“Who were those assholes, and what the hell was that all about?” she demanded, both hands on her hips. “Were they from down the street?” She jerked her head in the direction of the police academy campus.
“No such luck,” I said. “It turns out my ex-wife got murdered, and they’re operating on the assumption that I did it.”
“Right,” she said. “When would you have time?”
“That’s what I told them.”
“You want something to drink?”
“No,” I said. “Not right now. I need to take a run up the road and have a chat with an old friend of mine.”
By “up the road” I meant up Highway 60 to Sun City. And by “old friend” I mean old—a spry eighty-two, or, as Tim O’Malley himself, liked to say, “Older than dirt.” Tim had retired from the Chicago PD after living and working—much of it as a beat cop—through far too many Chicago winters. He and his wife Minnie had retired to Sun City and, through mere coincidence, happened to own the house next to the one my grandparents bought a couple years later. Tim and Minnie were there for my grandmother when Grandpa Hudson was sick and dying, just as, years later, Grandma was there for Tim during Minnie’s slow decline through the hell of Alzheimer’s.
And after that? It’s difficult to call a pair of octogenarians boyfriend and girlfriend, but that’s what they were. Grandma told me once that Tim was far too young for her to consider marrying. They never lived together, either. After all, propriety had to be maintained. Even so, they were good for each other, and over time Tim and I became friends if not pals. Right that minute, I needed some sage advice, and Tim’s house was where I went looking for it.
He listened to the whole story in silence. When I finished, he shook his head. “Aggie always said that Faith woman was trouble,” Tim commented. “She was of the opinion that anything that looks too good to be true probably is too good to be true. Unfortunately, Faith turned out to be far worse than any of us could have expected.”
“I should have expected it,” I muttered. “When the gorgeous blonde walks into the room and sweeps the short bald guy off his feet, anyone with half a brain should have figured out something wasn’t right. By the time I did, it was far too late.”
“Okay, then,” Tim said, nodding impatiently. “Enough about her. Let’s get back to those cops. Did they come right out and say you were a suspect? Did they read you your rights?”
“No,” I answered. “Jamison insisted I was just a ‘person of interest,’ but I find that hard to believe. They must have been doing some serious poking around in order to learn that I’m considering selling the Roundhouse to that hotel developer. That isn’t exactly common knowledge.”
Tim nodded again. It was common knowledge to him because I had confided in Tim O’Malley about that, but I hadn’t told anyone else.
“How long have these bozos been in town, again?” he asked.
“They didn’t say.”
“Vegas is a long way from here. It doesn’t seem likely that they would have sent two detectives down here to question you if they thought it was some kind of wild goose chase. They must have a pretty good reason to suspect you.”
“Yes, but I didn’t do it,” I insisted. “I had no idea Faith was living in Vegas.”
“What about the guy she ran off with?”
“My old pal Rick? She evidently shed him, too, somewhere along the way. I have no idea where he is now.”
“What’s his name?”
“Austin—Richard Austin.”
“He’s the guy who stole your wife and your money?”
“I don’t think he stole Faith. She probably pulled the wool over his eyes, the same way she did mine, but between the two of them, they both stole my money.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Over a million,” I said.
Tim whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“It is, but once it’s gone, it’s gone. That’s one thing I’m grateful to Grandma Hudson for—she helped me see that it was just money, and water under the bridge besides. In order to get on with my life, I needed to let it go, and I did.”
“Cops won’t see it that way,” Tim cautioned. “Those guys are probably thinking you’re still pissed about it.”
“Turns out I am still pissed,” I corrected. “But not enough to kill her over it. I’m not the murdering type. So what should I do, call a lawyer?”
“Do you have one?”
“No, but . . .”
“You see,” Tim said, “here’s where those dicks have you by the short hairs. If you don’t call a lawyer you look stupid, and if you do call a lawyer, you look guilty.”
“What should I do, then?”