Dead Irish by John Lescroart Read Free Book Online

lined two of the walls. On a third, wooden shelves held assorted bottles of liquor, napkins, peanuts, dart flights, other bar paraphernalia. Against the back wall was the stainless-steel freezer for the perishables that more than once had held the fish Hardy would bring by after a successful trip. McGuire lifted himself onto it.
    “The thing is, there doesn’t seem to have been any reason for it. I mean specific. Here’s a kid got the world on a string. What the hell? Why’d he want to kill himself ?”
    “Who said that? That Eddie’d killed himself ?”
    “Well, nobody exactly, but . . .”
    “But what?”
    “Shit, Diz, you know. They find him in a lot with a gun in his own hand. What do you think happened?”
    Hardy leaned against the back wall. “I don’t think anything. It’s not my job.”
    “You’re a warm human being, you know that, Diz?”
    “Come on, Mose. You know, or maybe you don’t, that the police really do a number on any death, especially violent death. They don’t just call something a suicide out of the blue. They check into it—motives, opportunity, all that. They really do. I mean, even an old man they find who died in his sleep they check out.”
    “So what do you think happened? You think somebody killed Eddie? You think he killed himself? You knew Eddie.”
    Hardy kicked at some debris on the floor. “Yeah, I knew him. I’m sure not saying he killed himself. But the cops aren’t either, are they?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Believe me, they won’t.”
    “Why won’t they? It could be, it could have been, right?”
    Hardy scratched at nothing on his leg. “Mose, I’ve been a cop, right? Takes more than a gun in somebody’s hand.”
    “Maybe there was more.”
    Hardy felt a chill somewhere behind him. Was Moses hiding something? “What do you know?”
    “I don’t know anything.” But Moses was looking down.
    “It’s bad luck to lie to your friends,” Hardy said.
    “What do you know?”
    Moses fidgeted, his heels hitting against the freezer. “It’s probably nothing.”
    “Probably, but what anyway?”
    “Just that Eddie has been a little down. Been in the bar a little more than normal, that kind of thing.” Hardy waited. “You know, they planned things, Frannie and Eddie. Not like you and me. They had this savings plan, all that, for when he went back to school.” Moses was still struggling with it, sipping at some scotch for something to do. “Anyway, his job’s been fucked up lately, maybe ending. It looked like they weren’t going to have enough money, or what they planned on, anyway. I offered to loan him some, but you know Eddie.”
    “And you think Eddie might have killed himself over a little money? Come on, Mose, not the Eddie we knew.”
    “Yeah, I know, but the cops might think it. I mean, with that and the possible note . . .”
    “Abe—Glitsky—told me the note was bullshit. Just some old trash in the car.”
    “I don’t know. It might be. I’m just thinking that the note along with the other stuff . . .”
    “Well, if they do, it doesn’t really matter, does it? It isn’t going to bring him back.”
    “Yeah, but it matters. It matters they don’t call it a suicide.”
    Hardy suddenly felt very tired. “Why, Mose?” Thinking he knew what his friend was going to say next.
    “Frannie, mostly, I guess.” Moses slid off the freezer and spun his glass, empty again. “If they . . .” He ran his fingers hard across his forehead. “Shit, this is hard.”
    “If what?”
    “If they come up with suicide. I mean, think about Frannie. Rejected for good, know what I mean? And there’s also some money involved.”
    Hardy cocked his head to one side.
    “Insurance policy doesn’t pay on a suicide, though there’s double indemnity on violent or accidental death. The policy was for a hundred grand, Diz, and I don’t want to see Frannie screwed. She’s already been through enough.”
    “Well,” Hardy said, “then let’s hope he didn’t kill