“Absolutely.”
“But at the time he was fatally wounded, your husband hadn’t yet made a final decision on the divorce, and hadn’t changed his will—so you were still his chief beneficiary. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask your lover to kill him?”
“No.” An expression of distaste came and went in an instant.
“So his story at the trial was a complete fabrication?”
“Yes. But it couldn’t have been his fabrication. Darryl was the lifeguard at our club pool and a so-called personal trainer—million-dollar body and a two-cent brain. He was just saying what that piece of shit Klemper told him to say.”
“Did you ask an ex-con by the name of Jimmy Flats to kill your husband?”
“No.”
“So his story at the trial was a fabrication too?”
“Yes.”
“Klemper’s fabrication?”
“I assume so.”
“Were you in that building where the shot came from, either the day of the shooting or any time prior to that?”
“Definitely not on the day of the shooting.”
“So the eyewitness testimony that you were there in the building, in the actual apartment where the murder weapon was found—that’s also a fabrication?”
“Right.”
“If not on that particular day, then how long before?”
“I don’t know. Months? A year? Maybe I was there two or three times altogether—occasions when I was with Carl when he stopped to check on something, work being done, something like that.”
“Most of the apartments were vacant?”
“Yes. Spalter Realty paid next to nothing to buy buildings that needed major renovations.”
“Were the apartments locked?”
“Generally. Squatters would sometimes find ways in.”
“Did you have keys?”
“Not in my possession.”
“Meaning?”
Kay Spalter hesitated for the first time. “There was a master key for each building. I knew where it was.”
“Where was it?”
She seemed to shake her head—or, again, maybe it was just an infinitesimal tremor. “I always thought it was silly. Carl carried his own master key for all the apartments, but he kept an extra one hidden in each building. In the utility room in each basement. On the floor behind the furnace.”
“Who knew about the hidden keys, besides you and Carl?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are they still there, behind the furnaces?”
“I assume so.”
Gurney sat quietly for several seconds, letting this curious fact sink in before going on.
“You claimed that you were with your boyfriend at the time of the shooting?”
“Yes. In bed with him.” Her gaze, locked on Gurney, was neutral and unblinking.
“So when he testified he was alone that day—that was one more fabrication?”
“Yes.” Her lips tightened.
“And you believe that Detective Klemper manufactured and directed this elaborate web of perjury … why? Just because you reminded him of his ex-wife?”
“That’s your friend’s theory,” she said, indicating Hardwick. “Not mine. I don’t doubt that Klemper’s a woman-hating asshole, but I’m sure there’s more to it.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe my conviction was convenient for someone beyond Klemper.”
“Who, for example?”
“The mob, for example.”
“You’re saying that organized crime was responsible for—?”
“For the hit on Carl. Yes. I’m saying that it makes sense. More sense than anything else.”
“For the hit on Carl. Isn’t that a pretty cold—”
“A pretty cold way of discussing my husband’s death? You’re absolutely right, Mr. Supercop. I’m not going to shed sweet public tears to prove my innocence to a jury, or to you, or to anyone else.” She eyed him shrewdly. “That makes it a little harder, doesn’t it? Not so easy to prove the innocence of a coldhearted bitch.”
Hardwick drummed his fingers on the table to get her attention. Then he leaned forward and reiterated with slow intensity, “We don’t have to prove you didn’t do it. Innocence is not the issue. All we have to prove is that your trial was seriously, purposely fucked up by the chief investigator on the case. Which is exactly what we will do.”
Again Kay ignored Hardwick and kept her gaze fixed on Gurney. “So? Where do you stand? You have an opinion yet?”
Gurney responded only with another question. “Did you take shooting lessons?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I might have to shoot someone.”
“Who?”
“Maybe some mob guys. I had a bad feeling about Carl’s relationship with those people. I saw trouble coming and I wanted to be ready.”
Formidable, thought Gurney, searching for a word to describe the small, bold, unflinching creature sitting across from him. And maybe even a little frightening.
“Trouble from the mob because of Carl starting an anticrime political party? And making his ‘These Are the Scum of the Earth’ speeches?”
She gave a little snort of ridicule. “You don’t know a damn thing about Carl, do you?”
Chapter 9. Black Widow
Kay Spalter’s eyes were closed in apparent concentration. Her full mouth was compressed into a narrow line, and her head was lowered, with her hands clasped tightly under her chin. She’d been sitting like that across the table from Gurney and Hardwick without saying a word for a good two minutes. Gurney guessed that she was wrestling with the question of how much to confide in two men she didn’t know, whose real agenda might be hidden—but who, on the other hand, might be her last chance at freedom.
The silence seemed to be getting to Hardwick. The tic reappeared at the corner of his mouth. “Look, Kay, if you have any concerns, let’s get them out on the table so we can—”
She raised her head and glared at him. “Concerns?”
“What I meant was, if you have any questions—”
“If I have any questions, I’ll ask them.” She turned her attention to Gurney, studying his face and eyes. “How old are you?”
“Forty-nine. Why do you ask?”
“Isn’t that early to be retired?”
“Yes and no. Twenty-five years in the NYPD—”
Hardwick broke in. “The thing of it is, he never really retired. Just moved upstate. He’s still doing what he always did. He’s solved three major murder cases since he left the department. Three major murder cases in the past two years. That not what I’d call retired.”
Gurney was finding Hardwick’s sweaty-salesman assurances hard to take. “Look, Jack—”
This time it was Kay who interrupted Gurney. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Getting involved in my case.”
Gurney had a hard time coming up with an answer he was willing to give. He finally said, “Curiosity.”
Hardwick jumped in again. “Davey is a natural-born onion peeler. Obsessive. Brilliant. Peeling away layer after layer until he gets to the truth. When he says ‘curiosity’ he means a hell of a lot more than—”
“Don’t tell me what he means. He’s here. I’m here. Let him talk. Last time, I heard what you and your lawyer friend had to say.” She shifted in her chair, pointedly focusing her attention on Gurney. “Now I want to hear what you have to say. How much are they paying you to work on this case?”
“Who?”
She pointed at Hardwick. “Him and his lawyer—Lex Bincher of Bincher, Fenn, and Blaskett.” She said it as if it were a vile-tasting but necessary medicine.