Although Gurney had a clear recollection of Cazo’s testimony at the trial—testimony shaped by Stryker’s choice of questions—it was possible that the full interview might contain other facts of interest.
As he sat back in his chair to read the transcript, his phone rang.
It was Madeleine.
“I have a favor to ask. Actually, two favors. Could you bring my cello to the clinic? Any time before three thirty? I’m supposed to join our string group for a concert at Highfield Assisted Living right after work. I’d forgotten about it.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Thank you. And the second favor. The snow in the chicken run. Could you shovel it off to the side? They love being out there, but they won’t come down the ramp if the grass is covered with snow.”
After they ended the call, he picked up the transcript, then put it back down. He decided to get the chicken errand out of the way first. Large snowflakes descended in slow motion through the windless air. Soft pillows of snow collected on the seats of the Adirondack chairs on the patio, on the top of the little cafe table, on the birdhouse by the old apple tree, on the roof of the coop.
Being outside on a snowy day like this instantly immersed him in another world, one colored by fragments of memories. Sitting on a sled pulled by his father. The sled gliding silently between high drifts. He wondered if his lifelong love of snow dated back to that moment—he and his father alone in that silent, untroubled place.
The restless squawking of the hens in the coop brought him back to the present. He went to the shed he and Madeleine had built the previous spring. Currently, it was used for garden tools, hoses, fertilizer; but there was a possibility that it might someday house a pair of alpacas—animals Madeleine was especially fond of.
He retrieved a snow shovel and began clearing a broad area at the base of the ramp. As soon as he scraped away enough snow to expose a patch of grass, the five hens came strutting down the ramp in single file—the fearless Rhode Island Red in the lead—and began scratching at the ground. He headed back into the house.
His phone was ringing as he entered the mudroom. He pulled off his snowy boots and hurried through the kitchen into the den. The caller’s number had been blocked.
“Gurney here.”
“David Gurney?”
“Right.”
“I have information for you.” The voice was male, soft, insinuating.
“Who is this?”
“I know who killed Lenny Lerman.”
Gurney said nothing.
“Are you still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Would that information be useful to you?”
“That depends on who you are and how verifiable it is.”
“Perfectly verifiable, and very valuable to your friend Ziko Slade. It will free him from prison. Prisons are dangerous places. I suggest a simple transaction. I provide the truth about the hit on Lenny Lerman, and Mr. Slade pays for value received.”
“Does this truth come with proof?”
“Of course.”
“Let me make sure I understand. You have concrete proof—not just hearsay—that someone other than Ziko Slade killed Lenny Lerman. And you’re willing to turn that proof over for an appropriate payment. Is that right?”
“Exactly.”
“How would this exchange occur?”
“I will give you part of the information—enough for you and Slade to understand what happened to Mr. Lerman. Along with that, I will give you a price. I will retain the final proof until we have a firm agreement.”
“The partial information—what does it consist of?”
“Some names, dates, photographs.”
“How soon can you give me these things?”
“I have business this afternoon in Harbane and tomorrow in Scarpton. You know those towns?”
“More or less.”
“Good. Pick a spot, pick a time.”
Gurney thought about it, hesitated, then made his choice. “This afternoon, two o’clock, in front of the Harbane town hall.”
“I look forward to seeing you, Mr. Gurney. At two o’clock.”
The man’s voice was as placid as the purring of a cat.
28
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG FOR GURNEY TO START FEELING UNCOMFORTABLE about the meeting in Harbane. It wasn’t the physical situation that made him uneasy. The town hall was next to the police station, cops would be coming and going all day, he’d be armed himself, and he’d faced hundreds of situations riskier than this down in the city. It was the silky confidence of the voice on the phone.
He decided to call Jack Hardwick.
The man answered the way he often did. “The fuck you want now?”
“Any chance you might be free this afternoon?”
“I’m on standby.”
“Standby?”
“I provide occasional security for a major asshole. He may call today.”
“This major asshole needs armed protection?”
“Wants it more than he needs it. He’s got a conspiracy theory website—a shitload of lunatic nonsense. But he wants people to think his life is in danger because of all the truth he’s exposing. Like the fact that the big California tech companies are run by a secret society of satanic dwarfs. He likes having a visible bodyguard at his public appearances. He thinks creating the impression that he might be shot makes him newsworthy. He plans to run for Congress. Probably win by a landslide. Big appetite out there for bullshit. So, why do you want to know if I’m free?”
“I’m meeting someone in Harbane at two o’clock in front of the town hall—a guy who claims to have inside information on the Lerman murder. The Lerman ‘hit’ is what he called it.”
“You know anything about this guy?”
“Nothing.”
“You have a concern about his intentions?”
“I have a concern about his lack of concern. Sounded too relaxed.”
Hardwick cleared his throat in his disgusting style. “I should get a call by noon to let me know if he needs me. If not, I’ll head for Harbane. By the way, I checked out that guy you asked me about.”
“Bruno Lanka?”
“Owns a specialty-foods market in a seedy suburb of Albany. No rap sheet. You want me to go see him, ask a few questions?”
“Not at the moment. Hope to see you this afternoon.”
Gurney’s gaze returned to the snow that was falling in slow motion on the high pasture, but he hardly saw it. His mind was on Harbane. A bleak place. The buildings along the main street, more than a century old, exhibited the decrepitude of age without the charm of antiquity. Among the shabby storefronts on that street there was, inexplicably, an excellent Vietnamese restaurant that he and Madeleine had visited three times in the past year.
Thinking about their first meal there, he remembered they chose that restaurant because it was near a town where they were attending a chamber music concert. All he recalled of the concert itself were the dramatic gyrations of the young Asian cellist—an image that suddenly reminded him to bring Madeleine her cello. It would be most efficient to go first to Harbane and then to the clinic. Doing it that way would also give him more time with the case files before setting out.
With everything squared away, he returned to the transcript of Scott Derlick’s interview with Lerman’s old boss at the Beer Monster.
He was still on the first page of the six-page document when a Bing! announced the arrival of an email from Kyra Barstow. He put down the transcript and clicked on the email.
There was no covering note, just two attachments. The first was a copy of Lenny Lerman’s Visa statement for the previous November. He glanced through it. Other than the transactions at the gas station and the auto supply store that Barstow mentioned, he saw nothing of interest.