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.”

Abe tried to hide his disappointment.

“But I got to thinking.”

Abe was starting to like this guy. He grinned his scar-slashed grin.

“What’d you get to thinking?”

“Well, as I said, the gun didn’t have any prints, but it didn’t even have any smudges. It was like it had never been held.”

“But it had been fired?”

“Oh yeah, no question about that. But still, even with the mud and salt water, you’d expect something. Some oil residue.”

“So?”

“But there wasn’t anything. Which is, maybe, I don’t know, a little suggestive. So I did a trace test for Armor All.”

“Armor All?”

“You know, the car stuff? Hell’s Angels got wise to this first. You wipe a weapon down, then spray it with Armor All and you won’t leave a print.”

“And there was Armor All on this gun?”

“Right.”

“And so?”

“And so that means that whoever shot the weapon knew about Armor All.”

“Uh huh?”

He leaned over the counter, eyes shining in his excitement. “It means the perp was a pro. Anybody else would have just wiped it down afterward, don’t you think?”

Glitsky acknowledged that. “Okay.”

“So your shooter is in the business. This isn’t high tech, but I wouldn’t say it’s general knowledge either. So if you got two suspects and one is, say, a civilian, then maybe that one isn’t so likely to be your guy.”

“Ray Weir,” Abe said, “the husband. A live one, up to now.”

“It’s something to think about, is all I’m saying.”

Drysdale was going over the ground rules again. Outside the window, cars were starting to back up on the freeway heading toward the Bay Bridge. Gubicza leaned backward and could make out the clock on the Union 76 sign-4:38. The day had been shot to hell on this idiocy, and it wasn’t over yet.

Fred, still enthusiastic and confident, was in the process of getting hooked up by the polygraph technician, a woman in uniform who with Drysdale would be the only people present when Fred was questioned. This was Manny’s great concern. Polygraphs didn’t work with distractions-with a trained subject, they didn’t work at all-and Manny would not be in the actual room when the procedure took place. There would be no court reporter, no other attorneys, no one except Fred, Drysdale, and this woman, who would probably sit behind Fred, out of his line of vision.

This wasn’t as bad as it could be because Drysdale had already presented Manny and Fred with a complete list of the questions he would be asking, all either yes or no, and lawyer and client had gone over them for the past hour, making sure there was nothing Fred might slip on.

So Manny listened with half an ear, figuring that if Drysdale was planning on a blindside attack, there was almost no possibility he would do it now.

“So as I say,” Drysdale droned on, “this isn’t any formal proceeding, but the nature of your allegations”-here he smiled at Treadwell, at Gubicza-“are so… so unusual, that I believe you’ll get more”-again searching for the right word-“more enthusiastic cooperation from this office in general…” Drysdale spread his hands out, smiling, everybody’s friend. “This isn’t me, gentlemen. I’m selling the whole package both to my boss and my staff, and there is some concern-possibly justified at this stage, I’m afraid -well, let’s just say your cooperation here, Manny, will enhance your and your client’s credibility.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Treadwell said.

“Fred, please.” Gubicza wasn’t about to have his client get into an off-the-record discussion with Art Drysdale, who beneath his benign exterior was one of the craftiest attorneys Gubicza had ever opposed.

“Me?” Drysdale acted shocked. “I totally believe you. That’s why I’m doing this, we’re doing this.” He hiked a leg up on the table where the polygraph sat. There was no guile on his face, he wasn’t trying to sell anything, just convey information. “Manny, of course, is right to treat this as though we’re adversarial here. But, without mentioning names, I’m not giving anything away when I say that certain members of the staff here are skeptical. But this, today, this is just ammo to use against those people, so in a real sense, for today at least, we’re on the same side. You tell me what happened with Hector Medina, the polygraph corroborates it-okay, so it’s not formally admissible-it’ll get the team behind this case. And that’s what we both want. It makes my job easier.” He spread his arms again, his wide and sincere smile.