Gurney saw in Morgan’s eyes an obstinacy that would make further suggestions to transfer the investigation useless.
“So, your lead guy will be Brad Slovak?”
“You think that’s a mistake?”
“Hard to say, not knowing what your options are.”
Morgan turned toward one of the windows, gazing out at nothing in particular, and sighed. “Brad’s okay. Obviously not in your league. But we’ve got good support from Kyra on the tech side. In any event, it’s the best we can do at the moment.”
Gurney felt uncomfortable with the man’s far-from-subtle plea for help. He walked over to one of the windows and changed the subject. “Have you checked out the other buildings on the property?”
“Of course. Automatic part of securing the site.”
“Find anything of interest?”
“The carriage house was an eye-opener—Angus’s Mercedes, his wife’s Porsche, a big Mercedes SUV, and three vintage Bugattis. I’m guessing a million bucks’ worth of transportation. There are two apartments on the second floor—for the housekeeper and the groundskeeper.”
“Either of them hear or see anything?”
“Zip. We got a lot of detail on what they did that evening—TV shows they watched, when they went to bed, et cetera. But nothing useful. Questions about recent visitors, disputes, problems didn’t produce anything specific. We didn’t hear anything we didn’t already know. Which is that Angus had more than his share of enemies, and his wife is an icy self-centered bitch. But those interviews were limited. We plan to continue them.”
“Slovak handled them?”
“Yes. He also took Mrs. Russell’s statement.”
“While you were making the trip to my house?”
“Right.”
Gurney wasn’t thrilled that Morgan had absented himself from the critical early hours of the case in order to pull him into it. “Besides the main house, conservatory, and carriage house, what else is on the property?”
“A barn for the maintenance equipment, a utility garage for a pickup truck and a couple of four-by-fours, a gardening shed, and Mrs. Russell’s meditation studio. That’s where we’ll meet with her. Let me confirm that she’s up to it.”
He checked the time on his phone and placed a call, which was picked up right away.
“Hi, Glenda . . . How is she? . . . We’ll see her first, Helen Stone second . . . When she comes out of the shower, tell her we’ll be there at 11:15 . . . Right . . . No, Brad’s with the three gardeners. I’m bringing another detective with me . . . No, no need to tell her . . . Any problems, call me.”
He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “You got the gist of that?”
Gurney nodded. “But the gist didn’t include the purpose.”
“The purpose is to amplify the statement she already gave—with any details that might not have occurred to her yesterday.”
“I gather she was in bad shape?”
“It took her a couple of hours to recover from the initial shock. After that she was coherent enough. Her doctor claimed she’d suffered an acute PTSD reaction to the sight of the blood. Rapid onset, rapid recovery.”
“Her doctor was here?”
“He was. A participant in the Russells’ superelite medical plan. Instant house calls—any reason, any time. Premium is seventy-five grand a year to start. Anyway, she didn’t want to stay in the main house, which was fine with us, so she moved out to the cottage. That’s when Brad took her statement. Then her doctor gave her a pill to help her sleep. For the past twenty-four hours we’ve kept a female officer with her.”
“And you want me to sit in on this follow-up interview?”
“Or be an active part of it. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“Any special reason?”
The tic returned to the corner of Morgan’s mouth.
“The lady is quite . . . unusual.”
8
Lorinda Russell’s personal cottage stood in the center of a lush lawn bordered by mountain laurels at the end of a mowed trail through the woods. The slate roof had a stone chimney at either end. Bright green ivy softened the edges of the door and window openings, giving the facade a fairytale quality.
As Morgan and Gurney were approaching the front door, it opened, and a female officer came out to meet them. She was unsmiling, with hard eyes that had seen too many bad things.
“Mrs. Russell okay?” Morgan asked.
“She’s on her feet, speaking clearly.” The officer hesitated, glancing at Gurney.
“Detective Gurney is joining me for the interview,” said Morgan. “You can speak freely.”
“She’s gone from basket case to boss of the world. No signs of grief. Nothing. There’s a strange brain behind that movie-star face. Hope I’m not talking out of turn.”
“No problem, Officer. Good time for a break. Come back in half an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” She stepped away, heading in the direction of the main house.
Morgan took a deep breath and led the way through the ivy-framed doorway.
Gurney’s first glance around the interior brought to mind English cottages he’d seen in design magazines in his dentist’s waiting room. With antique oak beams, armchairs in flowery chintz fabric, and a potbellied woodstove set inside a stone fireplace, the place radiated country gentility. But his attention soon shifted from the furnishings to the tall, dark-haired woman standing next to the hearth.
She had the classic features and unblemished skin of a young model. Her beige slacks and white blouse were form-fitting. She was holding a phone, speaking in a calm voice.
“It needs to happen now . . . That’s not my concern . . . Good . . . Correct . . .”
Seeing Morgan and Gurney waiting in the room’s timbered archway, she waved them in without expression, pointing them toward the couch as she concluded her call. “You have the address . . . Tomorrow at nine, no later.”
She tapped an icon on her phone, then greeted Gurney with a perfunctory smile. “I’m Lorinda Russell. Who are you?”
Morgan answered for him. “This is Detective Dave Gurney. My former partner in the NYPD. He’s a homicide expert—the best. I’ve asked for his input on the situation here.”
Her gaze remained on Gurney. “Is Dave a deaf mute?”
Morgan reddened.
Gurney smiled. “Rarely deaf.”
“Good.” She pointed again at the couch. “Have a seat. I need to make another call.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Gurney, still standing.
She had no reaction. As she was swiping through several screens, she asked Morgan, “How soon will your people be finished?”
“Finished?”
“In the house.” She tapped an icon and raised the phone to her ear.
Morgan looked uncertain. “I hope by the end of the day. Why?”
She didn’t answer, speaking into the phone instead. “This is Lorinda Russell. Call me to set a time for the arrival of your crew.” She tapped another icon, laid the phone on the coffee table, waited pointedly for Morgan and Gurney to settle themselves on the couch, then sat in an armchair facing them.
“Did you know that blood is considered a form of hazardous waste?”
Morgan blinked in apparent confusion.
“Finding a competent cleaning company has been a challenge,” she said, her eyes on Gurney. “Some don’t want to deal with bloodstains at all, and only one was willing to deal with this amount of blood. But I’m sure you’re more familiar with the problem than I am.”
In his two-plus decades in the NYPD’s busy homicide division, Gurney had encountered many reactions to the murder of a spouse, but never one like this.
She went on in an even voice. “The blood needs to be removed completely, without a trace, before I can go back in that house.” Her gaze lingered another few seconds on Gurney. There was a flicker of something challenging in her expression—something he’d observed in individuals who enjoyed competition.