“Seven fifteen should be good. Based on the text I sent her, Lorinda will be expecting the blackmailer at eight. If she’s bringing in help, there’s a good chance they’ll be arriving somewhere in that forty-five-minute window. Between now and then, you might want to do a practice run, get a feel for the equipment.”
Resting the supplementary tablet monitor on the wide porch railing, Hardwick manipulated the buttons and levers on the controller. The four drone propellers began turning. With a muted whirring sound, the drone rose slowly into the air until it was well over the height of the tallest trees in the area. With Gurney and Hardwick observing its progress on the monitor, it proceeded to the preset GPS coordinates of a location with a wide-angle view of the front and one side of the Russell house, the allée, and the open entry gate.
Gurney suggested that there was more than enough clearance above the treetops to allow the drone’s altitude to be lowered in order to see under the portico. Hardwick made it happen. After experimenting with a number of alternate angles and zoom settings, the device was given a return-to-base command, and three minutes later it descended gently to the lawn.
At 7:10 p.m., responding to Hardwick’s controller inputs, the drone rose again into the overcast sky and flew to its intended position.
The transmitting video was remarkably sharp. The low light level from the dense overcast had no effect on the vibrancy of the image. Even the darker area beneath the portico was clearly detailed.
For the next half hour, nothing happened. That changed at 7:41.
A black motorcycle bearing a leather-clad rider with a black helmet passed through the gate into the allée and proceeded slowly toward the portico. It was followed by another, then another, until a total of seven had entered the estate grounds. They continued in single file under the portico and around the front corner of the house.
Hardwick was giving the tablet screen a squinty look. “You figure one of those fuckheads is Gant?”
“That would be my guess. The helmets make it hard to tell.”
Again in single file, but this time on foot, they came back around to the front of the house and up the wide marble steps while removing their helmets—six burly men with backwoods beards, followed by a smaller, clean-shaven man with a silvery pompadour.
The front door opened. As they went into the house, Gurney caught a glimpse of Lorinda in the foyer light, wearing a cream-colored jacket.
Again, all was peaceful on the tablet screen. A few birds flew by, heading for their evening roosts.
“Okay, Sherlock, I guess that’s it. You see what you wanted to see?”
“I think so. Lorinda was threatened with blackmail by someone who claimed to have incriminating photos of Aspern’s death, and she called Gant instead of the police. And Gant arrived with muscle to spare.”
“You figure that means she and Gant killed Aspern?”
“I’d say there’s an awfully good chance. You don’t think so?”
“Suppose she doesn’t trust cops. Just wants to handle the situation her own way. Keep control of the outcome. Attitude like that is fucking genetic, you know what I mean?”
“I do. But I think we can agree that what we saw on that screen was not a major indicator of innocence.”
Hardwick spit over the railing of the porch. “Fine. Can we get out of here now? I’m getting eaten alive by the goddamn gnats.”
Gurney nodded. “Bring the drone down, pack it up, and we’re done.”
Hardwick picked up the controller, checked the settings, and—
“Whoa!” cried Gurney, pointing at the tablet.
Hardwick leaned closer to the screen. “What the fuck?”
A dark vehicle, barely visible through the trees, had just come to a stop at the open entry gate.
“Can you reposition the drone for a better view?” asked Gurney.
Keeping an eye on the screen, Hardwick began adjusting the levers and dials on the controller. As the drone moved, its field of view changed, but none of the new perspectives offered a clearer view of the vehicle.
“Who the hell is that?” said Hardwick.
A dark figure emerged from the vehicle and started to move through the allée toward the house. Although the allée trees were in the way, the view here was less obstructed, and when the figure emerged into the open area beneath the portico, there was no obstruction at all. The screen showed an individual in a black, hooded, ankle-length poncho, standing perfectly still, approximately twenty feet from the steps leading up to the front door. Gurney was reminded of the Grim Reaper—this figure lacked only the scythe.
The door opened, and a big man in black leathers came out onto the steps, followed by another, and another, until six in all had arrayed themselves in a wide semicircle facing the motionless figure in the poncho. All six were carrying assault rifles. A seventh man then emerged and stood in front of the open doorway. A warm glow from the foyer behind him highlighted his silver-gray hair.
“It’s Gant, no doubt about it,” said Hardwick, “but what the fuck’s going on?”
Gurney had a sinking feeling about what was going on. A disaster that he’d failed to anticipate.
Gant appeared to be speaking—almost certainly to the figure in the poncho. Because of the hood, it was impossible to see if there was any response.
Gant spoke again, and his six companions began to raise their weapons.
There was a sudden movement under the poncho as the individual crouched, swiveling rapidly from left to right and back again, the poncho vibrating along with the movement, as one after another of the big men were knocked backward onto the marble steps.
Gurney heard the sound of an automatic weapon firing steadily for four or five seconds, the sound coming not via the drone, which wasn’t equipped for audio transmission, but directly through the half mile of forest that separated the Russell house from Aspern’s.
On the screen, Gant was now returning fire with a pistol.
The figure in the poncho staggered sideways—dropping what looked to Gurney like an Uzi with an extended magazine—and sank to his knees.
Gant took a step forward, raising his pistol slowly in a two-handed grip. As he was leveling it on his kneeling target, the side of the poncho flew up, revealing something that looked like a narrow-tubed leaf-blower. A stream of flame shot out of it, reaching Gant and instantly engulfing him.
Gant staggered backward, dropping the pistol, waving his arms wildly, falling through the open doorway behind him, pursued by that stream of flame, now reaching into the center hall of the house.
The wounded figure in the poncho struggled to an upright position. Stumbling forward, he turned the blast of fire on each of the men sprawled on the steps, then collapsed backward like a felled tree. The weapon was now pointing straight up, its long tongue of flame igniting the underside of the portico roof and cascading back down on the immobile figure in the poncho.
Seven burning bodies lay outside the Russell mansion. Inside, the fire was rapidly taking hold.
“Holy shit,” muttered Hardwick, staring openmouthed at the screen. “Who the fuck is the crazy motherfucker with the Uzi and the flamethrower?”
Gurney felt sick. He wished he didn’t know the answer.
“Mike Morgan.”
53
Gurney had to think fast. He could imagine the pointed second-guessing and blame-assigning that would go on at various official levels, including the DA’s office, regarding what was intended to be a safe investigatory ploy. But he realized if the drone element were removed from the equation . . . and if Morgan were to bear posthumous responsibility, as he surely should, for what happened . . . then there might still be a way of extracting persuasive evidence of Lorinda’s guilt from the hideous debacle.