“Did you know last week he came into, like, thirty thousand dollars?”
Tortoni made a note to have somebody check out Johnny’s apartment, his mother’s flat, his friends. The son of a bitch. But he only said, “Good for him.”
The white cop said, “You wouldn’t have seen any of that, would you?”
Tortoni glanced down the alley. His son had put Doreen back into the car and waited, arms crossed, leaning against the hood. He took a step in that direction. “I got an accountant takes care of things like that. You want to know, make an appointment. I claim every penny I make.” He stopped and pointed to the body on the ground. “I’m talking to you both so nice ’cause I want to help you find the sumbitch did in my boy here. You need help, time goes by, I got connections might do some good. Everybody cooperates. This guy Medina, you talking to him?”
Glitsky nodded. “He works at the Drake. I’ll be going over this afternoon.”
“You find anything, I’d consider it a personal favor you let me know.” Tortoni wondered if going back over to the body would be laying it on too thick and decided it would be. He straightened himself, bearing up under the loss. Nodding at the two cops, he started back to his car.
Hardy was reflecting on the difference between Abe’s professional attitude and his own, why Abe was probably on his way to seeing Hector Medina again, and Hardy was here eating ice cream at the Gelato just off Stanyan, waiting for Courtenay Moran to show.
Glitsky had another murder, committed by someone probably in his jurisdiction, and the killer was walking the streets. So Abe’s job was to follow the threads from that and bring that new person in. If it tied into Maxine’s death, all to the good. But the fact that it hadn’t been Louis Baker didn’t seem to make all that much difference to Abe. Somebody, after all, had killed Johnny, and Abe’s job was to find that person. Hardy had to remember that Louis was in as much for the killing at Holly Park as he was for Maxine, and Abe just left it like that.
In fact, the more he thought about it, the theory he’d laid on Moses last night was starting to make more and more sense. He, Hardy, was involved in this whole thing only because Rusty had come to him. Period. And why had he done that?
He had done that, and made it as convincing as possible, because he needed someone with impeccable credentials, with no ax of his own to grind-somebody exactly like Dismas Hardy-to preach the gospel of the dead, not the missing, Rusty Ingraham.
Because the mob didn’t look for a dead man.
And setting up Louis Baker? No problem. Guy deserved life in prison anyway. Him getting out after nine years was a mockery of the justice system, wasn’t it? Serve him right, after all the crimes he’d gotten away with, to get him for something he didn’t do.
And use Hardy to do it.
Putting it together: the call to San Quentin making sure Baker was getting out. Three days later, after you work out the plan, you ditch your car and report it stolen. You go through some inconvenience for a month taking buses to establish some credibility. Then you see your friend Hardy and tell him Baker’s getting out and is planning to kill both of you. You do your best to scare the shit out of him, then you order a gun-the picture of a man terrified for his life.
You pick up Louis Baker in the bus station, making your only mistake, which is driving your car. Risks proving you a liar, especially if they ever get to questioning Baker about it. You want him to leave some-any-physical evidence that he was on your barge. A thumbprint would be plenty to police who were already predisposed-because of Hardy’s testimony-to believe the ex-con did it.
Then what?
You shoot Maxine, administer yourself a flesh wound, leave a bloody trail to the edge of the barge, drop the gun overboard, dress the wound, get in your car-which no one thinks you have anymore-and head out. But where to?
And the world comes to believe you’re dead. You’ve got a lot of money, in cash. You’re washed up in San Francisco. Your vig is eating you up. All your old friends have written you off. Go someplace else. Start over…
“A man in deep thought.”
Courtenay, in black and hot-pink Spandex, was six feet of impressive woman. When she had told Hardy she would run on down to meet him, she had meant it literally. Her face was flushed with a light sheen of sweat, set off by a pink band around her forehead. The close-cropped blond hair was nearly white in the daylight.
She pulled up a stool across from him at the window. “You’ve already had some.”
Hardy looked down at his empty dish. “I’ll have another one with you. What do you want?”
He went to the counter and ordered-two chocolate chocolates. When he got back to her, she said, “I was mad at you.”
“You didn’t have to come down here.”
“Yes, I did. You never told me you were a cop.”
Hardy popped a spoonful of ice cream. “I’m not.”
She was still breathing heavily from her run. After a minute she said, “I came down to ask you please not to tell Warren. Ray said you-”
He held up a hand.
“Let’s leave Ray. Ray’s not important.”
“He’s important if Warren ever finds out.”
“I thought you had an open relationship, you and Warren.”
“Let’s put it this way. We don’t ask each other. Maybe one or the other assumes, and it’s safer to assume your partner is not faithful because it’s probably true. But that’s not the same as wanting to be confronted with it, especially if it’s one of your best friends.”
“And especially if you and your regular partner work together.”
“Okay, especially then.” She put her spoon down. “Look, I’m not making excuses. Ray and I did what we did. Maybe it helped him a little, made him feel better. I’m sorry about the timing of it being the night Maxine got killed, but remember, we didn’t know that at the time.”
“So you’re not really having an affair with him?”
A slow smile spread into a wide grin. “Why? You interested? I thought you were just being a cop, the other night and now.”
Hardy shrugged. “I told you, I’m not really a cop at all. I used to be. Now some things have happened around this whole thing with Maxine and Rusty Ingraham-”
“Like what?”
Hardy took a bite of ice cream, knowing it was going to sound melodramatic. But it was the truth. “People are dying, getting killed. I’m not too happy thinking I might be on the list. If I’m right about some things, it could make me a threat…”
“How?”
Hardy ran down most of the events of the past week, but tried to stick to facts only.
She put her hand over his on the counter as he finished. “Since we knew them-Rusty and Max-do you think we’re in trouble, too?”
“I don’t know. The loop seems to head in a different direction. Rusty was evidently into the mob for a lot of money.”
“But why you? You’re not in with those people, are you?”
“That’s the big question. I got into it the day everything started. I’m part of it.” She waited, and he decided to open up some. “Well, if Rusty’s still alive, for example, and let’s just say he killed Maxine and set up Louis to take the fall, then do you think he’s going to let me walk around? I’m the only guy can put this together, which means I’m the only guy who’s a threat to him. He may or may not realize it yet, but it’s sure to occur to him, and I’d prefer not to wait around for that glorious moment to arrive.”
“But Rusty’s not alive. You said-”
Hardy held up a hand. “From the beginning, Rusty’s body has been missing. I went to a lot of trouble to prove how it could have disappeared because I kept assuming he was dead. It was possible, plausible, even reasonable, but mostly it was what I wanted to believe because of some other preconceptions, courtesy of Rusty, so I believed it.”
Slowly, she licked ice cream off her spoon. “So why did you want to see me?” she asked.
“Because maybe you know something and don’t know you know it.”