16
HE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING FEELING GROGGY AND unrested. Ten minutes in the shower brought some improvement. By the time he shaved, dressed, and made his way out to the kitchen, he felt almost normal.
Madeleine was at the table by the French doors, eating cold cereal with blueberries and reading a book about seashells. He made a cereal and berry mixture for himself and joined her.
She looked up from her book. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You were thrashing around all night, mumbling. What were you dreaming about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know someone by the name of Sonny?”
“What did I say?”
“Mostly gibberish and half sentences.”
“Do you remember any of it?”
She laid her cereal spoon down. “You mentioned a grave.”
“What did I say about it?”
“You said something about fingers.”
“And I mentioned the name Sonny?”
She nodded. “Angrily, like you were accusing him of something. And a woman’s name, too.”
“Adrienne?”
“I’m not sure. I was half asleep.” She went back to reading her book.
He finished his cereal, went to the coffee machine, and made himself a double espresso. He brought it to the table and angled his chair toward the glass doors.
The morning sun was a pale disk in the overcast sky. White frost coated the brittle stalks of the black-eyed Susans and milkweed pods in the low pasture. A thin sheet of ice outlined the perimeter of the pond. Two vultures, dark shapes against the gray sky, circled slowly over the eastern ridge.
He couldn’t recall anything from his restless dreams, but he did remember what Adrienne said about the insurance company lawyer, Howard Manx, and his follow-the-money view of the case. It was conceivable that Sonny wanted that money badly enough to kill his father to get it, but engineering the murder to incriminate Ziko Slade was another matter entirely. It seemed impossible, but Manx might have other ideas about the case that were worth listening to.
Gurney brought his phone into the den and called Adrienne Lerman.
She answered immediately, sounded pleased to hear from him, and gave him Manx’s office address and phone number with surprisingly little curiosity about his need for it.
Figuring right then was as good time as any to reach out to the man, he made the call.
It was answered by a brusque voice.
“Manx.”
“Mr. Manx, my name is Gurney. I’m a retired New York City homicide detective, and I’ve been asked to look into the Leonard Lerman murder case with a view to appealing the verdict. I’d appreciate an opportunity to discuss it with you.”
There was a perceptible pause. “What did you say your name was?”
“David Gurney.”
“Phone?”
Gurney gave him the number.
“I’ll get back to you,” Manx said and disconnected.
His return call came thirty-five minutes later.
“You want to discuss the case, we can do it here in my office. You know where it is?”
“I have the address.”
“One o’clock today. Suite 201. Don’t be late, Supercop.”
Manx had obviously done a quick check on him, and the old New York Magazine article had surfaced. Its gushing over his record number of NYPD homicide arrests was a continuing embarrassment to the publicity-shy Gurney, but he had to admit that it opened doors.
SUITE 201 WAS located in a modern low-rise building in a corporate office park in a suburb of Albany. The landscaping around it was suggestively Asian, all raked gravel and large gray stones. The signage over the entrance read NorthGuard Insurance Company.
After checking in with a frowning receptionist sporting a coral crew cut, Gurney proceeded up a polished metal staircase. He knocked on the door to 201.
“Come in!” The abrupt tone matched the voice on the phone.
The chaotic state of the office was a surprise after the austere geometry of the lobby.
File folders and loose papers covered most surfaces. The man peering at Gurney from behind the cluttered desk radiated a twitchy energy. He flicked a finger toward the only chair in the room that didn’t have something on it.
“Sit.”
Gurney remained standing. “Look, Mr. Manx, if you’d rather do this another time . . .”
The man riffled rapidly through a pile of papers in his open desk drawer. “There is no other time.”
Gurney sat and looked around the room. He noted a group of enlarged, framed mugshots covering half the wall nearest him. Manx slammed his desk drawer shut and followed Gurney’s gaze to the wall.
“Trophies,” he said. “I hunt down thieving bastards and mount their heads on my wall.”
“Perpetrators of insurance fraud?”
“More of them every year. Geometric progression. They don’t even think it’s a crime. Assholes. Zero moral compass! You know what that says? It says this country is falling apart. Insurance theft is the canary in the coal mine—leading indicator of societal decay. Larcenous termites! They not only steal but tell themselves they have a right to steal.”
He tapped the desk, looking at Gurney as if expecting a reaction. When he didn’t get any, he sat back in his chair and switched subjects. “So, tell me, Detective—what do you know about this goddamn Lerman case that I don’t know?”
“I suspect you know a lot more about it than I do. All I have are questions.”
“Like what?”
“Do you believe Ziko Slade killed Lenny Lerman?”
Manx’s eyes narrowed. “Beliefs aren’t worth a damn.”
“But if you were forced to put your money on one side or the other.”
Manx looked pained. “I’m of two minds on the subject. My position in the insurance arbitration case was the same as Stryker’s in the trial. Namely, that Lerman was killed in his effort to blackmail Slade—a fact I hoped might trigger clause thirteen, absolving the company from payment in the event that death occurs in the commission of a felony. But the arbitrator found in favor of the beneficiaries.”
“Why?”
“Her rationale was that the prior expression of a seemingly felonious intent was insufficient to prove that an extortion demand was actually made during the fatal encounter.”
“You said you were of two minds on the subject of Slade’s guilt. Does that mean, your insurance argument aside, that you personally suspect someone else?”
Manx leaned forward, baring his teeth. “I’m a follow-the-money guy. It’s a reliable principle. And it points me at Psycho Sonny Lerman. He had a powerful financial motive, and he hated his father.”
“How do you know that?”
“His sister’s got no filter. Ask her anything, she’ll lay it all out. Family secrets, dirty laundry, whatever. She’s either got a pure heart or a mental disorder.”
Gurney said nothing.
“End of the day, whoever did whatever they did for whatever reason, there’s one bottom line. NorthGuard Insurance was fucked out of a million bucks, and I take that personally.”
Again, Gurney said nothing.
The rapid drumbeat of Manx’s fingers on the desk grew louder. “Okay, Detective, that’s it. I’ve told you everything I know. Bared my soul. So, tell me where you are in this mess. No bullshit.”
“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Manx, but I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell you. I’m looking into the case as a favor to someone who believes that Slade was wrongly convicted. But frankly, if I was just a little more comfortable, I’d be happy to sign off on the official version.”
“What’s your discomfort about?”
“The missing body parts.”