It was brilliant theater, and like all brilliant theater, ended with a punch: the fight in the harsh light, Davenport destroying the rookie cop, his hands moving so fast they could barely be seen. Then Davenport starting toward the cameras, murder in his eye, until stopped by McGowan’s voice.
Brutal. Davenport was not just a player. He was an animal.
When the show ended, the maddog stared at the television for a few moments, then punched up the tape of the TV3 interview.
Davenport again, but a different one. Cooler. Calculating. A hunter, not a fighter. The maddog recognized the quality instinctively, had seen it in the ranchers around his father’s place, the men who talked about my deer and my antelope.
Ruiz still drew him, her face, her dark eyes. The connection was not essential, was not the connection he felt with a Chosen—she had passed beyond that privilege. But there was an undeniable residue of their previous relationship, and the maddog felt it and thought about it.
Was he being manipulated again? Was this another Davenport trick? He thought not.
The maddog had never had a two-sided relationship with a woman, but he was acutely sensitive to the relationships between others. Halfway through the interview, he realized that Davenport and Carla Ruiz were somehow involved with each other. Sexually? Yes. The more he watched, the more he was convinced that he was right.
Interesting.
CHAPTER
26
“Come on. Let’s do it.” Sloan was leaning in the doorway.
“No fuckin’ point, man,” Lucas said. He felt lethargic, emotionally frozen. “We know what he’s hiding. He’s worried about his reputation. He ripped off the Rices and he’s afraid somebody will find out.”
“How do you feel?”
“What?”
“How do you feel? Since the Fuckup?”
Lucas grinned in spite of himself. The disaster at McGowan’s had been dubbed the Fuckup. Everybody from the mayor to the janitors was using it. Lucas suspected everybody in town was. “I feel like shit.”
“So come on,” Sloan urged. “We’ll go over and jack that mother up. That ought to clear out your glands.”
It was better than sitting in the office. Lucas lurched to his feet. “All right. But I’ll drive. Afterward we can go out and get something decent to eat.”
“You buying?”
The shop assistant went into the back room to get Nester, who was not happy to see them.
“I thought you understood my position,” he said, heading for the telephone. “This has now become harassment. I’m going to call my attorney first thing, rather than listen to you at all.”
“That’s up to you, Nester,” Lucas said, baring his teeth.
“It might not be a bad idea, in fact. We’re trying to decide whether to bust you on felony fraud or to let Mrs. Rice’s attorney handle it as a civil matter. You want to be stubborn, we’ll put the cuffs on and drag you downtown and book you right now.”
The shop assistant’s head was swinging back and forth like a spectator’s at a tennis match. Nester glanced at him, his hand on the telephone, and said, “I have no idea what you’re speaking of.”
“Sure you do,” Lucas said. “We’re talking about netsukes that might be worth a quarter-million dollars, that you were asked to valuate for insurance purposes. You told the owner that they were virtually worthless and bought them for a song.”
“I never,” Nester sputtered. “I was never asked to valuate those netsukes. They were offered for sale and I paid the asking price. That is all.”
“That’s not what Mrs. Rice says. She’s willing to take it to court.”
“Do you think a jury would believe some . . . some washerwoman instead of me? It is my word against hers—”
“You wouldn’t have a chance,” Sloan said in his soapiest voice. “Not a chance. Here’s a guy who fought for his country and brought home some souvenirs, not knowing what he had. Then he goes through life, a good guy, pushing a broom, and finally dies of cancer that slowly eats its way up his body, killing him inch by inch. He wants to sell whatever personal possessions he can, to help his wife after he’s dead. She’s aging herself and they’re living hand to mouth. Probably eating dog food—I can guarantee they will be, by the time their lawyer gets done with it.”
“Maybe cat food. Tuna parts,” Lucas chipped in.
“And they’ve got this treasure trove, without knowing it,” Sloan continued. “Could be a happy ending, just like in a TV movie. But what happens? Along comes this slick-greaser dealer in objets d’art who gives them five hundred dollars for a quarter-million bucks’ worth of art. Do you really think a jury would side with you?”
“If you do, you’re living in a dream world,” Lucas said. “I’ve got some friends in the press, you know? When I feed them this story, you’ll be more famous than the maddog killer.”
“That’s not a bad idea, you know?” Sloan said, looking sideways at Lucas as he picked up the hint. “We haul him in, book him for fraud, and put out the story. It could take some of the heat off—”
“You better come back to my office,” said Nester, now deathly pale.
They followed him through a narrow doorway into the back. A storeroom protected with a steel-mesh fence took up most of the space, with a small but elegantly appointed office tucked away to one side. Nester lowered himself behind the desk, fussed with calendar pages for a moment, then said, “What can we do about this?”
“We could arrest you for fraud, but we don’t really want to. We’re worried about other things,” Lucas said, lowering himself into an antique chair. “If you just tell us what we want to know, we’ll suggest that Mrs. Rice get a lawyer and work this out in civil court. Or perhaps you could negotiate a settlement.”
“I talked to this person,” Nester protested, nodding at Sloan. “I told him everything that happened between Mr. Rice and myself.”
“I had a very strong feeling that you were holding back,” Sloan said. “I’m not usually wrong.”
“Well. Frankly, I thought if you learned about the price paid for the netsukes, which was the price Mr. Rice asked—let the seller beware—that you might feel it was . . . inappropriate. I was not hiding it, I was merely being discreet.”
Lucas grimaced. “If you had told us that, or even suggested it, we wouldn’t have hassled you,” he said. “We’re trying to trace the gun Rice had. We’re running down everybody who talked to him while he had it.”
“I never saw a gun and he never mentioned a gun or offered to sell one,” Nester said. “I didn’t see anyone else while I was there, not even Mrs. Rice. We didn’t talk. I went in and said I would be interested in looking at the netsukes. He backed his wheelchair up, got them from a box and gave them to me, and went back to his reading. I asked how much, he said five hundred dollars. I gave him a check and left. We didn’t exchange more than fifty words.”
“That doesn’t sound like Rice,” Sloan said. “He was supposed to be quite a talker.”
“Not with me,” Nester said.
Lucas looked at Sloan and shook his head.
“I think because he was so involved with his will,” Nester continued. “He had to read it and sign it before his attorney picked it up.”
“His attorney?” Lucas asked. He turned to Sloan. “His attorney?”
Sloan started paging through his workbook.
“He said his attorney was on his way,” Nester said, looking from one to the other. “Does that help?”
“We don’t show any attorney,” Sloan said.
Lucas felt his throat tighten. “Did he say what his attorney’s name was?”
“No, nothing like that. Or I don’t remember,” Nester said.
“We may want to talk to you some more,” Lucas said, standing up. “Come on, Sloan.”
Sloan pumped a quarter into the pay phone. Mary Rice picked it up on the first ring.
“Your husband’s will, Mrs. Rice, do you have a copy of it there? Could you get it? I’ll wait.”