Gurney parked outside the forensic sciences building. He removed the plastic container with the remains of the rabbit and started toward the starkly modern structure.
Halfway there, his phone rang. “Kyra?”
“I can see you from my office. Stay there. I’ll come out. It’ll be quicker than getting you through building security.”
He returned to the Outback. A minute later Barstow strode across the parking area with the same easy grace she displayed at the site of the first Harrow Hill murder. Despite the tension and ugliness of that scene, her comportment struck him as a sign of self-possession, a no-drama quality he respected.
“David! Good to see you!”
“You, too, Kyra.”
They shook hands. Her grip was firm. She eyed the container on the hood. A dark shape was visible through the translucent plastic.
“That’s our subject?”
“That’s it.”
“The head is the only missing part?”
“As far as I know.”
Her gaze moved to Gurney. “You see it as a warning to back off?”
He nodded. “And I’d love to know who issued the warning.”
She picked up the container. “Maybe this will give us a clue.”
“You’re sure it won’t put you in a difficult position?”
“Difficulty is the spice of life. Besides,” she added with a wink, “you’re the one who needs to be careful. The dead bunny was in your car, not mine.”
They parted ways. Barstow returned to the big glass-cube home of the Forensic Sciences Department, and Gurney checked his phone for messages. He found a new one from Hardwick.
“You want the dirt I dug up on Slade, buy me lunch. Dick and Della’s Diner in Thumburg at one o’clock.”
Gurney returned the call. “You lost your fondness for Abelard’s?” he asked when Hardwick picked up.
“Abelard’s doesn’t fucking exist anymore. The glorious Marika sold it to some asshole from Soho who renamed it the Galloping Goose and doubled the prices.”
“Okay. Dick and Della’s at one.”
“I’m hungry. Don’t be fucking late.”
21
UNLIKE DINERS DESIGNED WITH RETRO FIXTURES TO CREATE a feeling of nostalgia for a bygone era, Dick and Della’s was authentically old and shabby.
The murky vinyl-tile floor might once have been brown and green. In addition to the frayed red-vinyl pedestal seats at the counter, there were half a dozen Formica-topped tables by the front windows. The few patrons lingering over their lunches looked like part of the decor.
It was just twelve forty-five, and Gurney was the first to arrive. He chose a table by one of the windows. A smiling waitress brought him a menu, asked if he wanted coffee, and departed.
He opened his menu. It appeared that a previous patron who’d ordered “Della’s Homemade Pot Roast with Dick’s Smothered Onions” had left remnants of both on the menu. When the waitress returned with his coffee, he ordered pancakes and sausages.
The coffee tasted burnt, but he drank it anyway. An avocado-green refrigerator behind the counter brought back a sudden memory of his father—the man finishing off a pint of whiskey, then searching through that green refrigerator for a six-pack that Gurney’s mother had thrown out with the garbage.
What the hell did she do with it, Davey?
With what?
My beer, what else?
I don’t know.
You don’t, or you’re just saying you don’t?
So the dance went. All he had wanted in those childhood years was to be grown-up and gone.
He was distracted from these thoughts by the familiar growl of the big V-8 in Hardwick’s classic GTO, pulling into a parking space just outside the window. The old muscle car looked better than Gurney expected. The last time he had seen it, the front end had been smashed in, the result of the head-on collision that stopped the escape attempt of the Harrow Hill murderer. A major restoration had finally been completed, including a fire-engine-red paint job. He was still admiring it when Hardwick arrived at his table.
“Slick, eh, Davey?”
“Looked ready for the junk heap last time I saw it.”
“An Esti ultimatum—make it nice or make it go away.”
He took a seat across from Gurney. His hard, muscular frame was evident even under a loose black sweatshirt, and the ice-blue eyes of an Alaskan sled dog were as unsettling as ever.
He signaled for the waitress.
“BLT on toasted white, bacon should be crisp, plenty of mayo. Sides of baked beans and coleslaw. Coffee and cherry pie.”
She wrote it all down on a little pad with green-tinted pages. “All at once?”
“Except the cherry pie.”
She retreated in the direction of the kitchen, and he turned to Gurney.
“Sweet kid. No Marika, but there aren’t a hell of a lot of those around. So, anyway, I did a little research on the slippery scumbag you want to turn loose on society.”
Gurney said nothing. Provocation was a natural part of any conversation with Hardwick.
“Digging up shit on this creep was easy. There’s plenty of it, but he always managed to skip out of serious legal consequences—until this Lerman thing nailed him to the fucking wall.”
Hardwick launched into a vivid tale of Slade’s history, most of which Gurney already knew. Hardwick’s narrative painted a clear picture of Slade’s dissolute past but fell short of providing any new insights into the man.
“Did you find out anything about his background, prior to all the notoriety?”
“Not a lot. His father was a champion fencer and a lifelong womanizer who eventually died of a coke-induced heart attack. Ziko was too busy fucking a Grammy-nominated teenager to attend the funeral.”
Like father like son, thought Gurney.
The waitress arrived with his pancakes, sausages, and a bottle of maple syrup. She told Hardwick that his BLT “and other stuff” would be ready soon and headed back to the kitchen.
“Did you find out anything about the period of Slade’s life after his wife stabbed him?”
“He disappeared into some weird rehab, grew a halo, pretended to be a saint—until the blackmail threat brought the old Ziko back to life and he chopped off Lenny Lerman’s head.” He paused, eyeing Gurney with obvious skepticism. “You don’t actually think this shitbag’s conversion was for real, do you?”
Gurney cut his sausages neatly into quarters and ate a piece. “I met Slade, and I’m not honestly sure about him one way or the other. Also, some details of the murder don’t make sense. And now someone is trying to scare me off the case.”
Gurney told him about the rabbit.
Hardwick’s face screwed up in disbelief. “You think a dead rabbit in your car makes Slade innocent?”
Gurney shrugged. “It does put some weight on that side of the scale.”
“Not a hell of a lot, in my opinion. What details of the murder are bothering you?”
“Mainly the missing head and fingers. Plus, Slade’s property is more than a hundred acres. Why would he bury the body so close to the lodge? And why wouldn’t he get rid of the axe—and the clipper that cut off the fingers? Keeping them seems incredibly stupid.”
Hardwick shook his head dismissively. “Crazy shit happens in murders. Distraction. Panic. If killers thought things through, we wouldn’t catch so many of them.”
“I get that, but Slade struck me as not only intelligent but super-calm.”
“Okay, let’s say that the former scumbag is now a Zen master who wouldn’t hurt a fly. What’s your hypothesis for the crime? You must have an idea or two. This is the kind of shit you live for.”
The waitress arrived with Hardwick’s order. Gurney waited until she was gone.