fine. What did he think?
Hardy, answering her questions, enjoying her excitement, idly flipped his calendar page and saw the note: Rigby 4:00.
It was 3:55.
He got to the chiefs office on the dot and waited outside for twenty-five minutes. He didn’t want Farris to have come and gone by the time he got out, but he couldn’t really push things too much here. The sergeant/ secretary had made it clear yesterday that he was not one of Hardy’s fans and by extension neither was the chief.
The intercom finally buzzed on the sergeant’s desk. He looked over at Hardy and pointed a finger at the double doors.
Dan Rigby sat back in a leather chair, still talking on the telephone. He had a boxer’s face, red and lined, and gray hair that was nowhere longer than a quarter inch. Hardy knew he often wore a business suit, but today he was in his officer’s uniform. It was meant to be impressive.
Hardy stood on the Persian rug before his desk, trying to hit on a suitable opening. Rigby, listening into the telephone, scrutinized him as he walked in. Hardy waited another minute. Then Rigby hung up and squared his shoulders as though they caused him pain. ‘You used to be a cop, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. I worked a beat about three years.’
‘Then went to the law, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Here it comes, Hardy thought.
Rigby relaxed his shoulders, sunk back into his chair. ‘I often wondered about going the same way, though of course it’s worked out well enough, I guess. But getting away from the police end of it — I suppose there just wasn’t enough action anywhere else.’
The law’s not so bad,‘ Hardy said.
Rigby laughed hoarsely. ‘Naw, the law’s all pleading and bullshit. The difference is most of the time we all know, we damn well know, who did it, but you gftys, you lawyers, have got to prove it. Us, we know who did it, we catch ’em, our job’s over, just about. So I figure the thing about this incident yesterday, you got your hats mixed up. You get good training as a cop here, and it sticks with you, you think like a cop. Even when you’re over on the law side. Locke’s got a hair up because I called him and he does hate to be bothered with his department. But you and I got no gripe. You get a murder out of this, or a suspect, you just do us all a favor and keep us informed. We’ll go get the collar, and then you can do your job.‘
The phone rang again. Rigby picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. ‘I don’t care what his constituency is, he does not get a police escort to…’ Rigby looked up, surprised to see Hardy still there. He waved him out of the room and went back to his call.
Ken Farris stood next to the nearly leafless ficus by the window that looked out at the parking lot, his hands crossed behind his back.
He had just come from the cold room, looking at a barely recognizable thing that had four appendages — the index finger was missing — and he went instinctively to the window, as though for air, although the window was never opened.
Farris was a broad-shouldered, slim-waisted sixty. His light brown $750 suit was perfectly tailored, lined with tiny blue and gold pin-stripes. The light yellow silk shirt was custom made; so was the tie. The alligator cowboy boots added an unnecessary two inches to his height.
Glitsky and Hardy sat on the hard yellow plastic couch in the visitor’s room of the morgue. John Strout had pulled up a folding chair and sat slouched, his long legs crossed.
Farris turned around, fighting himself, still somewhat pale. ‘Well, that was a wasted exercise.’
Strout reached into his pocket and extracted a small, plain cardboard box. ‘Maybe this will jog something.’ He held the box up and Farris came over and took it.
It was a jade ring — a snake biting its tail — with a filigreed surface. Hardy leaned forward for a better look; he’d only seen it on the hand. Farris held it awhile, then put it over the first knuckle of his ring
Hardy, answering her questions, enjoying her excitement, idly flipped his calendar page and saw the note: Rigby 4:00.
It was 3:55.
He got to the chiefs office on the dot and waited outside for twenty-five minutes. He didn’t want Farris to have come and gone by the time he got out, but he couldn’t really push things too much here. The sergeant/ secretary had made it clear yesterday that he was not one of Hardy’s fans and by extension neither was the chief.
The intercom finally buzzed on the sergeant’s desk. He looked over at Hardy and pointed a finger at the double doors.
Dan Rigby sat back in a leather chair, still talking on the telephone. He had a boxer’s face, red and lined, and gray hair that was nowhere longer than a quarter inch. Hardy knew he often wore a business suit, but today he was in his officer’s uniform. It was meant to be impressive.
Hardy stood on the Persian rug before his desk, trying to hit on a suitable opening. Rigby, listening into the telephone, scrutinized him as he walked in. Hardy waited another minute. Then Rigby hung up and squared his shoulders as though they caused him pain. ‘You used to be a cop, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. I worked a beat about three years.’
‘Then went to the law, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Here it comes, Hardy thought.
Rigby relaxed his shoulders, sunk back into his chair. ‘I often wondered about going the same way, though of course it’s worked out well enough, I guess. But getting away from the police end of it — I suppose there just wasn’t enough action anywhere else.’
The law’s not so bad,‘ Hardy said.
Rigby laughed hoarsely. ‘Naw, the law’s all pleading and bullshit. The difference is most of the time we all know, we damn well know, who did it, but you gftys, you lawyers, have got to prove it. Us, we know who did it, we catch ’em, our job’s over, just about. So I figure the thing about this incident yesterday, you got your hats mixed up. You get good training as a cop here, and it sticks with you, you think like a cop. Even when you’re over on the law side. Locke’s got a hair up because I called him and he does hate to be bothered with his department. But you and I got no gripe. You get a murder out of this, or a suspect, you just do us all a favor and keep us informed. We’ll go get the collar, and then you can do your job.‘
The phone rang again. Rigby picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. ‘I don’t care what his constituency is, he does not get a police escort to…’ Rigby looked up, surprised to see Hardy still there. He waved him out of the room and went back to his call.
Ken Farris stood next to the nearly leafless ficus by the window that looked out at the parking lot, his hands crossed behind his back.
He had just come from the cold room, looking at a barely recognizable thing that had four appendages — the index finger was missing — and he went instinctively to the window, as though for air, although the window was never opened.
Farris was a broad-shouldered, slim-waisted sixty. His light brown $750 suit was perfectly tailored, lined with tiny blue and gold pin-stripes. The light yellow silk shirt was custom made; so was the tie. The alligator cowboy boots added an unnecessary two inches to his height.
Glitsky and Hardy sat on the hard yellow plastic couch in the visitor’s room of the morgue. John Strout had pulled up a folding chair and sat slouched, his long legs crossed.
Farris turned around, fighting himself, still somewhat pale. ‘Well, that was a wasted exercise.’
Strout reached into his pocket and extracted a small, plain cardboard box. ‘Maybe this will jog something.’ He held the box up and Farris came over and took it.
It was a jade ring — a snake biting its tail — with a filigreed surface. Hardy leaned forward for a better look; he’d only seen it on the hand. Farris held it awhile, then put it over the first knuckle of his ring
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