Frank took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lit one, and took a long, thoughtful drag. Something mean and small crept into his smile. “You ever think Mr. Perfect might be a little too perfect?”
“Jonah?”
“Right. Mister Generosity. Mister Be-Nice-to-the-Scumbags. Mister Cyber-Fucking-Cathedral.”
“Sounds like you saw another side of him.”
“Maybe I saw the same side his mother saw.”
“His mother? You knew Mary Spalter?”
“She used to visit the main office once in a while. When Carl was in charge.”
“And she had a problem with Jonah?”
“Yeah. She never much liked him. You didn’t know that, huh?”
“No, but I’d love to hear more about it.”
“It’s simple. She knew Carl was a prick, and she was okay with that. She understood tough men. Jonah was way too sweet for her taste. I don’t think the old lady trusted all that niceness. You know what I think? I think she thought he was full of shit.”
Chapter 16. Like the Knife
After unlocking the apartment and being assured that Gurney would still be there when he returned an hour later, rancorous Frank continued on his rounds—which he claimed included all of Spalter Realty’s holdings in Long Falls.
The apartment was small but relatively bright compared to the dreary hallway. The front door opened into a cramped foyer with water-stained wood flooring. On the right was a galley-style kitchen, on the left an empty closet and a bathroom. Straight ahead was a medium-sized room with two windows.
Gurney opened both windows to let in some fresh air. He looked out across Axton Avenue, across the narrow river that ran beside it, and over the low brick wall of Willow Rest. There, on a gentle rise bordered by trees, rhododendrons, lilacs, and rosebushes, was the place where Carl Spalter had been shot and later buried. Wrapped by foliage on three sides, it reminded Gurney of a stage. There was even a kind of proscenium arch, an illusion created by the horizontal member of a light pole that stood on the river side of the avenue and seemed from Gurney’s line of sight to curve over the top of the scene.
The stage image underscored the other theatrical aspects of the case. There was something operatic about a man’s life ending at his mother’s grave, a man falling wounded on the very ground where he himself would soon be buried. And something soap-operatic in the accompanying tale of adultery and greed.
Gurney was transfixed by the setting, feeling that odd tingle of excitement he always felt when he believed he was standing where a murderer had stood, seeing much of what the murderer had seen. There had been, however, a light coating of snow on the ground that fateful day, and, according to the case-file photos, two rows of folding chairs, sixteen in all, had been set up for the mourners on the far side of Mary Spalter’s open grave. To be sure that he was picturing the setting accurately, he’d need to know the position of those chairs. And the position of the portable podium. And Carl’s position. Paulette had been very precise about the position of Carl’s body when it struck the ground, but Gurney needed to envision everything together, everything where it was at the moment the shot was fired. He decided to go down and get the crime scene photos from his car.
As he was about to leave the apartment, his phone stopped him.
It was Paulette again, more agitated than before. “Look, Detective Gurney, maybe I’m misunderstanding this, but it’s really bothering me. I have to ask you … Were you suggesting that somehow Jonah …? I mean, what were you really saying?”
“I’m saying that the case may not be as closed as everyone thinks. Maybe Kay did shoot Carl. But if she didn’t—”
“But how could you believe that Jonah, of all people—” Paulette’s voice was rising.
“Hold on. All I know now is that I need to know more. In the meantime, I want you to be careful. I want you to be safe. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Okay. I understand. Sorry.” The sound of her breathing grew calmer. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m over here in the apartment where the shot came from. I want to envision what the shooter saw from this window. It would be a huge help if you could go back to where we were standing before, when you showed me the position of Carl’s head on the ground.”
“And the drop of blood on the snow.”
“Yes. The drop of blood on the snow. Could you go there now?”
“I guess so. Sure.”
“Great, Paulette. Thank you. Take that bright blue umbrella with you. It’ll make a good marker. And your phone, so you can call me when you get there. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Energized by this bit of progress, he hurried out to get the case file from his car. He returned minutes later with a large manila envelope under his arm—just in time to catch sight of someone stepping into the neighboring apartment.
Gurney moved quickly to the door, inserting his foot in the jamb before it could be closed.
A short, wiry man with a long black ponytail stared out at him. After a moment he began to smile a little crazily, displaying several gold teeth, like a Mexican bandit in a politically incorrect Western. There was an intensity in his gaze that Gurney figured could come from drugs, a naturally tight spring, or a mental disorder.
“Something I can do for you?” The man’s voice was hoarse but not unfriendly.
“Sorry to be in your face like this,” said Gurney. “This has nothing to do with you. I just need some information about the apartment next to yours.”
The man looked down at the foot pressed against his door.
Gurney smiled and stepped back. “Sorry again. I’m in kind of a hurry and having a hard time finding anyone to talk to.”
“About what?”
“Simple stuff. Like who’s been living in this building the longest?”
“Why?”
“I’m looking for people who were here eight, nine months ago.”
“Eight, nine months. Hmm.” He blinked for the first time. “That’d be round about the time of the Big Bang, wouldn’t it?”
“If you mean the shooting, yes.”
The man stroked his chin as if he had a goatee. “You looking for Freddie?”
At first the name meant nothing. Then Gurney remembered seeing the name Frederico something-or-other in the trial transcript. “You mean the Freddie who said he saw Kay Spalter in this building on the morning of the shooting?”
“Only Freddie that ever sat his ass here.”
“Why would I be looking for him?”
“ ’Cause of the fact he’s missing. Why else?”
“Missing since when?”
“Like, you don’t know that? That a joke? Man, who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“Just a guy who’s taking a second look at everything.”
“Sounds like a big job for ‘just a guy.’ ”
“Big pain-in-the-ass job, actually.”
“That’s funny.” He didn’t smile.
“So when did Freddie go missing?”
“After he got the call.” He cocked his head and gave Gurney a sideways look. “Man, I’m thinking you know this shit already.”
“Tell me about the call.”
“I don’t know nothing about the call. Just that Freddie got it. Made it sound like it was from one of your guys.”
“From a cop?”
“Right.”
“And then he disappeared?”
“Yeah.”
“And this was when?”
“Right after the lady got sent up.”
Gurney’s phone rang. He let it ring. “Did Freddie say the call was from a cop by the name of Klemper?”
“Could be.”