“Uh-huh.”
“No, I will. I'll be serious. You're in a serious mood tonight, aren't you?”
“More or less.”
“Michael Kiskadon?”
“Yeah. He's been on my mind all day.”
“Have you heard anything more about his wife?”
“Some. I talked to Jack Logan at the Hall; she's still in custody, still holding up all right.”
“Is the D.A. going to prosecute her?”
“Probably not. She didn't murder her husband; all she did was try to cover up her part in the accident. Any competent lawyer could get her off without half trying.”
“Lawyers,” Kerry said, and made a face.
“Yeah.”
“Yankowski—what about him? He's not going to get off, is he?”
“That's the way it looks,” I said. “DeKalb went to see him today, after we talked, and he didn't get any further than I did. The law can't touch him for what he did in 1949. And there's just no proof that he killed Bertolucci. Unless DeKalb can find out who did the repair work and paint job on his Cadillac, there's nothing at all to tie him and Bertolucci together.”
Kerry seemed to have grown as sobersided as I felt. She scowled into her wineglass. “It's not right,” she said. “He's a cold-blooded murderer. He can't get away with it.”
“Can't he? A lot of things aren't right in the world these days, babe. Who says there has to be justice?”
“I'd like to believe there is.”
“So would I,” I said. “But I'm afraid there isn't.”