A Plague of Secrets

9

Schiff couldn’t let go of what she felt was Maya Townshend’s crucial slip of the tongue: “There’s no real reason to keep the place.” Although admittedly slim pickins, she felt it was worth pursuing. Bracco and she agreed, however, that they could do their fishing elsewhere first, before coming back if necessary and taking on Maya head-to-head.

To this end, in the midafternoon, maybe ten other people in the shop, they were sitting up near the bakery products area of BBW with Eugenio Ruiz, who’d been one of the assistant managers under Vogler, and who’d opened the place this Tuesday morning and was currently functioning as the manager.

Eugenio was in his early twenties, small, wiry, and highly strung. He wore his thick black hair in a ponytail and had a couple of days of dark beard growth covering the acne scars. Today he was wearing black slacks, sandals, an incongruous button-down pink shirt, and a vest that looked like it came from South America. A diamond sparkled in his right earlobe. Though not handsome-not with the prominent and crooked nose and the gold-crowned front tooth-he had a confidence and a straightforward warmth that Schiff thought gave him some appeal.

She must unintentionally have been conveying that fact somehow, because even though she had at least ten years on him, he was definitely hitting on her. “She’s okay,” he was saying of his boss Maya Townshend, “nice enough, but not as pretty, say, as you.”

Schiff did her best to ignore not just the comment but Bracco’s quick smirk. “But you haven’t really talked to her that often?” she asked.

“No. The longest conversation I had with her ever, really, was yesterday when she asked me if I would take over the place for a while until she could get a new manager. I told her I wanted to be the first to formally apply, and she said she appreciated that, she’d keep it in mind.”

“So she’s planning to keep the place open?” Bracco asked.

“I hope so. I haven’t heard not. Why? Have you?”

But Schiff the cop was there to ask questions, not answer them. “How would you characterize Mrs. Townshend’s relationship with Dylan?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how did they act together? Like friends? Or more like boss and employee?”

Eugenio scratched at the corner of his mouth, a smile playing around his lips. “Boss and employee, but maybe not the way you think.”

“We don’t think any way,” Bracco said. “That’s why we’re asking you.”

Schiff shot her partner an unappreciative glance and came back at the witness, softening the rebuke. “What are you trying to say, Eugenio?”

“Well, just that if you didn’t know and you saw them together, you wouldn’t think she was the boss.”

“You’d think he was?”

“Most people, I think, yeah.” A quick shrug. “When I started here, the first time I see her come in, she’s back in the office, doing some books or something and it’s cooking out here-I mean, we got a line out the door and everybody’s in high gear. So she comes to the office door and calls for Dylan and he’s taking the orders and doing his schtick and he just waves her off, he doesn’t have time. Makes a joke about accountants when we’re the actual bean counters-get it, coffee beans…”

“I get it,” Schiff replied deadpan.

“Yeah, so, anyway, the whole time she’s back there and then finally she just finishes up and leaves without saying anything to anybody else. And when it finally slows down, I ask, ‘So who was that, our accountant?’ and Dylan about busts a gut laughing. ‘That,’ he says, ‘is the owner. But I,’ he says in that Godfather voice he could do, ‘I’m the boss and don’t you forget it.’ But not really serious. That was the way he talked, that was all. He could be funny when he turned it on.”

“So he was a good boss?”

“Definitely.”

“Did you know he was selling marijuana out of here?”

Ruiz quickly looked from Schiff to Bracco and back. “Nope,” he said. “No clue.”

“Did you ever buy any from him?” Bracco asked.

“No way, man. I don’t do drugs.” A smile at Schiff. “Except caffeine, of course.”

Since Ruiz’s name did not appear in Vogler’s computer, Schiff was willing to let this answer pass. It might even be true. “Let’s get back to Dylan and Mrs. Townshend, if we can, all right? Did he always treat her as though he was the boss, and not vice versa?”

“Pretty much.”

“And she took it… how?”

“I think mostly… I mean, I don’t know for sure… but if you ask me, it’s why she didn’t come in too often. She was nervous, like. I don’t think they really liked each other.”

Schiff told him that Maya had told them she and Dylan had gotten along.

His eyes went to both inspectors in turn. “Well, I don’t want to get her in trouble. She seems like a nice enough lady. Maybe they saw each other out of work.”

“No,” Bracco said. “But she did tell us that with Dylan dead, now there was no reason for her to keep the shop open. You have any idea what she meant by that?”

The young man shook his head. “She didn’t tell me she was going to close it up. I don’t know why she’d do that. The business is great. That just doesn’t make any sense.”

In the passenger seat of their car just after the interview with Eugenio Ruiz, Bracco hung up his cell phone. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“Guess who’s the registered owner of our purported murder weapon? I’ll give you a hint. By all accounts she’s not quite as pretty as some men find you.”

“You caught that, huh?”

“I’m a trained detective. Nothing escapes.”

“You want to go by again and say hello?”

“I was thinking maybe we should.”

Slammed by the admission of Wes Farrell that he was one of Dylan Vogler’s marijuana customers, and still worried sick about the Glitskys and the fate of Zachary, Hardy couldn’t make himself concentrate on his junior associates’ utilization figures. So he decided to leave work early and on the way home to seek an hour or so of solace in the company of his brother-in-law Moses McGuire, who would be behind the rail at the Little Shamrock, the bar they co-owned out on Lincoln near Ninth Avenue.

He’d just found a miraculous parking place around the corner on Tenth and pulled into it when his cell phone rang, his most recent client calling in a panic to tell him that the police had just shown up at her door again and she didn’t know what she should do. It was getting late and the kids were underfoot and Joel would be home soon too.

“Where are they now?” Hardy asked. “The cops?”

“Still out on the porch. I told them I had to talk to my attorney before I could let them come in and talk to me again, and Inspector Bracco said that that was fine but I should know that they’d identified what they think is the murder weapon and found out it was mine. I mean, registered to me.”

“Is that true?”

“I don’t know. It could be, I suppose. I had left a gun I bought a long time ago down at the shop, but I hadn’t seen it in years. I didn’t know it was there anymore, but I guess it was. Anyway, they said maybe I should talk to them here and now if I didn’t want to have to come downtown.”

“That’s a bluff,” Hardy said. “They can’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go without a warrant. And they can’t make you talk to them under any circumstances. Do they have a warrant?”

“I don’t think so. They didn’t say so.”

“Are they still out there?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s only been…” He heard her talking away from the phone. “That’s okay, honey, Mommy’s just…” He missed the rest of it, and then she was back with him. “I’m sorry, where were we?”

“Are Bracco and Schiff still there?”

“I think so.” A pause. “Yes, they’re just standing outside, talking.”

“Could you let me speak with Inspector Bracco, please?”

“Sure, if you think… just a second.”

“Darrel Bracco here. Who’s this?”

“Darrel, it’s Dismas Hardy. How are you doing?”

“Fine, maybe a little cold standing outside in the fog, but okay. Call me a mind reader, but Mrs. Townshend’s your client?”

“She is. I could be there in fifteen minutes. How does that sound?”

“Frankly, sir, it sounds like she’s got herself lawyered up.”

“Every citizen’s right, Darrel.”

“No question, sir, no question. Though as you know, it sometimes gives a cop pause.”

Hardy well knew. “Sometimes it should,” he said. “But I don’t think this is one of those times. Although I’ll tell you frankly I don’t know how much I’m going to let my client say to you until I’ve had a chance to talk to her a little more. Maybe not much.”

“Why am I not shocked?”

“Experience, Darrel. It’s a beautiful thing. Can I talk to Mrs. Townshend again?”

“Sounds like it’s your show. Here she is.”

“Maya,” Hardy said, “why don’t you ask the inspectors in and I’ll be there very shortly. But don’t answer questions until I get there. Is it really your gun?”

“It might have been. If they say so, I’m sure they’re right.”

Hardy wondered why she hadn’t seen fit to remember that detail in their earlier interview, but this wasn’t the time to bring that up.

“But what about Joel?” she asked.

“What about him?”

“He’s going to be coming home. I mean, maybe we could meet someplace else later. You and me and these people.”

“We could do that,” Hardy said evenly. “What time does your husband get home?”

“Sixish. Six-thirty. Usually. But sometimes not. It’s hard to predict.”

Hardy took a beat, checked his watch. “It’s just past four now. I’m sure we can get this all cleared up by five if I come right over.”

“But if Joel gets home early…”

“You’re going to have a hard time keeping this from him in any event. Maybe you want to get that part over with now. But meanwhile, I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“Or sooner if you could,” she said.

The two unknown guests in the living room-a man and a woman-stopped Joel Townshend in his tracks as he was coming in. He looked a question at his wife, who was sitting with them making small talk.

She had turned and now she stood up, wiping her hands nervously on her skirt. “Oh, Joel. You’re early.” Walking back to him, her face a map of her worries, she kissed him on the cheek, then turned to present the couple on the couch as they were getting to their feet together. “These are inspectors Bracco and Schiff. They have some questions about Dylan and BBW.”

Joel put on a welcoming smile, took a few steps forward, and shook hands all around. Thirty-five years old, tall and thin with short-cropped brown hair, he projected an easygoing, casual style only slightly belied by the perfectly tailored tan business suit, light yellow shirt, and brown and gold tie.

In fact, though, he gave no sign that these unexpected visitors bothered him in any way. They were guests in his house, and he was their host. End of story. “Please,” he said, “sit back down. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“That’s all right,” Debra Schiff replied. “You didn’t interrupt anything. We’re waiting for your lawyer anyway.”

Joel’s face clouded in confusion. “My lawyer?”

“Actually, mine.” Maya reached out and took her husband’s hand, facing him now, cutting off any further response. She added, “A friend of Harlen’s. He thought we ought to have a lawyer if we’re going to be talking to the police about a murder.”

Joel made a dismissive gesture and shook his head with a bemused humor. “That’s ridiculous. You know I love your brother, My, but sometimes he’s a bit too much of a drama junkie, don’t you think? I hardly believe we need a lawyer to tell these people the simple truth, do we? You didn’t have anything to do with Dylan’s death.”

“No, but-”

“Well, then? And now we’re making them wait here in their busy day. And for what?”

“Well, Harlen thought…” She tried a conciliatory smile. “Mr. Hardy will be here in just a minute anyway. He thought it was worthwhile me calling him and asking him to come by.”

In a bit of theatricality Joel cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Well, of course he did. You ask a mechanic if he thinks you need a brake job. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, guess what? You do. New pads all around, more brake fluid and lots of it, maybe balance the tires while he’s at it. Oh, and PS, that’ll be five hundred dollars.” He looked at the inspectors. “Am I right?”

Bracco wasn’t completely successful hiding his appreciation at this response. But he kept it low-key. “We’re not encouraged to argue when citizens say they want their attorney, sir,” he said. “But I think it’s fair to say they’re probably overused, especially in situations like this one, where your wife is not a suspect.”

“Well,” Joel said, “her brother’s a big, important city supervisor now and when he gets dumb ideas, nobody ever calls him on them.”

“I know Harlen pretty well, sir,” Bracco said. “I used to be his partner when he was a cop.” Now he broke a broad grin. “The ambition thing makes him a little cautious.”

“There you go,” Joel said. “Excessive caution. Sometimes it’s just unnecessary.” Still holding Maya’s hand, he gave it a little confident squeeze. “I’m sure my wife will be happy to talk to you. What do you want to know?”

“Joel.” Maya now squeezed his hand hard, warning him off.

“Really, My. Come on. This is silly.”

And the doorbell rang.

“There he is now.” Maya jumped as she let go of her husband’s hand and ran to the door.

Townshend watched her for a second, then turned back to the inspectors and shrugged with some exaggeration. “Fantastic,” he said.

Hardy, walking in to a cool reception at best from both the inspectors and the husband, didn’t make matters any better when, first thing after the introductions, he asked Maya if he could speak to her alone, or with her husband if she wanted.

“I don’t think we need to do that,” Joel said. “Maya doesn’t have anything to hide. She can say anything she needs to in front of me and these inspectors.”

“Absolutely,” Hardy said. “If she wants to, of course she can. Maya? Your call.”

They stood in a frozen tableau for a long moment, until she finally turned to face Hardy and said, “Maybe Joel ought to come with us.”

After his initial stunned expression Joel took in the cops again with an apologetic shrug, then came back to Hardy and Maya with a terse, “All right. Let’s go, then.”

Maya led the little party of three off to a front working den-flat-screen TV, bookshelves, fireplace. Closing the door, they remained standing because Joel gave no one any time to sit down before he more or less exploded, although he kept his voice in check. “Maya, you want to tell me what this is about?”

She threw a glance at Hardy-and again, clearly, this didn’t get her any points with her husband-nodded, took in a breath. “Mr. Hardy knows that I went by BBW on Saturday morning and saw the body, and then got scared and drove away without calling the police.”

Joel’s mouth went tight. “You went to BBW Saturday morning? Why?”

“Because Dylan called me Friday night and said he needed to see me first thing, that it was an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“He didn’t say that.”

“But you went?”

“Yes. I went. But the real problem, ask Mr. Hardy here, is that the first time I talked to those people, I didn’t say anything about that. I told them I went to Mass. ”

“The first time you talked to who? Those inspectors out there? This isn’t the first time?”

Hardy finally felt that he could join the conversation. “They talked to your wife yesterday morning.”

Joel couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d talked to them? And not told them the truth?”

“I don’t know, Joel. I don’t know. I panicked. I was afraid, or embarrassed, or something. I thought you’d be mad at me being in this on any level, for getting you involved.” She had her arms crossed over her chest, displaying more defiance than her words indicated. “The point is I’m telling you now, all right? I don’t know what I should do right now. And by the way, you should know, Joel, that the gun they think is probably the murder weapon is the one I left down there back when I first opened the place, like ten years ago, and it’s registered to me.” She looked from one man to the other. “And in case either of you are thinking it, if I were going to have shot Dylan, which I never would have done under any conditions, period, I never would have been so stupid as to throw it away where the police could find it.”

For a minute no one spoke. Eyes flashed between husband and wife. Hardy kept his own counsel in silence until he felt again that he would be heard. “The thing to do right now, in my opinion, Maya, is to go out there and tell the inspectors the truth. As your husband has said. If you don’t do that, and somebody did witness you in the alley on Saturday morning, it will look much worse and be a lot harder to explain. As for the gun, you owned it. So what? If you kept it at the shop, Dylan undoubtedly knew about it and probably had it with him illegally for protection while he was carrying the weed.”

“What weed?” Joel asked.

Maya shook her head in anger and frustration. She spoke under her breath. “Oh, Jesus!”

“Dylan was selling marijuana out of your wife’s store,” Hardy said in his most neutral voice. “I don’t know why it hasn’t been in the papers. The cops have known this all along.”

“How special for them,” Joel said. Clearly seething now, he spoke in a near whisper. “How long were you going to keep all this from me, Maya? What is that about? I thought we talked to each other.”

“We do.”

“Not so much, though, as it turns out.” Finally, Joel brought his attention to Hardy. “So you’re suggesting we go outside and tell these people that my wife lied to them, is that it?”

“Omitted,” Hardy said. “Not lied. At least then we start over with a clean slate.”

“But Maya’s at the murder scene within, apparently, minutes of the crime.”

“That’s true. And in point of fact, she was.”

Now Joel came back to her. “And you don’t know what the emergency was?”

“No.”

“No idea?”

“No, Joel, really.”

This wasn’t enough for her increasingly furious husband. He kept at her. “So the situation here, correct me if I’m wrong, is that Dylan called you on Friday night saying he needed to see you first thing next morning, and you dropped everything and got up at five-thirty, lied to me and the kids about going to Mass-”

“But I did go to Mass, after-”

Joel waved that off. “After you went to see Dylan first, for some reason that he wouldn’t even tell you. Is that what you expect me to believe?”

Tears glistened in Maya’s eyes. “That’s what happened, Joel. That’s exactly what happened.”

“That twerp calls you, doesn’t even give you a reason, and you come running, and now we’ve got the cops sitting in our living room and your lawyer here says we need to tell them the truth, except that the truth leaves you going down to visit the murdered man just about the time he was killed, and with essentially no reason.” He turned to Hardy. “How can we tell them she went down there if we can’t tell them why? Can you answer that for me?”

“Keep it simple. He asked her to, that’s all. Some problem with the business, some decision she had to make in person.” Hardy slowed himself down. “I’m sure Maya thought it was going to be a quick little meeting and then she’d have time to make it back to Mass. Isn’t that right, Maya?”

Hardy had given her the answer and was glad to see her embrace it. “That’s exactly it, Joel. I didn’t think it was anything really important. I wasn’t hiding anything from you. It was just a small business hassle that I thought I’d take care of like I have a million others.”

Another silence, finally broken when Joel asked Hardy, “You really think this will fly?”

“It’s the truth,” Hardy said. “All things considered, honesty’s still the best policy.”

Husband and wife stared at each other for a long beat. Maya reached out and took Joel’s hand in hers. “That ought to be the end of it,” she said.

“Not exactly,” Joel said, extricating his hand from his wife’s. “You and I are going to have to have a discussion.”

“We can do that.” She looked up at Hardy. “Meanwhile, let’s go tell ’em,” she said.

He nodded, no-nonsense. “All right,” he said. “But let me do the talking.”

At ten-thirty that night Hardy threw the next-to-last dart of his round at the Little Shamrock bar and it landed in his “out” spot of double eleven. He plocked the next shot directly in the center of the bull’s-eye, ending the game. He was playing “ 301” and he’d gone out ahead of his opponent, Wyatt Hunt, by hitting his last eight throws in a row, a fairly nice run.

And all too underappreciated by Hunt, his firm’s private investigator, who now owed him not only the tab for the three beers they’d each consumed in the three-game minitournament, but the extra hundred bucks they’d put up as the pot. No sooner had Hardy’s winning shot landed than Hunt handed him the Franklin and offered to go double or nothing.

“That’s a sucker bet, Wyatt, as you well know.” Hardy took the bill and put it into his wallet. “But I’ll buy you a consolation drink to help assuage the agony of defeat.”

“Assuage is a good lawyer word,” Hunt said. “You don’t hear people say assuage every day.”

“No indeed, you don’t,” Hardy replied. “And yet, sometimes it is the perfect choice, le mot juste, as Hemingway would have said.”

“Or me if I spoke French.”

The private eye went about six three, two ten, an athletic hunk comprised of about equal parts gristle and testosterone. If you could be handsome in an ugly way, that’s what Hardy would have said he was. He’d grown up in foster homes, done a stint in Iraq I, then worked a dozen or so years in Child Protective Services, taking kids from abusive environments away from their parent or parents, pretty much the apogee of thankless jobs. Now, and for the past seven or eight years, he ran a private investigations business called The Hunt Club, and Hardy’s firm used it almost exclusively.

Wyatt was leading the way as the two men moved from the dart area and into the narrow recesses of the bar proper, which was having a relatively slow night. Two stools stood open in front of the taps, and they got themselves seated. “That was an obscene run of darts, you know.”

“Admittedly. I’m sure I couldn’t do it again. Although you’ve got to figure that a guy who’s got a board on the wall of his office and his own customized darts probably spends a few minutes playing the game. He’s going to get a lucky run from time to time.”

Hunt was grinning. “I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

Moses McGuire appeared in front of them and they ordered-a club soda for each of them. McGuire, on a club soda regimen himself for the past couple of years, still couldn’t help himself. “Whoa,” he said. “Katie, bar the door. Want those babies full-strength up or on the rocks?”

“The great thing about drinking here”-Hardy ignored his brother-in-law and spoke directly to Hunt-“is the commentary.”

“I knew there was something,” Hunt replied.

“Rocks,” Hardy said, coming back to Moses, “and hold the pithy observations, thank you.”

McGuire pulled the drinks, and Hardy held up his glass to clink Hunt’s. “I feel a little guilty inviting you down here and then taking your money, but thanks for coming.”

Hunt sipped his soda. “Long day?”

“Actually, fairly brutal.” Hardy filled him in on the dramas surrounding both Glitsky and Wes Farrell, which had continued into the night as Hardy, after dinner at home, went to the hospital to check on Abe and Zachary-Abe still a zombie, Zachary unchanged.

Hardy had stayed on with Abe for a long half hour, then patted his friend’s knee and told him to hang in there, call if he needed anything, and left. Unable to make himself go back home to Frannie, Treya, and Rachel, he’d stopped by the Shamrock and called Farrell, who’d apparently turned off his telephones. Getting an idea, then he had called Hunt. “Anyway, between Abe and Wes, it’s like I’m knocked off my horse. I can’t seem to get my arms wrapped around this Dylan Vogler situation. Not just what it’s done to Wes, or potentially could do.”

“You’re really worried about that?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Well, let me lighten your load, Diz. You can get over that. Nobody outside of Singapore cares about who smokes weed. Certainly nobody in law enforcement in this town. ’Course, the bad news in Singapore is they hang you for it. But the good news is we’re not there. Not even Wes. But I’d warn him if he’s thinking about making the trip.”

“I’ll do that,” Hardy said with a strained tolerance. “But in actual fact Wes is an officer of the court. He’s a rainmaker for the firm, he’s-”

Hunt held up a hand. “It’s only going to increase his street cred among his potential clients, Diz, all of whom probably light up a doob with some regularity. The guy’s one of them.”

“Judges won’t think that’s a plus if it gets out. I promise.”

“How are they going to prove it? So his name’s on a list. So what?” Hunt drank. “He’s not really thinking of quitting, is he?”

“He offered.” A shrug. “I told him to think about it some more.”

“Well, before he does anything dumb, at least he ought to talk to Craig.” This was Craig Chiurco, one of Hunt’s operatives, working on his own private investigator’s license. At Hardy’s look Hunt went on. “This guy Vogler had a good book, I’ll give him that.”

Hardy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Craig was on this list too?”

Hunt bobbed his head. “Yeah, and he’s actually a pretty big number. He came and told me about it yesterday. I mean that the cops had called him about it. He was worried it might affect his license chances.”

“Same story. If they could prove it, it might, but without a confession, forget it.”

“Right,” Wyatt said. “And I don’t really see anybody going to go out of their way to bust these guys, even if they could prove anything. At the most it’s casual use, and then only if they in fact catch ’em in flagrante. Hundred bucks if anybody actually cares enough to write you up, which they won’t. Not in this town.”

“So what’d you tell Craig?”

“I told him to dump his stash and give it up. But really, Diz, it’s a nonissue. Vogler, maybe not. But Wes and Craig and whoever else, nothing.”

Hardy glanced over at his companion and lifted his glass. “Okay, since you’ve got all the answers tonight, let me ask you another one. There’s a piece missing somewhere and I can’t put my finger on it.” He ran down what he’d learned about Maya up to this point-the mysterious call from Vogler on Friday night, the early morning trip to BBW, Maya driving away from the body, her concern about her supposedly profligate fling in college, and then bringing the story around to Dylan’s exorbitant salary, the gun, and so on.

When he finished, Wyatt nodded. “Can you say ‘blackmail’?”

“Okay. For what?”

“I don’t know. Something she’s ashamed of or worried about. Probably when she was having her wild time back in college.”

“That’s pretty much what I’d come to. But I didn’t want to let myself believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because blackmail comes with implications.”

“She’s done something bad?”

“In the past, yeah. But nearer the present is the real concern.”

“You’re thinking she did it?”

Hardy hesitated for a few seconds. “If he was blackmailing her and she went down there on Saturday morning? The blackmail was the missing piece. If it’s in there, the picture gets a lot more clear and maybe real ugly in a hurry.”

“You think Bracco and Schiff have put it together?”

“If they haven’t already, they will soon.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I thought I’d ask you to see what you could find out.”

“About her college years?”

At Hardy’s nod Hunt went on. “Not that I couldn’t use the work, but why don’t you just ask her? Tell her you figured out she was being blackmailed, see what she does.”

“Well, I could. But a couple of things. First, her husband kind of made it clear that he didn’t want her seeing me without him being there too. So if he’s the one she doesn’t want to know whatever it is-and that’s a decent bet-she doesn’t tell me no matter what. Next, I might be wrong and the accusation might piss her off. Maybe even enough to where she wants to fire me, which would be letting a potential big one get away. Finally, if whatever she did was bad enough that she killed Vogler to stop it coming out, no way she’s just giving it up, even privileged, to a lawyer she barely knows. I’d be wasting my breath even asking. Better if I find out what it is on my own, then hold on to it and use it as things develop.”

“Knowledge being power and all.”

“Truer words,” Hardy said.

“And why do you want to know all this, exactly?”

The question seemed to stump Hardy for a minute. “If I’m going to defend her, it would help to know who she is.”

“But you’re going to bill her to find out something she doesn’t want you to know?”

“If it’s going to help her in the long run. If it turns out I need her history, which now I’m thinking I might. Otherwise, I step in it without ever seeing it coming. And she winds up screwed.” He tipped up his glass, brought it down slowly. “So what do you say?”

Hunt nodded. “I could give it a couple of days. See what pops.”

“That’s all I’m asking. She gave me three thousand as a retainer. You can spend a good chunk of it. How’s that sound?”

“Doable,” Hunt said. “I’ll give it a run.”