Robert B. Parker's Blackjack by Robert Knott Page B

as hell at her. Fact, he even said to me he’d like to see her dead for making a fool out of him like she did . . . I suppose I would not have put it past him.”
    “So what do you figure?” Virgil said.
    Banes nodded a little, then shook his head. He glanced to his detective partner before he spoke.
    “I’d most likely put my money on Roger as the killer of his wife, Ruth Ann.”
    The young detective reacted liked he’d been shot and said withvolume and precise, sharp, emphatic words, “Bill Black is the murderer of Ruth Ann Messenger . . . and he is a wanted man. He is on the run. And his warrant is supported by evidence and not hearsay. And not you or anyone else outside of the court of law can hypothetically go putting money on it.”
    “I can hypothetically do what the sam-hell I want to do,” Banes said, looking sternly at his partner, but then he nodded a little. “But I can also say . . . you might be right.”
    “There is no doubt,” King said.
    “Oh, there is always doubt in this line of work,” Banes said. “Always . . . even when it involves friends, family, and loved ones. Always. It’s just how it is.”
    “But if Roger did do it,” I said, “why would he come here and see to it that Bill be arrested?”
    “Retribution, maybe, get back at him for the humiliation, hell, I don’t know.”
    Banes shook his head.
    “Roger was a good policeman. Honest, fair, and he believed in the law and that every man deserved his day in court, including Boston Bill, I guess . . . He did everything by the book . . . but a man can be pushed only so far.”
    Chastain had been working on a plug the whole conversation, and now spit it into a spittoon by his desk and said, “Then you got to ask yourself, Why would Bill take off like he did if he didn’t do it?”
    “Don’t know,” Banes said.
    Chastain worked the plug a bit.
    “Men do get jumpy,” he said, “when they are wanted.”
    Banes nodded.
    “Also,” he said, “I think at some point Bill realized, maybe not until Roger come upon him, maybe before, that he stepped into a big pile of shit when he started up with Ruth Ann. She was reallysomething to look at, but, well, Ruth Ann brought with her a damn rat’s nest full of trouble.”
    “What about the warrant?” Virgil said.
    “Not sure of all the particulars, but it was standard. Once information came in, all of it pointing to Black, the chief issued the warrant.”
    “Chief suspect Roger, too?”
    Banes was quiet for a moment, then . . .
    “I can’t say . . . but the warrant was drawn up for Bill Black.”
    Banes looked to King, then back to Virgil.
    “There you have it,” Banes said.
    “What about the reward money?” Virgil said.
    Banes glanced to King again, then back to me.
    “That was offered by the chief, too.”
    Virgil looked at me and squinted a little.
    “Why all the fuss about confidential,” I said.
    “Roger Messenger,” Banes said. “Is the son . . . of our beloved chief of police.”

29.
    W ithin a few days Roger Messenger died of the gunshot wound he received from Truitt Shirley, and Truitt was subsequently charged with his murder.
    The day after Messenger died, Detectives Banes and King returned to Denver with his body. The fact that it was anyone’s guess as to the whereabouts of Boston Bill at this point in time left the two officers no real choice other than to move along and wait and see if a law official or bounty hunter was lucky enough to apprehend him.
    Skinny Jack, too, had a proper funeral. He was buried alongside his mother, who he had taken care of during a long, drawn-out illness and had passed away one year to the day Skinny Jack was killed.
    After the funeral, Allie, Virgil, and I sat at a table near the bar, where Virgil and I were drinking mugs of cool beer and Allie was sipping on a glass of Irish whiskey.
    “Just awful,” Allie said.
    “Nice funeral, though,” Virgil said.
    “Was,” I said.
    “I am just so sick