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wanted to jet to Rome. They went together. For a month. For Monkey, Rick damn near sold the house in the canyon. I mean it. Heather would have been out on her ass. Monkey didn't like the place, the horses, the dog — and especially he didn't like Heather." Kegan's   smile was wry. "Not that she made it any secret, how she felt about him."
    "What stopped it?" Dave asked.
    "The escrow took too long on the new place," Kegan said. "A condominium. By the marina. Way out of Rick's price class. But like I say, when he was what he called 'in love,' he couldn't count." Kegan lifted his hard shoulders, spread his hands. "Monkey must have just got tired of waiting. He took off in his MG and didn't come back. We lucked out. He'd wasted fifteen, twenty big bills by then —Rick's, mine, Heather's. It could have been thirty and—look, Ma, no business, no house, no partnership, no nothing." He closed flat hands tinder his armpits and shuddered. "Makes me sweat now to think of it; I mean, it was that close."
    "It's that close now for Mrs. Wendell," Dave said. "The bank says he had less than two hundred in his savings account. With those horses to feed —"
    "She's as big a mark as he is." Kegan stepped out on the deck and began tapping the punching bag. "That little paint horse? Came from some ten-year-old girl in the canyon. Her parents said she could have it but only if she looked after it herself. Ten years old." He punched the bag hard. "Crazy. What did they really expect? So —they were going to sell it. But Heather stepped in, said she'd board it at her own expense and the little girl could come ride it when she wanted. Then that big, mud-color horse—"
    "She told me about him," Dave said. "She's going to have to stop. All she's got now is the twenty-five thousand from Wendell's life insurance. If my company decides he didn't kill himself. Or that she didn't kill him."
    "What!" Kegan stepped back from the lunging bag.
    "Her prints are the only ones on the gun," Dave said. "The defense attorney will hammer on that."
    "Christ." Disgusted, Kegan swung away to lean his fists on the rail. He turned back. "Why? Why would she kill Rick? Why not Johns?"
    Dave shrugged. "Maybe she meant to kill Johns and her son tried to stop her and the gun went off."
    Kegan put his hands on his hips. "Why would she want to kill anybody?"
    "If she thought Johns was going to be another Monkey —to get rid of him. While she still had a roof over her head."
    Mouth tight at one corner, Kegan gave his head a shake and went back to punching the bag. "You've got quite a mind."
    "Will she inherit her son's partnership? That would solve her financial problems."
    "Be serious." Kegan made a face but didn't break the rhythm of his fists. "I need a working partner. You probably saw her in overalls but she's a very classy lady. She wouldn't set foot in the place. Anyway, she's too old. The hours would kill her. Besides, you don't want a woman in a gay bar." He made the bag stop bobbing and came to Dave. Taking away his empty glass, he looked into his eyes. "You know that." He headed for the kitchen.
    "I know that." Dave went after him and leaned in the doorway. "Wendell's door was open. Johns and Mrs. Wendell at least agree on that. Leaving the fifteen hundred out of it for the moment, who could have gone there? Johns says he heard a voice arguing with Wendell. Whose voice was it?" Kegan dropped ice cubes. They ran away from each other across sleek yellow vinyl tiles. "Had Wendell had any fights with anyone? Tried to throw anybody out of The Hang Ten? Made enemies?"
    "Enemies? Rick?" Kegan chuckled, tossing the ice cubes into the sink, opening the fridge for more. "If ever there was a guy you could say it about —that everybody loved him—it was Rick Wendell." He got two cubes safely into Dave's glass and poured bright new whiskey over them. "You be at that funeral. They'll be lined up around the block. He was a sweetheart." He handed Dave the glass.
    Dave took it to