CHAPTER 4
Detective Fuller came back. He still looked tired, but he came in, accepted my offer of a scotch and sat on the couch, placing his little notebook on the coffee table.
“I assume you haven’t done anything stupid,” he said
“I’m not sure what you mean by stupid.”
“I mean you haven’t bought yourself a gun or hired a hit man,”
“Where would I find one of those?”
“On television.”
He sipped the scotch, “This is good stuff,” he said. “Better than what I’m used to.”
“I don’t have many expenses,” I said. “No wife, no kid, no bad habits. At least not habits that cost a lot of money. So I buy good scotch, good vodka, good wine. My car is paid for. “
“But you’ve checked up on our buddy, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I did some looking on the internet.”
“And you drove by his house?”
“Yes. Nice place.”
“Three Hispanic guys doing his lawn and his shrubs the day I was there. Three car garage. Fucking big house.”
“He’s well heeled. So what did you find out?”
“Nothing. At least nothing that I can use. I met with him, asked him about the car repair. He had the usual story, scraped it on a wall in a garage.”
“What about the phony name?”
“Said he does that often. Doesn’t want people to connect him. He’s in big finance, wants to keep his private life private, so he keeps his name out of transactions that aren’t important.”
“You believe him?”
“No.”
“What tells you that?”
“He was too quick with his answers. Here comes a Sheriff’s detective, three years later. He ought to be vague. A car repair for a minor scrape three years ago? What the fuck is this all about? But the answers were rehearsed, like he’d been waiting for me. It’s the kind of story that I hear all the time. Quick answers, a logical pattern. What the fuck are you asking me about this for? It’s a rehearsed answer. I’ve heard enough of them to recognize one.”
“So you’re sure he’s the one?”
“No, I’m not positive. If I had to put money on it, I’d put it on him. But I can’t put the clamp on it. I can’t say, yeah, he’s the guy and know for sure that he’s the perp. Everything fits, but I don’t have that thing that would put him away. Paint scrapings from your daughter’s car, a witness that put him out there, a license plate number from that truck driver. That’s what I don’t have, and there’s not much chance that I’m going to get it.”
“So he’s going to get away with it?”
“I’ve found the truck driver. I’ll interview him. Maybe he remembers something that will help.”
“What if this bastard has an accident?”
“What kind of an accident?”
“I was thinking maybe he would take a walk on one of those Point Reyes beaches and maybe slip and get pulled out into the waves and drown.”
“Jesus Christ! You’re not serious!”
“It’s just a thought.”
“He’s gonna go out there and wade in the surf and lose his footing and drown? You got any idea how that would happen?”
“No. I don’t. Like I said, it’s just a thought. One that I had yesterday.”
“I don’t want to arrest you. There’s no reason for you to risk your own life and liberty for some asshole like him.”
“If he’s the one who sent my daughter to her death, then I’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Jesus.” He raised the scotch to his lips, took a sip. “I didn’t hear that,” he said.