“Mr. Gurney?”
“Yes?”
“Dale Magnussen, New York State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I’m documenting the incident you were involved in earlier today on the Blackmore Mountain road.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Magnussen stared at him for a moment with the expressionless look that was as much a part of some cops as their fraternal solidarity.
“For your information, Mr. Gurney, I’m recording this interview. We’ll also be requiring a written statement as soon as you’re able to provide one. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. At the time of the incident, where were you coming from and where were you going?”
“Coming from my home in Walnut Crossing, going to Harbane.”
“Was anyone else in your vehicle?”
“No.”
“What was the purpose of your trip?”
After briefly considering how much it would be wise to reveal, he decided to hold back nothing. What happened to him on the mountain was clearly intentional and surely linked to his planned meeting. “I received an anonymous phone call this morning from someone offering me information on the Lenny Lerman murder case. We agreed to meet at two o’clock in the Harbane town square.”
“What kind of information?”
“I was told it would exonerate Ziko Slade.”
Magnussen directed his no-reaction stare first at Gurney, then down at his device on the tabletop, his jaw muscles tightening. When he resumed his line of questioning, it was with an element of distraction in his voice.
“Alright, let’s . . . let’s focus for now on the specifics of what happened up on Blackmore. Describe your encounter with the other driver. Step by step.”
“There was no encounter with the driver, just the vehicle—a red tow truck. There was a lot of wind noise on the mountain, gusts of snow across the road. I didn’t notice it until it was coming up fast behind me, very close, swinging out into the other lane, as if to pass me. That’s what I assumed was happening. But then it swerved into the side of my Outback and pushed me off the road.”
“Was it your impression that this was done on purpose?”
“My impression was that the truck was under control.”
“Okay, so you were pushed off the road. What then?”
“I hit a tree stump at the edge of the woods.”
“Then what?”
“Airbag blast.”
“And then?”
“My sense of time may have been thrown off, but I’m thinking there was a gap between the shock of the airbag detonation and a slam to the side of my head.”
“A gap?”
“Like there were two separate impacts. It doesn’t make much sense, but that’s the way I’m remembering it.”
“After that second impact, what did you do then?”
“I passed out.”
“Are you saying you had no contact with the other driver?”
“None.”
“You never saw him?”
“No.”
“Never spoke to him?”
“No. I didn’t even know it was a him. But you obviously do. Does that mean you have him in custody?”
“We’ll come back to that.” Magnussen peered down at his device for a long moment before continuing. “You have a currently valid concealed-carry permit, is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you possess a registered Beretta pistol, is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Do you have any other handguns—registered or unregistered?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had any other handguns—registered or unreg-istered?”
“A Glock 9, when I was in NYPD Homicide.”
“No other handguns at all?”
“None.”
“Have you discharged any firearm recently for any reason?”
“No. Any chance you might want to tell me what these questions have to do with my being run off the road?”
Looking more determined than ever to communicate nothing, Magnussen picked up his device and left the room.
31
“MADDIE! FINALLY! SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO reach you. I had some difficulty getting hold of my phone. And sorry I couldn’t deliver your cello.”
“The concert was canceled. What happened? Where are you?”
“Up in Harbane. At Parker Hospital, actually. I’m okay, but the car isn’t. Another vehicle rammed into the side of it. I got a knock on the head, and they brought me here for some tests.” He wanted to present the least alarming version of events that he could. The disturbing details could be held for a later conversation.
“My God, are you alright?”
“A little sore from the impact of the airbag, but that’s about it. They had me in a neck brace earlier, but that’s off now. They want to keep me overnight—no doubt to cover themselves legally. But at least I’m in a regular room now, getting restless. Where are you right now?”
“Halfway home from the clinic, with Gerry. You want me to do something?”
“Maybe Gerry could make a little detour and drop you off at the car rental place? The Outback may be out of commission for a while.”
After a brief exchange between the two women, Madeleine said, “Any particular kind of car you want me to get?”
“Doesn’t matter, so long as it has all-wheel drive.”
“Can I bring you anything tonight?”
“No point in that. But I’d like to get out of here tomorrow morning. Could you manage to come and get me without screwing up your work schedule?”
“I can be there by ten. Will that be okay with the hospital?”
“I don’t much care what’s okay with the hospital.”
“You’re positive you’re feeling well enough to come home?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m still annoyed at the attitude of the BCI investigator. And it took too damn long to get my phone back. I’ll tell you more about it in the morning.”
There was a brief but fraught silence. “Okay.”
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
He checked the time—5:01 p.m. A nurse hurried past the door of his room, pushing a wheeled stand of the sort used to suspend bags of intravenous fluids.
Swiping through his phone messages, he found the one he was sure would be there. It was left by Jack Hardwick at 2:27 p.m. He played it back.
“Hey, Sherlock, you said to meet you at two o’clock in the town square. It’s now half past. I’m standing here in a goddamn sleet storm. Where the fuck are you?”
Gurney returned the call, got Hardwick’s voicemail, and left him a quick summary of what happened. Swiping through his phone messages again, he could find none from the potential informant regarding his failure to appear.
He eased himself off the bed and made his way to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he gingerly lowered himself into one of the two chairs in his room. The seat back felt cold through the open back of his hospital gown. He tried turning his head from side to side and discovered that this was an exercise that would be better postponed. He shifted his chair so he could see through the room’s single window without moving his head.
Dusk had descended into darkness, and the parking lot floodlights had come on. Big snowflakes were floating past the window. He listened to the murmur of voices out at the nursing station, the bell-like dings of patient monitors, the muffled comings and goings of various contraptions in the hallway, a groan, an odd burst of laughter. His eyes drifted shut.