11
AS GURNEY PASSED FROM THE RAREFIED ENVIRONS OF Claiborne into the bleaker reality of upstate New York, he spotted a Starbucks in a small strip mall. The sight triggered an instant desire for a double espresso, and he pulled into the nearly empty parking lot.
He checked his phone for messages as he waited to place his order. There weren’t any, but checking reminded him that he forgot to call Kyle for his birthday. Annoyed at himself, he knew he should take care of it before it slipped his mind again. Instead, he decided to make the call as soon as he got his coffee and something to snack on.
Back in his car, munching on a cinnamon bagel and sipping his coffee, Gurney took out his phone. It rang in his hand, just as he started looking up Kyle in his contact list. He didn’t recognize the incoming number, but he answered anyway.
“Gurney here.”
“Are you finished with Marcus Thorne?”
It took him a few seconds to place the owner of the cool, even voice.
“Hello, Emma. How did you know I was meeting with Thorne?”
“I’m psychic.”
He didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure she was joking.
“Adrienne Lerman has agreed to meet with you.”
“Excuse me?”
“She lives in Winston, not that far from Claiborne. You know where it is?”
Gurney cleared his throat. “More or less, but—”
“Good. It’s her day off. She’ll be expecting you. I’m texting you her address.”
She disconnected. A minute later the text arrived: “5 Moray Court, Apt B.”
Gurney took another bite of his bagel and finished his coffee. The bagel was less than half finished, but he tossed the rest in a small garbage bag he kept under the glove compartment. The cinnamon was giving him heartburn.
WINSTON TURNED OUT to be one of those upstate towns endeavoring to survive the collapse of dairy farming by transforming itself into an antiques center—selling its mundane relics to weekend visitors who viewed rusted hay rakes and battered milk pails as objets d’art. Its main street was home to one precious emporium after another with names like the Heavenly Pig, the Blue Mallard, and the Smiling Cow.
Number 5 Moray Court was a large Victorian with two entrances, having been divided into an upstairs and downstairs apartment. Overgrown rhododendrons obscured the front porch, and two cars occupied the driveway. Gurney parked a few car lengths from number 5.
The first thing that struck him as he emerged from the Outback was the raw dampness in the air. The second was the acid-green Corvette farther down the street, conspicuous among the Subarus and Toyotas. The third was the tall, muscular young man walking in his direction. Despite the weather, he wasn’t wearing a jacket—just a tight yellow tee shirt, silky beige slacks, and fancy loafers. His moussed hair was fashionably spiky, his eyes small and dark, his thick neck encircled with tattoos.
The rhythm of his stride put Gurney on guard. He subtly adjusted his balance and centered his attention on the man’s solar plexus—not only as a potential target but as the best focal point from which he could sense either hostile hand or foot movements.
The man stopped just outside Gurney’s personal space. “You want some friendly advice? Stay out of our business.”
Gurney said nothing.
“You hear what I’m saying? You fucking deaf?” His voice was growing louder.
Gurney spoke softly. “I think you’re making a mistake.”
“You’re the one making a fucking mistake. Keep your fucking nose out of our business.”
That our confirmed Gurney’s assumption that this was Sonny Lerman, brother of Adrienne. “You’re in my way. Please step aside.”
The dark little eyes widened with rage. “How about I step on your fucking face?”
Gurney sighed. “You don’t really want to violate your parole, do you, Sonny? Get dumped back in the can for another year?”
“This is no goddamn violation. I’m just telling you, stay the fuck away from my sister. You stir shit up, you’ll eat it, you nosy fuck.”
A loud voice came from the direction of number 5. “Hey, fellas, what’s going on here?”
A big, white-haired, red-faced man stood on the porch steps. He had the look of a retired cop. He held a nightstick partly concealed against the side of his leg.
Sonny Lerman stared at him uncertainly. “Nothing. No problem.” He turned away abruptly and headed for the acid-green Corvette. He opened the door, then called back to Gurney, “You fuck with me, you got big fucking trouble. I got a relative you never wanna meet. Keep that thought in your head, asshole!”
12
GURNEY RANG THE BELL FOR APARTMENT B AND A MOMENT later was buzzed in. A drably carpeted staircase was lit by a single ceiling fixture.
“Come up. I’ll be with you in a minute,” a woman’s voice called from somewhere on the second floor.
The stairs creaked underfoot. There was an unpleasant odor in the air.
From the top landing, he could see into an eat-in kitchen. To his right was a living room with bare wood floors. To his left, a hallway with three open doorways—a bathroom and two bedrooms, he guessed. From one of those rooms came the meowing of multiple cats. The source of the odor he noticed on the way up was likely a busy litter box.
“Are you a cat person, Mr. Gurney?”
A large, soft-looking woman in a gray sweat suit emerged from the hallway, pushing loose hairs back from her forehead. He recognized the same sad smile of repeatedly disappointed optimism on Adrienne Lerman’s face that he had seen in the trial video.
“I’m not sure, but I do like watching them.”
“I’m trying to find a permanent home for some kittens. If you know anyone who might be interested . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Come in, have a seat.”
Gurney joined her at an old Formica-topped table.
“I saw what happened in the street. I’m really sorry. Sonny can be . . . excitable.”
“You told him I was coming?”
“I try to be open about everything. I didn’t expect him to react like that.”
“Any idea why he did?”
She let out sharp little sound that might have been a humorless laugh. “All I told him was what Emma Martin told me—that you were reviewing the case to see if there might be a chance of an appeal. He didn’t seem to have any reaction. But once Sonny starts thinking about something, you never know where it’s going to go. Maybe his mind went back to that insurance company lawyer, Howard Manx, a very mean person, who was trying to keep us from getting the money in the first place. Money means a lot to Sonny. He sees it as the only thing he ever got from our father. It was like Manx was insinuating that we killed our own father for the insurance. What kind of person would kill their own father for money? How sick would you have to be to do that?” She closed her eyes and pressed the tips of her fingers against the lower part of her cheek.
“Are you alright?” asked Gurney.
“Bad tooth. Comes and goes.” She opened her eyes and lowered her hand. “I should get to the dentist. Never seem to have the time. With hospice and the cats and Sonny . . .” She looked vaguely around the kitchen, before going on with a beleaguered smile.
“Most of my problems are gifts, not problems at all. To be busy is to be useful, right? To be useful is a blessing. So, it’s all how you look at it.” She forced a smile. “Emma said that you had some questions.”
“I’ll start with one that occurred to me while I was watching the video of the trial. Why do you think your father told his boss about his money-making scheme?”