“So tell me, Jack, what do you know about Carl Spalter’s ‘demented slut’ daughter?”
“You obviously skimmed past that page in the trial transcript—where she testified to hearing Kay on the phone with someone the day before Carl got hit, saying that everything was arranged and that in twenty-four hours her problems would be over. The lovely young lady’s name is Alyssa. Think positive thoughts about her. Her demented sluttiness could be the key that springs our client.”
Hardwick was doing sixty-five on a winding stretch of road where the posted limit was forty-five. Gurney checked his seat belt. “You want to tell me why?”
“Alyssa is nineteen, movie-star gorgeous, and pure poison. I’ve been told she has the words ‘No Limits’ tattooed in a special place.” Hardwick’s expression exploded into a manic grin that faded as quickly as it appeared. “She’s also a heroin addict.”
“How does this help Kay?”
“Be patient. Seems Carl was very generous with little Alyssa. He spoiled her rotten, maybe worse than rotten—as long as he was alive. But his will was another matter. Maybe he had a moment of insight into what his junkie daughter could do with a few million bucks at her disposal. So his will provided that everything would go to Kay. And he hadn’t changed the will at the time of the shooting—maybe because he hadn’t made up his mind about the divorce, or just hadn’t gotten around to it—a point the prosecutor kept highlighting as Kay’s main motive for the murder.”
Gurney nodded. “And after the shooting, he wasn’t capable of changing it.”
“Right. But there’s another side to that. Once Kay was convicted, it meant she couldn’t inherit a cent—because the law prevents a beneficiary from receiving the assets of a deceased person whose death the beneficiary has facilitated. The assets that would have gone to the guilty party are distributed instead to the next of kin—in this instance, Alyssa Spalter.”
“She got Carl’s money?”
“Not quite. These things move slowly at best, and the appeal will stop any actual distribution until there’s a final resolution.”
Gurney was starting to feel impatient. “So how is Miss ‘No Limits’ the key to the case?”
“She obviously had a powerful motive to see that Kay was found guilty. You might even say she also had a powerful motive for committing the murder herself, so long as Kay was blamed for it.”
“So what? The case file doesn’t mention any evidence that would connect her to the shooting. Did I miss something?”
“Not a thing.”
“So where are you going with this?”
Hardwick’s grin widened. Wherever he was going, he was obviously getting a kick out of the ride. Gurney glanced at the speedometer needle and saw that it was now hovering around seventy. They were heading downhill past the west end of the reservoir, approaching the tight curve at Barney’s Kayak Rentals. Gurney’s jaw tightened. Old muscle cars had plenty of horsepower, but the handling in fast turns could be unforgiving.
“Where am I going with this?” Hardwick’s eyes were gleaming with delight. “Well, let me ask you a question. Would you say there might be a slight conflict-of-interest issue … a slight due-process issue … a slight tainted-investigation issue … if a potential suspect in a murder case was fucking the chief investigating officer?”
“What—Klemper? And Alyssa Spalter?”
“Mick the Dick and the Demented Slut herself.”
“Jesus. You have proof of that?”
For a moment, the grin grew bigger and brighter than ever. “You know, Davey boy, I think that’s one of those little things you can help us with.”
Chapter 11. The Little Birds
Gurney said nothing. And he continued to say nothing for the next seventeen minutes, which is how long it took them to drive from the reservoir to Walnut Crossing, and then up the winding dirt and gravel road from the county route to his pond, pasture, and farmhouse.
Sitting next to the house in the roughly idling GTO, he knew he had to say something, and he wanted it to be unambiguous. “Jack, I have the feeling we’re on two different paths with this project of yours.”
Hardwick looked as if there were something sour in his mouth. “How so?”
“You keep pushing me toward the tainted-investigation issues, the due-process defects, et cetera.”
“That’s what appeals are all about.”
“I understand that. I’ll get there. But I can’t start there.”
“But if Mick Klemper—”
“I know, Jack, I know. If you can show that the CIO ignored an avenue of investigation because—”
“Because he was fucking a potential suspect, we could get the conviction reversed on that alone. Bingo! What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. My problem is how I’m supposed to get from here to there.”
“A smart first step would be to have a chat with the breathtaking Alyssa, get a sense of who we’re dealing with, the pressure points that could turn her our way, the angles that—”
“You see, that’s exactly what I mean by two different paths.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
“For me, that chat could be a smart tenth or eleventh step, not a first step.”
“You’re making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be.”
Gurney gazed out the car’s side window. Over the ridge beyond the pond, a hawk was slowly circling. “Apart from getting Kay Spalter to put her name on the dotted line, what am I supposed to be bringing to this party?”
“I told you already.”
“Tell me again.”
“You’re part of the strategy team. Part of the firepower. Part of the ultimate solution.”
“That so?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“If you want me to contribute, you need to let me do it my way.”
“What are you, Frank fucking Sinatra?”
“I can’t help you if you want me to put the tenth step ahead of the first.”
Hardwick uttered what sounded like a bad-tempered sigh of surrender. “Fine. What do you want to do?”
“I need to start at the beginning. In Long Falls. In the cemetery. In the building where the shooter stood. I need to be where it happened. I need to see it.”
“What the fuck? You want to reinvestigate the whole goddamn thing?”
“Doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
He was about to tell Hardwick that there was a bigger issue involved here than the pragmatic appeal goal. An issue of truth. Truth with a capital T. But the pretentious ring of that sentiment kept him from stating it. “I need to get grounded, literally.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Our focus is on Klemper’s fuck-ups, not the fucking graveyard.”
They went back and forth for another ten minutes.
In the end, Hardwick capitulated, shaking his head in exasperation. “Do whatever you want to do. Just don’t waste a shitload of time, okay?”
“I don’t plan to waste any time.”
“Whatever you say, Sherlock.”
Gurney got out of the car. The heavy door closed with a louder impact than he’d heard from a car door in decades.
Hardwick leaned over toward the open passenger-side window. “You’ll keep me informed, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Don’t spend too much time in that graveyard. That is one seriously peculiar place.”
“Meaning what?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Scowling, Hardwick revved his obnoxiously loud engine, stirring it up from a bronchial rumble to a full roar. Then he eased out the clutch, turned the old red GTO around on the yellowing grass, and headed down the pasture trail.