“You mean me? I’m not bent that way. I got a good job—city government, thank you very much—and benefits. But Richie was done with all that. He quit cold turkey when he partnered up with you.”

Ted ignored the misuse of the word “partner” and focused on the subtext. “Forgive me for being dense, but are you implying that Richie’s death had anything to do with his work for me?” Though he had entertained the same suspicion, hearing it from another interested party forced Ted into denial.

“Whatta ya talkin’? You two were cooking up a big deal. I know all about it. He told me.”

She was accusing him. Ted retreated to firmer ground. “Richie searched through court documents for me,” he repeated. “I paid him in cash. People don’t get killed over what I do.”

“Oh yeah? He left me a copy of the file the two of you was working on.” She dove into the gargantuan bag and came up with a pristine manila folder that she slapped on the table.

Ted flipped it open. “Ah, no,” he said, sighing. Richie had not included the full file, only cover pages for each section, but the first sheet showed $1.2 million in surplus money. It was the elephant. The white buffalo. Moby damn Dick. Ted was not surprised.

“What? This is it, Eddie. This is what you guys were working on. He said you called it an elephant. Huge. You two were going to clear a mil or more out of this. I want my share.”

“Have you read this? Do you know what this is?”

Her face twisted into a grimace of distaste. “It’s legal stuff.”

“Cheryl.” Ted paused. How could he make her understand? He sighed again and began. “This is nothing. Pixie dust. It is not real. He said he was going to work on it himself. I suggested that he not do that—strongly. I don’t take on these kinds of cases for the same reason I don’t buy lotto tickets. They’re both sucker bets.” Ted slid the file in her direction.

She ignored it and tried to stare him down. Ted was immune to this tactic. He’d been stared down by masters. Nonchalance was the best defense. He checked the time on his phone—the real time, not bar time. Ten of twelve.

“What? I’m holding you up? Keeping you from something? My Richie’s dead!” The tears began to flow. They were quiet tears, but copious. Her body, a moment before taut with anger, shrank in defeat.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Mrs. Rubiano. Richie told you some things that simply don’t apply. I’m sorry for you.”