“Judges won’t think that’s a plus if it gets out. I promise.”

“How are they going to prove it? So his name’s on a list. So what?” Hunt drank. “He’s not really thinking of quitting, is he?”

“He offered.” A shrug. “I told him to think about it some more.”

“Well, before he does anything dumb, at least he ought to talk to Craig.” This was Craig Chiurco, one of Hunt’s operatives, working on his own private investigator’s license. At Hardy’s look Hunt went on. “This guy Vogler had a good book, I’ll give him that.”

Hardy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Craig was on this list too?”

Hunt bobbed his head. “Yeah, and he’s actually a pretty big number. He came and told me about it yesterday. I mean that the cops had called him about it. He was worried it might affect his license chances.”

“Same story. If they could prove it, it might, but without a confession, forget it.”

“Right,” Wyatt said. “And I don’t really see anybody going to go out of their way to bust these guys, even if they could prove anything. At the most it’s casual use, and then only if they in fact catch ’em in flagrante. Hundred bucks if anybody actually cares enough to write you up, which they won’t. Not in this town.”

“So what’d you tell Craig?”

“I told him to dump his stash and give it up. But really, Diz, it’s a nonissue. Vogler, maybe not. But Wes and Craig and whoever else, nothing.”

Hardy glanced over at his companion and lifted his glass. “Okay, since you’ve got all the answers tonight, let me ask you another one. There’s a piece missing somewhere and I can’t put my finger on it.” He ran down what he’d learned about Maya up to this point-the mysterious call from Vogler on Friday night, the early morning trip to BBW, Maya driving away from the body, her concern about her supposedly profligate fling in college, and then bringing the story around to Dylan’s exorbitant salary, the gun, and so on.

When he finished, Wyatt nodded. “Can you say ‘blackmail’?”

“Okay. For what?”

“I don’t know. Something she’s ashamed of or worried about. Probably when she was having her wild time back in college.”

“That’s pretty much what I’d come to. But I didn’t want to let myself believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because blackmail comes with implications.”

“She’s done something bad?”

“In the past, yeah. But nearer the present is the real concern.”

“You’re thinking she did it?”

Hardy hesitated for a few seconds. “If he was blackmailing her and she went down there on Saturday morning? The blackmail was the missing piece. If it’s in there, the picture gets a lot more clear and maybe real ugly in a hurry.”

“You think Bracco and Schiff have put it together?”

“If they haven’t already, they will soon.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I thought I’d ask you to see what you could find out.”

“About her college years?”

At Hardy’s nod Hunt went on. “Not that I couldn’t use the work, but why don’t you just ask her? Tell her you figured out she was being blackmailed, see what she does.”

“Well, I could. But a couple of things. First, her husband kind of made it clear that he didn’t want her seeing me without him being there too. So if he’s the one she doesn’t want to know whatever it is-and that’s a decent bet-she doesn’t tell me no matter what. Next, I might be wrong and the accusation might piss her off. Maybe even enough to where she wants to fire me, which would be letting a potential big one get away. Finally, if whatever she did was bad enough that she killed Vogler to stop it coming out, no way she’s just giving it up, even privileged, to a lawyer she barely knows. I’d be wasting my breath even asking. Better if I find out what it is on my own, then hold on to it and use it as things develop.”

“Knowledge being power and all.”

“Truer words,” Hardy said.

“And why do you want to know all this, exactly?”

The question seemed to stump Hardy for a minute. “If I’m going to defend her, it would help to know who she is.”

“But you’re going to bill her to find out something she doesn’t want you to know?”

“If it’s going to help her in the long run. If it turns out I need her history, which now I’m thinking I might. Otherwise, I step in it without ever seeing it coming. And she winds up screwed.” He tipped up his glass, brought it down slowly. “So what do you say?”

Hunt nodded. “I could give it a couple of days. See what pops.”

“That’s all I’m asking. She gave me three thousand as a retainer. You can spend a good chunk of it. How’s that sound?”

“Doable,” Hunt said. “I’ll give it a run.”

Hardy wasn’t wrong when he said that Schiff and Bracco wouldn’t be far behind him in coming to the conclusion that Dylan Vogler was blackmailing Maya Townshend.

They’d gotten to it almost by osmosis the next morning. At a few minutes after nine A.M. they knocked at the front door of Jansey’s house, figuring that she would most probably have known what dirt her man had had on his boss that he had used not only to keep himself gainfully employed, but that also allowed him to treat her as an underling when she came into her own store.

Last night, in spite of their great frustration at having Dismas Hardy show up at the Townshends’ to limit the free flow of information, the inspectors had learned a great deal. Most importantly, Maya had lied to them about her alibi on Saturday morning. Beyond that, she’d admitted that she’d actually been called down to the murder scene by the victim and had discovered his body and then opted not to call the police and report it. In the eyes of the inspectors these two revelations elevated Maya in a hurry to a person of interest in the homicide.

She had had both the means and the opportunity to have killed Dylan Vogler. If Bracco and Schiff could establish a compelling motive, they would be well on their way to establishing her as their prime suspect. And the fact that Maya had apparently been at Vogler’s beck and call-coming down to the store before dawn on a Saturday morning?-argued strongly, in spite of Hardy’s disclaimers, that theirs was not a simple business relationship.

Vogler must have had something on Maya that she didn’t want revealed. And maybe he’d been threatening her with just that-upping the ante on what she was paying him, making new demands. Maybe she’d just had enough and decided to put an end to it.

It wasn’t much of a leap for either of them to imagine her killing him. And the why of it led them to Jansey’s door again this morning.

She was barefoot in cutoff jeans and wearing her usual T-shirt. “You guys put in some serious hours, you know that? You got another warrant?”

“Not this time,” Schiff said. “We were hoping you’d talk to us about Maya.”

Her forehead crinkled. “Why? I don’t even know her.”

“You know who she is,” Bracco said.

“Well, yeah, of course I know who she is. She owns the shop. Do you guys hang out with the chief of police?”

“I take your point.” Schiff didn’t want to antagonize Jansey, who was at this point about their best hope. “Do you think we could come in and talk for a minute?”

“About Maya? Look, I really don’t know anything about Maya.” But the cops simply nodded until Jansey hesitated, looked behind her, then shrugged, indicating they should follow her. “Robert’s over having some coffee with me,” she explained in advance.

As Maya turned to lead the way back into the house, Bracco flashed his partner a knowing look, and Schiff acknowledged it with a nod as they fell in behind their witness.

In the kitchen Robert Tripp sat at the table, again in his green medical scrubs. He’d heard the doorbell and then the discussion at the door and appeared, if not actively enthusiastic about the police presence, then at least engaged. “Hey.” He stood up, coming around the table and shaking both of their hands. “Jansey and I are just having a cup,” he said. “It’s hot and fresh. Bay Beans’s finest.”