“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.”
Chapter Eighteen
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.”