“Now what?” demanded Fazzino instantly, although the knowledge already was in his face.
“Now I tell them that it wasn’t.”
“Phil, what’s he talking about?”
“People who don’t need the kind of proof a jury does, honey,” said Kearny very quietly.
“Look, Kearny, anything you want I can... can give you...”
“An old lady’s life back?” He shook his head. “Final notice, huh, Flip? All the same a banker or a bookkeeper...”
His left hand picked up the receiver, laid it beside the phone, and began dialing the Piedmont number he had gotten that afternoon. Fazzino started up from the easy chair in a single clean swift movement.
“I think not,” said Kearny.
Fazzino stopped moving. The detective’s right hand had come out of his raincoat pocket with the S&W .41 Magnum four-inch he had a permit for but hadn’t carried in years. The hammer was back. His face said he’d use the gun if Fazzino made him.
“Look, Kearny, we can work something out.” Fazzino’s eyes were sick. “Hang up the phone! We don’t need this, you and me! We can—”
Kearny said into the phone, “Counselor Hawkley, please.” He looked at Fazzino and the girl. His tongue felt clumsy around the words. “Hawkley? Dan Kearny. I’ve run across some information that might interest your clients back East...”
They sat together in the big useless expensive living room — with stunned faces, like people at an accident, listening to Kearny talk. Maybe they could run fast enough and far enough, he thought. He almost hoped they could. But he didn’t really believe it.