“That so?” The man was giving him a flat stare.
Gurney added, “There was a time when the force was full of people like us.”
That was the right button.
“People like us? That’s ancient history, my friend! Ancient fucking history!”
“Yeah, I know.” Gurney nodded sympathetically. “That was a better time—a much better time, in my humble opinion. When did you get out?”
“When do you think?”
“Tell me.”
“When they got heavy into all that diversity bullshit. Diversity. Can you believe it? Couldn’t get promoted unless you were a Nigerian lesbian with a Navajo grandmother. Time for the smart white guys to get the hell out. Goddamn shame what this country is turning into. Goddamn joke is what it is. America. That’s a word that used to mean something. Pride. Strength. What is it now? Tell me. What is it now?”
Gurney shook his head sadly. “I’ll tell you what it’s not. It’s not what it used to be.”
“I’ll tell you what it is. Affirmative fucking action. That’s what it is. Welfare bullshit. Dope addicts, pill addicts, coke addicts, crack addicts. And you want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Affirmative fucking action.”
Gurney grunted, hoping to convey morose agreement. “Looks to me like some of the people in this building might be part of the problem.”
“You got that right.”
“You got a hell of a tough job here, Mr.… Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“McGrath. Frank McGrath.”
Gurney stepped toward him, put his hand out. “Nice to meet you, Frank. What precinct were you assigned to?”
They shook hands.
“Fort Apache. The one they made the movie about.”
“Tough neighborhood.”
“It was fucking nuts. Nobody would believe how fucking nuts it was. But that was nothing compared to the diversity bullshit. Fort Apache I could take. For a two-month period back in the eighties I remember we were averaging a murder a day. One day we had five. It was us against them. But once that diversity bullshit started, there was no more us. Department turned into a muddled-up bunch of crap. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, Frank, I know exactly what you’re saying.”
“Crying goddamn shame.”
Gurney looked around the little hallway where they were standing. “So what are you supposed to do here?”
“Do? Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Ain’t that a fucker?”
A door on the floor above them opened, and the hip-hop racket tripled in volume. The door slammed, and it dropped back down.
“Shit, Frank, how do you stand it?”
The man shrugged. “Money’s okay. I make my own schedule. No lezzy bitch looking over my shoulder.”
“You had one of them on the job?”
“Yeah. Captain Pussy-Licker.”
Gurney forced out a loud laugh. “Working for Jonah must be a big improvement.”
“It’s different.” He paused. “You said you wanted to get into that apartment. You mind telling me what—”
Gurney’s phone rang, stopping the man in midsentence.
He checked the ID screen. It was Paulette Purley. He’d exchanged cell numbers with her, but he hadn’t expected to hear from her so soon. “Sorry, Frank, I need to take this. Be with you in two seconds.” He pressed TALK. “Gurney here.”
Paulette’s voice sounded troubled. “I should have asked you this before, but I got so angry thinking about Carl, it slipped my mind. What I was wondering is, can I talk about this?”
“Talk about what?”
“Your investigation, the fact that you’re looking for a ‘fresh perspective.’ Is that confidential? Can I discuss any of this with Jonah?”
Gurney realized that whatever he would say needed to serve his purposes with both Paulette and Frank. It made choosing the right words tricky, but it also presented an opportunity. “I’ll put it this way. Caution is always a virtue. In a murder investigation it can save your life.”
“What are you telling me?”
“If Kay didn’t do it, someone else did. It could even be someone you know. You won’t end up saying the wrong thing to the wrong person if you don’t say anything to anyone.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“That’s my goal.”
She hesitated. “Okay. I understand. Not a word to anyone. Thanks.” She hung up.
Gurney continued speaking as though she hadn’t. “Right … but I need to take a look at the apartment … No, that’s okay, I can get a key from the local cops or from the Spalter Realty office … Sure … no problem.” Gurney burst into laughter. “Yeah, right.” More laughter. “It’s not funny, I know, but what the hell. You gotta laugh.”
Long ago he’d learned that nothing makes a fake conversation sound more authentic than unexplained laughter. And nothing makes a person more willing to give you something than his believing that you can get it just as easily somewhere else.
Gurney made a show of ending the call and announced, almost apologetically, as he headed purposefully for the stairs, “Got to go to the police station. They have an extra key for me. Be back in a little while.” Gurney went to the stairs and started down them in a hurry. When he was almost to the bottom, he heard Frank say the magic words:
“Hey, you don’t need to do that. I got a key right here. I’ll let you in. Just tell me what the hell’s going on.”
Gurney climbed back up to the gloomy little hallway. “You can let me in? You’re sure that’s not a problem? You need to check with anyone?”
“Like who?”
“Jonah?”
He unclipped a heavy set of keys from his belt and opened the apartment door. “Why would he care? As long as all the freeloading scumbags in Long Falls are happy, he’s happy.”
“He’s got a very generous reputation.”
“Yeah, another Mother fucking Teresa.”
“You don’t think he’s an improvement over Carl?”
“Don’t get me wrong. Carl was a grade-A prick. All he cared about was money, business, politics. A prick all the way. But he was the kind of prick you could understand. You could always understand what Carl wanted. Predictable.”
“A predictable prick?”
“Right. But Jonah, he’s a whole other animal. No way to predict Jonah. Jonah’s a fucking fruitcake. Like here. Perfect example. Carl wanted all the scumbags kicked out, kept out. Makes sense, right? Jonah comes in, says no. Gotta give ’em shelter. Gotta bring the scumbags in out of the rain. Some kind of new spiritual principle, right? Honor the scumbags. Let ’em piss on the floor.”
“You don’t really buy the angel-and-devil view of the Spalter brothers, do you?”
He gave Gurney a shrewd look. “What I heard you say on the phone—is that true?”
“Is what true?”
“That maybe Kay didn’t whack Carl after all?”
“Jesus, Frank, I didn’t realize I was talking that loud. I need you to keep that stuff to yourself.”
“No problem, but I’m just asking—is that a true possibility?”
“A true possibility? Yeah, it is.”
“So that opens things up for a second look?”
“A second look?”
“At everything that went down.”
Gurney lowered his voice. “You could say that.”
A speculative, humorless little smile revealed Frank’s yellow teeth. “Well, well, well. So maybe Kay wasn’t the shooter. Ain’t that something.”
“You know, Frank, it sounds like maybe you have something to tell me.”
“Maybe I do.”
“I’d be very grateful for any ideas you might have on the subject.”