investigations drag on for a year or more.”
“Shit-fire! A year for clamming up?”
“And if they catch you lying, that’s a brand-new charge of perjury. It doesn’t matter when the actual events took place. We’re talking three to five on that one. Figure eighteen months inside, with good behavior, while the lawyers spend whatever money you’ve been saving for that rainy day.”
“Goddamn leeches!”
“Up to you, of course, but knowing that you can’t be charged for anything but murder—”
“Hey, I never pulled no triggers. That’s a pure-D fact.”
“Well, then?”
“Go on, then. Agent Man.”
“How well did you know Thomas Hardy?” Remo asked again.
“I never laid eyes on the man,” Devona Price informed him, putting on a tight-lipped smile.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me right. I never met him in my life.”
“You did claim Hardy’s body after he was executed, though?”
“I did.”
“And why would you do that if he was a perfect stranger?”
“No one’s perfect. Agent Man. I was a working girl in those days. Working on the streets, I mean to say. You get my drift?”
He nodded. Waited. Listening.
“I’ve no apologies to make for what I done. It wasn’t such a bad life, all around. I took my share of lumps—who doesn’t? But I saw a lot of country, too, and not just on my back in some motel room, either. I was never wired on dope and never served no time. I’m proud of that.”
“Okay.”
“Go on and judge me all you want. The fact is, I had no one lookin’ out for me but me, and I got on all right. You can believe that if you want, or blow it out your butt.”
“And Hardy?”
“I was working Reno, back in 1964 and ’65. Come winter, I’d run down to Vegas, miss the snow, then go back north in spring if I felt like it. Free and easy. Easy, anyhow. You follow me?”
“I’m listening.”
“I had my regulars, like any other girl who gives good value, for the money. Some of them were wise guys, some were businessmen. I even had some politicians on the line. State capital’s just down the road, there. Carson City. It’s a scrubby little town, compared to Reno or Lost Wages, but they do have cash to throw around. State prison’s five, six minutes from the heart of town.”
“Go on.”
‘Tm goin’, in my own good time,” she told him, chewing on her lip again. “It was in May of ’65, one of my regulars come askin’ me if I would like to make an extra-special score. I ask him what he’s got in mind, and he says nothin’ hard. There’s a guy about to buy it at the joint, he says. Some people want to claim the body for a decent funeral, but they can’t afford to have their names on paper. I assume he’s talkin’ wise guys, but it’s all the same to me. I ask how much. He tells me seven grand. I ask him does he want it gift wrapped, and he tells me never mind. That’s all.”
“You signed for Hardy’s body.”
“Right. What I was told, he had no next of kin. The state’ll cremate if nobody claims a stiff, but they prefer to let it go and save the fee.”
“And after you received the body—”
“Nope.” She stopped him cold. “I told you once, I never saw the man. That means alive or dead. I never saw him on the street, nor in a cell, nor in a box. Fact is, I never even saw the box.”
“How’s that?”
“I had instructions, Agent Man. I told the prison where to send him, and they did the rest. Somebody else picked up the tab, though I expect you’ll find my name writ on the check—if you can dig it up, that is. Won’t be my signature, of course, but close enough.”
“Where did they send him?” Remo asked.
She barked at that, a laugh of sorts. “Went to a funeral home, of course! What would you think?”
“I don’t suppose…”
“That I recall the name? Sure do. I’m not that old.”
“And it was…?”
“Cristobal,” she told him, with a smug expression on her face. “That’s Basque, in case you didn’t know. They got a lot of Basques up Carson City, way. Sheepherders when they first come over to the States, but now they’re big in restaurants, casinos, anything you want to name. One of ’em was a senator, back there a while, in tight with Ronnie Reagan. I expect you heard of him.”
“So, the mortician’s name was Cristobal.”
“That’s what I said.” She sounded huffy now, as if expecting him to contradict her. “Don’t recall his first name, and I sure as hell can’t guarantee he’s still in business. Thirty years go by, and folks move on, you know?”
“And you received the seven grand?”
“I did. The statute’s run on tax evasion, too, I do believe.”
“I’m sure it has.”
“Damn right. You know, it’s funny, now I think of it.”
“What’s that?”
“My client paid me right on time and no complaints, but looking back, I don’t believe he ever came to visit me again.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Not really. People come and go, especially in Nevada. Hell, it’s not like we were friends to keep in touch or anything.”
“Do you recall his name?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me.”
“I just called him John.”
“No last name?”
She smiled at that. “I understood he was a married man who liked variety. You follow me? Last names don’t pay the rent—they just get in the way.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Let me think about it He was probably forty then, or getting close. A little gray upstairs, but he still kept himself in shape. Hung like a horse, I can remember that. Show me that prick, and I can make a positive ID.”
He smiled. “I don’t imagine it will come to that.”
“I’m off the hook, then?”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Remo said, “and that’s how it will read in my report. We’re done.”
“All right, then. Sure you wouldn’t like some coffee for the road?”
“No, thanks. It keeps me awake while I’m working.”
“You’re a pisser, Agent Man. I’m glad to meet a Fed who’s got a sense of humor.”
“Well, the day’s still young.”
“It is, and that’s a fact.”
Devona watched him go, no longer smiling as the Plymouth pulled away. No good had ever come from digging up the past, and if there was a rare exception to the rule, Tom Hardy wouldn’t fit the bill.
Bad news, that bastard, and she didn’t have to meet him in this life to know that much. His case had been in all the papers, back in ’64 and ’65. The law had nailed him for a double contract murder, and they reckoned there were twenty-five or thirty more he pulled, before they ran him down. Tom Hardy wasn’t talking, though, and in the end it made no difference.