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“Dad’s? No, at least I’m pretty sure he’s not. Darla’s pretty young—younger than you and me—but she already had Austin when she and Dad got together.”
I nodded my head.
“You have Darla’s number? Because I have to ask her the usual questions. She’s likely our last best hope.”
My sister said, “Take it easy on her, Lindsay. She’s a single mom and now also a freshly minted widow.”
“What if she killed him?”
“Shhhh. You’ll figure it out. Thanks for going after Dad’s killer. I love you, sis. Cookies to go?”
CHAPTER 20
AN HOUR AFTER leaving Cat, I parked around the corner from our Lake Street apartment building. I turned off the engine and sat for a while, looking at the quiet street. My thoughts still churned, even more so for having spent half the night with Cat speaking about what would have been unthinkable a day ago.
My feelings were unresolved and I realized that no one could calm my roiling emotions but me. Only working hard, well, and fast would put the Marty Boxer case to bed.
When I opened our front door, Joe leapt up from his recliner and hugged me until I yelped.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Do that again.”
This time, I hugged him back, and we rocked together in the foyer until Joe said “ouch.” He stepped back, unhooked my shoulder holster that had been digging into his side, and hung it in the gun safe. I took a moment to peek into Julie’s room. Both she and Martha were sleeping soundly.
Joe toasted bread, dished up chicken soup but I couldn’t fake it. I had no appetite at all. I put the spoon back in the saucer. I admired the new aquarium on the counter and finally spoke my mind. “Joe? We have any wine?”
Joe went to the fridge, then held up an opened bottle of Chardonnay for my approval.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
I sipped cold fermented juice of the grape, set down the glass, and looked across the table into my husband’s steady blue eyes. Telling him about the longest day of my life wasn’t going to be easy, but I put my elbows on the table, leaned in, and grabbed Joe’s hands. Then I started to talk.
I began with ID’ing Marty’s dead body—and my confusion over how a man I’d long considered dead already had been shot last night. Then I took Joe through the meeting with Leo Spinogatti. I showed him the photo Leo had given me of my mom, Cat, and myself and got bogged down in the weeds again.
Joe knew I was lost in thought and asked me to raise my hand if I could hear his voice.
I shook off my meeting with Spinogatti and virtually walked Joe through the door of JR’s Aces High Dry Cleaners, Jack Robbie’s weed-reeking, electronic-beeping gambling shack.
I said, “I’m thinking about a gambling joint in the Mission.”
I described the place in a few concise sentences, telling Joe that Marty Boxer, former homicide dick, had been in deep arrears to his bookie to the tune of a quarter million bucks or so.
“The bookie’s name is Jack Robbie,” I said. “He’s the bank, and clearly not a fan of Marty Boxer.” I described Robbie, “the bank,” and that in order to zero out some of his own debt, Marty had become Robbie’s freelance enforcer.
“Marty kept weapons in his car, Joe, and also a ledger of his debts and his collections, crossing off his debts to his bookie, ‘FSR’—‘for services rendered.’”
“Very low,” said Joe. “You like the bookie for killing Marty?”
I said, “Motive is obvious. Robbie has an iffy alibi for the time Marty was shot. We’re not done with him yet.”
Joe said, “I wonder how many enemies Marty made with his side hustle. What did his lawyer say?”
I pictured myself with Brad Mitcham asking me,“Which do you want first? The good news or the bad?”
The good and bad had been one and the same.
Joe said, “Linds. The lawyer. What did he say?”
