Hardy wondered how many cars got reported stolen that weren’t really stolen-that were ditched, hidden, trashed for any number of reasons, the most obvious of which, but certainly not the only one, being insurance. (The other reasons provided some food-hell, a whole Sunday dinner -for thought.)
The telephone, that mute uncooperative toy that had stared silently at Hardy the whole time he’d been home, now jangled shrilly, demanding attention. Hardy, a slave to it, picked it up.
Chapter Twenty-one
Abe Glitsky chewed on ice as he sat at the window at David’s on Geary. A banner on the Curran Theater across the street was advertising season tickets for the American Conservatory Theater. Abe was remembering the early years with Flo, when they’d gone to the ACT all the time, “taking advantage” of the city. Now they raised their kids and occasionally went out to dinner. They’d been to maybe three movies in the past year.
Was it them? Or was the Theater really dead? The thought brought a smile. Had the city changed? Would L.A. be any different?
He lifted a hand. Hardy was standing in the entrance to the dining room, then pulling out the chair across from him.
Glitsky had reached Hardy on his second call. He had been working on his own agenda, not interested in going back to the Hall and giving Batiste the satisfaction. Hardy had wanted to know about Baker-was he still alive? He had found out some stuff about Ingraham. This and that, none of it seemingly related, finally mentioning the gambling, which was what LaGuardia had been trying to tell him yesterday.
And Glitsky, hearing that, decided he and Hardy ought to get together and shake a tree or two. Maybe some of these people knew somebody, something else. Hardy jumped at the suggestion and here they were.
“Abraham, que tal? Como va?” Hardy in high spirits.
Abe chewed his ice. “I don’t know why we’re doing this,” he now said. Seeing his friend, in his own bleak mood, the idea for the get-together suddenly seemed amateurish, bullshit.
Hardy reached over and took half of Abe’s bagel and cream cheese and took a bite. “You done with this?”
“Yeah. Now.”
“The situation sucks,” Hardy said between bites. “Baker didn’t do it.” He held up his hand, stopping any rebuttal. “Hey, don’t forget, I wanted it to be him, but I just can’t see it.”
“You really don’t think Baker did it?”
“Neither do you or we wouldn’t be sitting here this fine afternoon.”
Glitsky got his iced tea filled. Hardy ordered a cup of coffee. “Okay, you first,” Abe said.
“He was there, right?”
“Abaloolie.” Abe grinned. “One of O.J.’s words.“
But Hardy was rolling. “If he went to Rusty’s to kill him, he would have brought a gun, right? Right. He couldn’t possibly have left it to chance that Rusty would have a gun on board that he would somehow conveniently give to him so he could get shot.”
“I’ve still got a problem with Rusty being shot,” Abe said.
“Well, hold that. ’Cause I’ve got a problem with the fact that old Louis had no clue there was a woman on board. Much less a naked one he blasted three times at point blank.”
“Yeah,” Abe said, “that doesn’t exactly fly.”
“So?” Hardy asked.
“So what?”
“So what are we left with?”
“Like who else was there?”
“Good, Abe.”
“LaGuardia was there.”
“Why was he there?”
“To collect Rusty’s vig. But he says the girl, at least, was already dead when he got there. And Diz, look, there is no way Johnny LaGuardia shoots anybody with a twenty-two.”
“Ray Weir’s gun.”
“Right.”
“So was Ray there?”
“Would Ray know about Armor All?” Glitsky explained the connection.
“But was he there? We don’t know where he was, do we? We just know he wasn’t at home, where he says he was.”
“How do we know that?” Abe asked.
Hardy described Warren’s night, waiting on the steps with a six-pack. Waiting for his friend Ray to get home so they could have a few and get this Maxine melancholia out of the way.
Abe tipped his glass up, flicking at it with his finger until the last of the ice fell into his mouth.
“Is that what we call the break in the case?” he asked.
Ray Weir’s eyes in the bathroom mirror were a new shade of red.
It was probably the combination of the crying and the dope, but how could he face anybody this way? Especially the cops.
Out on the steps. Waiting.
He’d told them he’d be a minute. Visine in the eyes. Listerine. He opened the shade to bright afternoon sun. Already afternoon. Threw the window up. Some of the smoke wafted out.
Another knock.
“Come on, Ray, open up.”
Suddenly just sitting on the floor. Half the pictures of Maxine torn from the wall, lying scattered around him. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”
“What?” Through the door.
“I just can’t.”
Some mumbling. Another pound… “now or we’ll break it down.”
“Leave me alone,” he yelled, collapsing onto his face, the bright sun going out, arms over his head. “Please, please, leave me alone.”
“What’s he doing?” Hardy asked.
Glitsky shrugged.
The landing where Warren had allegedly sat with his beer, where Courtenay had hit on Hardy, was windowless. The downstairs entranceway provided some reflected light, and there was a slit under the door like a ribbon of brightness. Carpeted steps led to the hardwood landing, all of it heavy with mustiness and the smell of marijuana.
“Ray, open the door.” Glitsky often surprised Hardy, but never more than with his patience. “We’re just here to talk.” He put a light hand on Hardy’s arm and nodded, reassuring.
In twenty seconds they heard another rustling inside, and then a chain being released.
The door opened, and Ray was walking away from them, across the smoke-filled room, to his couch. Hardy and Glitsky followed, stepping over pictures, fallen leaves, of Maxine.
Ray huddled sideways at one end of the couch, legs hugged to his chest. Glitsky motioned for Hardy to sit in one of the director’s chairs and sat himself on the couch two feet from Ray, hands folded in front of him, feet flat on the ground.
One of the lamps was knocked over on the floor. This wasn’t vu zjahday, but the other one. The scattered pictures, the broken lamps. Did somebody break lamps for a living around here?
“She took it all.”
Ray had finally raised his head. Hardy had seen more life in store-window mannequins. His eyes, Jesus!
“Took what, Ray?” Abe, unfazed, gentle.
Ray put his head back down into his knees. Hardy saw the hands tighten around the legs he held close to him. Trying to get collected. Back up. Over to Hardy. There was no look of surprise-he recognized him but couldn’t say from where.
“Took what, Ray?” Glitsky prompted.
“Everything,” he said. “She took it all.”
“The insurance money?” Hardy asked.
Ray shook his head, all inside himself. “I mean, we were splitting that. That was always understood. That was our deal. We’d still be friends.”
Hardy and Glitsky exchanged glances.
Abe leaned back into the couch. “What happened to the money, Ray?”
“She cashed it.” His eyes went to the wall of pictures, half torn down. “She split it with Ingraham. They just took it.”
“Which brings us-” Hardy began, but Glitsky held up his palm again.
“Where did they take it, Ray?” The repetitious first name, like a mantra keeping them close.
“It must have been to Ingraham’s.” Ray met Abe’s eyes. “You guys didn’t find it at her apartment.”
“At the barge, you mean?”
Ray nodded.
“So was it there, Ray?”