“What sort of anomaly?”
“That’s not clear, but even a slight possibility of there being anything misleading in that video would definitely need to be pursued.”
“So you diverted Slovak from the assignment I’d given him, in order to pursue this anomaly?”
Gurney was tempted to point out that the anomaly could end up being of far greater import than any assignment Slovak might have been diverted from, but he thought it better to let that obvious fact simply hang in the air between them.
And so it did, until Stryker moved on in an equally aggressive tone to her next topic.
“I’ve read the terms of your agreement with the Larchfield Police Department. The arrangement is loosely defined, to say the least. As part of regularizing the reporting structure here, we need to deal with that. For the duration of your activity on this case, you’ll be reporting to my Detective Lieutenant Hapsburg. That will be effective starting—”
Gurney cut her off. “You’ve misunderstood the nature of my involvement.”
Stryker blinked. “Misunderstood?”
“At Mike Morgan’s request, I volunteered to take a look at the case and offer my suggestions to him, to Brad Slovak, and to Kyra Barstow. I don’t report to anyone.”
“That’s neither professional nor appropriate. This is a law-enforcement operation. Accountability is a requirement, not an option.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Then, as of tomorrow morning, you’ll be reporting—”
He cut her off again. “What I understand is that the terms of my agreement are no longer acceptable—meaning that you’re not willing to have me involved in the only way that I’m willing to be involved. If you should happen to change your mind, the department has my number. In the meantime, good luck and be careful.”
She stared at him.
He nodded pleasantly, walked to the Outback, and headed for Walnut Crossing.
57
In the course of the trip home, Gurney received two calls. The first was from Slovak.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Not at all.”
“Is it true that you’re off the case?”
“Officially, yes. The DA wants to organize the investigation in her own way.”
“Jeez, that sounds like a big mistake.”
“It’s her right.”
“I know, but she doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. Would it be okay if I stayed in touch with you?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have any advice for me?”
“Relax. Do your job. And try to keep an open mind about Stryker.”
“Do you think I should be following up on my idea about Fallow being Peale’s murderer? Maybe I should see if he can account for his whereabouts this morning?”
“If I were you, I’d back up a little. Instead of rushing to answer the question of who killed Peale, ask yourself first, why was his body removed?”
“Do you already know why?”
“Not yet. But I think it’s the key question.”
After ending the call with Slovak, Gurney discovered a new voicemail message from Barstow.
“To your notion of a double recording being embedded in the mortuary audio, our tech says yes, it could explain the odd sonic footprint. Hope that’s what you wanted to hear. By the way, I heard you had a falling-out with Stryker. No shock to me. Someday that lady’s gonna bleed on her own sharp edge. Stay in touch. I like the way you think.”
Pleased but not surprised by the tech’s confirmation of his suspicion, he refocused on the matter at hand, specifically on the question he’d left with Slovak. Why was the body removed?
The normal answer didn’t apply. In every case he could recall that involved a missing body, it had been removed as part of an effort to conceal the fact that a homicide had taken place. But that could hardly be the reason in a situation where no effort had been made to clean up the blood and the evidence of a struggle.
When he arrived home at four thirty, he was no closer to an answer but even more convinced that it would hold the key to understanding what had happened in Peale’s kitchen that morning and why. When Madeleine got home a little after five, he tried to put that conundrum aside and shift his attention to a brighter subject.
Before he could settle on one, she presented one of her own.
“I heard we’re supposed to get thunderstorms later, so how about we eat early, then work on the shed till it gets dark?”
He agreed, making an effort to exhibit an appropriate level of enthusiasm, and after a simple dinner of salmon, rice, and asparagus, they set to work on the job of sheathing and roofing.
Both tasks involved trimming sheets of exterior plywood to the right size. Madeleine insisted on being the one to operate the handheld circular saw while he steadied the sheets on the supporting sawhorses. Since she’d never used a circular saw before, he spent some time showing her how to guide the spinning blade through the wood, how to avoid any kickback, and how the safety guard should be positioned. As he often did in these kinds of situations, he spent too much time explaining how to use the tool and warning of its dangers, and she grew impatient.
For the rest of the evening, however, all went well. The shed was successfully sided and roofed, and all that remained for another day was the installation of the door. As the dusk deepened and the wind rose, they left their tools in the nearly finished structure and went back into the house, sharing smiles of satisfaction. Madeleine was obviously happy with what she had done, and he was happy that she was happy.
Still in that mood later that night, they went to bed, made love, and drifted toward an untroubled sleep.
To Gurney, this state of mind and spirit amounted to a sense that all the bits and pieces of the world, however chaotic they might seem, were somehow in their proper places, and all was well. All was calm, timeless, and still.
Into this idyll of peace the sound intruded like a dagger.
It was the same ferocious, high-pitched howl he’d heard the night the Dark Angel message had appeared in blood on the barn door. But this time it was coming from somewhere closer to the house. Much closer.
“David, wake up!”
“I’m awake.”
“What are we going to do? Shall I turn on the light?”
“No. No lights.”
He rolled out of bed and dressed quickly in the dark. He took his Beretta from the night table drawer and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans.
“What are you doing?” whispered Madeleine.
He didn’t answer.
He checked the time on his phone. It was just one minute after midnight. There was a distant flash of lightning, followed several seconds later by a rumble of thunder. The air from the open window was cool and damp.
He placed a call to Hardwick.
The voice that that answered was rough and sleepy. “Yeah?”
“Sorry to wake you, Jack. I’ve got a visitor.”
“You have a plan?”
“Catch him. ID him. Arrest him. Question him.”
“That’s not a plan.” Hardwick cleared his throat with disgusting thoroughness. “That’s a procedure-manual fantasy.”
“You have a better idea?”
“Put a bullet in his head, rocks in his pockets, and dump him in your pond.”
“Always a possibility. Drop by if you can.”
“On my way, Sherlock, locked and loaded.”
Gurney slipped the phone in his pocket. There was another flash of lightning and another rumble of thunder. The storm was getting closer.
Madeleine was sitting on the edge of the bed. “You called Hardwick.”
“Yes.”