Gurney was sitting at his desk watching him. “Spit it out, Jack. It’ll make you feel better.”
“We need to talk to Lex Bincher. I mean soon. Like now. We’ve got some shit here we need to sort out. I’m thinking that’s Priority Fucking One.”
Gurney smiled. “And I’m thinking Priority One is a visit to the assisted living place where Mary Spalter died.”
Hardwick turned from the window to face Gurney directly. “See? That’s my point. We need to get together with Lex, sit down, have a meeting of the minds before we bust our humps chasing every wild goose that flies by.”
“This one may be more than a wild goose.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Whoever was casing that apartment on a Sunday—three days before Mary Spalter died—must have known she was going to be dead very soon. Meaning her accidental death was no accident.”
“Whoa, Sherlock, slow down! All of that depends on the dumbest leap of faith I’ve heard in a long time.”
“Faith in Estavio Bolocco’s story?”
“Right. Faith that some car-wash jockey, squatting in a half-gutted building, high on God knows what, can remember the exact day of the week he saw someone walk through an apartment door nine months ago.”
“I’ll grant you there’s a witness reliability issue. But I still think—”
“You call that a ‘witness reliability issue’? I call it fucking nuts!”
Gurney spoke softly. “I hear you. I don’t disagree with you. However, if—and I know it’s a big if—if Mr. Bolocco is right about the day of the week, then the nature of the crime was completely different from the narrative proposed by the prosecutor at Kay’s trial. Jesus, Jack, think about it. Why would Carl’s mother have been killed?”
“This is a waste of time.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that her death wasn’t an accident. I can think of two ways to approach the question of why she was murdered. One, that she and Carl were both primary targets—equally in the way of the murderer’s goal, whatever that might have been. Or, two, that she was only a stepping-stone—a way to ensure that Carl, the primary target, would be standing out in the open, in that cemetery, at a predictable time.”
The tic was back in full force at the corner of Hardwick’s mouth. Twice he started to speak and stopped. On the third try he said, “This is what you wanted from the start, right? To toss the whole fucking thing up in the air and see what happened when it hit the ground? To take a straight-ahead examination of police misconduct—something as simple as Mick the Dick, CIO, screwing potential suspect Alyssa Spalter—and turn it into the reinvention of the fucking wheel? Already you want to turn one murder into two! Tomorrow it’ll be half a dozen! What the fuck are you trying to do?”
Gurney’s voice grew even softer. “I’m just following the string, Jack.”
“Fuck the string! Jesus! Look, I’m sure that I speak for Lex as well as myself. The point is, we need to focus, focus, focus. Let me make this clear, once and for all. There are only a handful of questions that need to be answered about the investigation of Carl Spalter’s murder and the trial of Kay Spalter. One: What should Mick Klemper have done that he did not do? Two: What should Klemper not have done that he did do? Three: What did Klemper keep from the prosecutor? Four: What did the prosecutor keep from the defense attorney? Five: What should the defense attorney have done that he did not do? Five fucking questions. Get the right answers to those questions, and Kay Spalter’s conviction gets reversed. That’s it, pure and simple. So tell me, are we on the same page here?” Hardwick’s high-blood-pressure complexion was deepening.
“Calm down, my friend. I’m pretty sure we can end up on the same page. Just don’t make it impossible for me to get there.”
Hardwick stared hard and long at Gurney, then shook his head in frustration. “Lex Bincher is fronting the bucks for the investigatory out-of-pockets. If you’re going to spend money on anything beyond getting the answers to those five questions, he’s going to need to approve it in advance.”
“No problem.”
“No problem,” Hardwick echoed vaguely, looking back out the window. “Wish I could believe that, ace.”
Gurney said nothing.
After a while Hardwick sighed wearily. “I’ll fill Bincher in on everything you told me.”
“Good.”
“For Christ’s sake, just don’t … don’t let this …” He didn’t finish the sentence, just shook his head again.
Gurney could sense the strain inherent in Hardwick’s position: desperate to get to a desired destination, horrified by the uncertainties of the proposed route.
Among the various addenda to the case file was the address for the final residence of Mary Spalter—an assisted-living complex on Twin Lakes Road in Indian Valley, not far from Cooperstown, about halfway between Walnut Crossing and Long Falls. Gurney entered the address in his GPS, and an hour later it announced that he was arriving at his destination.
He turned on to a neat macadam driveway that led through a tall drystone wall, then separated at a fork with arrows indicating KEY HOLDERS one way and VISITORS AND DELIVERIES the other way.
The latter direction brought him to a parking area in front of a cedar-shake bungalow. An elegantly understated sign next to a small rose garden bore the inscription EMMERLING OAKS. SECURE SENIOR LIFE COMMUNITY. INQUIRE WITHIN.
He parked and knocked on the door.
A pleasant female voice responded immediately. “Come in.”
He entered a bright, uncluttered office. An attractive woman somewhere in her forties with a tanning-bed complexion was sitting at a polished desk with several comfortable-looking chairs arrayed around it. On the walls were pictures of bungalows in various color and size variations.
After giving him an assessing once-over, the woman smiled. “How can I help you?”
He returned the smile. “I’m not sure. I drove up here on an impulse. Probably just a wild goose chase.”
“Oh?” She looked interested. “What wild goose are you chasing?”
“I’m not even sure about that.”
“Well, then …” she said with an uncertain frown. “What do you want? And who are you?”
“Oh, sorry about that. My name is Dave Gurney.” He took out his wallet, a little awkwardly, and stepped forward to show her his gold shield. “I’m a detective.”
She studied the shield. “It says ‘Retired.’ ”
“I was retired. And now, because of this murder case, it seems that I’ve become un-retired.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you referring to the Spalter murder case?”
“You’re familiar with that?”
“Familiar?” She appeared surprised. “Of course.”
“Because of the news coverage?”
“That, and the personal element.”
“Because the victim’s mother lived here?”
“To some extent, but … Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“I’ve been brought in to take a look at some aspects of the case that were never resolved.”
She gave him a canny look. “Brought in by a family member?”
Gurney nodded and smiled, as if to acknowledge some acuteness on her part.
“Which one?” she asked.
“How many of them do you know?”
“All of them.”
“Kay? Jonah? Alyssa?”
“Kay and Jonah, of course. Carl and Mary when they were alive. Alyssa only by name.”
Gurney was about to ask her how she knew them all when the obvious answer came to mind. For some reason he hadn’t immediately put the name of the place, Emmerling Oaks, together with his recollection from Willow Rest that Emmerling was Carl’s grandfather’s name. Apparently the family company owned more than apartment houses and cemeteries. “How do you like working for Spalter Realty?”