The second attachment was a printout of Lerman’s phone calls for the months of October and November. He counted twelve outgoing and ten incoming calls. Barstow had put a check mark next to six of the incoming calls, all from the same number. At the bottom of the printout she had written, “That number was assigned to an anonymous prepaid phone that was used exclusively for the six calls to Lerman. The first call occurred on October 23 and the final call occurred on November 23, the day of Lerman’s death.”
The fact that someone acquired an anonymous phone for the sole purpose of communicating with Lerman—and solely during the weeks when he was developing his blackmail scheme—suggested that he and the caller might have been partners in the affair.
Gurney sorted through the case files on his desk until he found the photocopy of Lerman’s brief diary—his handwritten record of key moments in that five-week period. Checking the dates of the diary entries against the dates of Lerman’s communications with the owner of the anonymous phone, he noted several correlations.
The first call Lerman received—on October 23—was followed by an October 24 diary entry: Ran into Jingo at the Monster yesterday. Can’t get what he told me out of my head. Question one—is it true? I’m thinking sure why not? Z and Sally Bones. I can see how that would happen. Question two. What’s it worth? A hundred K? An even Mil?
On the morning of November 2, Lerman received his second call. That night he made the diary entry describing the dinner he had with Adrienne and Sonny: Took A and S to the Lakeshore. Said hello to Pauly Bats at the bar. Big Pauly! Nobody fucks with Pauly Bats!! Explained the plan to A and S. Adie worries like always. What if? What if? What if? Like her mother. Sonny doesn’t talk. But Sonny likes money. Now we’ll have money. Serious money!
He received a third call the evening of November 4, and on November 5 he made this diary entry: Got Z’s number and made the call. The asshole picked up. I asked him how much it was worth for me to forget everything I knew about Sally Bones. I told him to think about it. I made the scumbag worry.
On November 6 Lerman quit his job at the Beer Monster and recorded the event in the diary.
On the evening of November 12, he received a fourth call, and on November 13 he made this diary entry: Called Z again. Told him I figured an even Mil was the right number to save his evil fucking ass. In used twenties. Whining son of a bitch said that was like two suitcases. I told him so what, you worthless prick. What the fuck do I care about suitcases? You got ten days I told him.
Early on the morning of November 23, Lerman received the fifth call. That same evening, the evening of his fatal trip to Ziko Slade’s lodge, he made his final diary entry: Called Z, told him his time was up, he better have the fucking Mil. He said he did. I told him to have it ready tonight, make sure he’s alone. I walk with the Mil, or the whole fucking world hears about Sally Bones.
Lerman’s diary contained no mention of the six calls he received from the owner of the prepaid phone. Why had Lerman kept that element out of a written record that was in its other respects such a detailed admission of criminal intent?
Gurney wondered if the omission might be as important to the case as the decapitation.
29
GURNEY SECURED MADELEINE’S CELLO IN THE REAR SEAT of the Outback and set out at twelve thirty for his two o’clock appointment. Harbane was less than fifty miles away, but the route was hilly, snow was falling, and there was a chance of getting caught behind one of the road plows.
The broad valley that stretched in a westerly direction from Walnut Crossing was bereft of human activity. There was no traffic. The sporadic herds of cows he’d noted on his trips to Attica were out of sight, sheltering in their ramshackle barns. The snow-covered landscape seemed as lifeless as whitewashed stone. Near the end of the valley, he turned onto the road that led up over Blackmore Mountain into the next county.
He spent most of the drive wrestling with the implications of a second person being involved in the blackmail plot and with the perplexing fact that Lerman’s phone contacts with that person began the day before “Jingo” provided the information that made the plot possible. It was hard to see how that sequence made sense.
Unless . . . the scheme to blackmail Slade had been devised by someone other than Lerman. Say, by the owner of the anonymous phone. Perhaps that person and Jingo were using Lerman as a front man to minimize their own exposure.
He wondered if Kyra Barstow had given any thought to these issues. He pulled onto the shoulder and made the call.
“Hi, David. Are you calling about your rabbit?”
“Something a bit more complicated.”
“I love complication.”
“I’ve been looking at the record of the phone contacts between Lerman and Mr. Anonymous.”
“Or Ms. Anonymous.”
“Good point. Anyway, you mentioned in your note on the printout that the anonymous phone was used only for communications with Lerman. Odd in itself, but what do you make of the fact that the calls were limited to the period leading up to Lerman’s trip to Slade’s lodge?”
“Maybe Lerman had an accomplice, at least in devising the extortion plan.”
“Did you also notice an interesting time correspondence between some of those calls and the events Lerman later noted in his diary?”
“I did.”
“Did you bring this to Cam Stryker’s attention?”
“I did.”
“Did she discuss it with you?”
“That’s not the way she uses me or my department. She’s frequently made it clear that we’re here to answer her questions, not to generate unasked-for hypotheses. I think she regarded the notion of Lerman having a partner in crime as something that could muddy the prosecution narrative. She was fond of pointing out that it was Slade who was on trial, not Lerman. I don’t know whether you noticed it during the Harrow Hill case, but the lady is a control freak. She is the boss. The rest of us are the hired help.” Barstow paused, then changed the subject. “Regarding your rabbit, I should have some news for you in a day or so.”
After ending the call, Gurney remained parked for a few minutes at the side of the road—his eyes on the snowflakes landing on his windshield, his mind on the questions raised by Lerman’s phone records and by Stryker’s stranglehold on the case against Slade. Hopefully his meeting in Harbane would shed light on the situation.
As the road ascended Blackmore Mountain in a series of S curves, the wind picked up and eddies of snow swirled across the tarmac. After another mile or so the road began to level off. The top of Blackmore was more like a rolling plateau than a peak. A sign indicating the county line was the only sure way of knowing that one had reached the road’s highest point.
Gusts at this elevation were at their strongest, and visibility was reduced by the horizontally driven snow. Due to the howling of the wind and Gurney’s close attention to the road ahead, he failed to notice the big tow truck coming up behind him until it started moving out into the other lane, as if preparing to pass him. The truck was moving much too fast for the weather conditions—perhaps, thought Gurney, in response to some emergency. He moved a bit to the right to let it pass with less risk of encountering a vehicle in the oncoming lane.
The truck pulled up next to Gurney, reduced its speed slightly, and remained abreast of him for a few seconds . . . before swerving sharply toward him, slamming into the Outback and sending it skidding sideways off the pavement. Gurney struggled to regain control, but the icy gravel of the shoulder provided no traction. The vehicle wildly slewed away from the road. He glimpsed a tree stump ahead but had no ability to avoid the brutal collision.