She leaned forward again in her chair.
“A smooth defense attorney might be able to spin your notion of a setup—for which there is zero evidence—into enough ‘reasonable doubt’ to get you a hung jury and a lifetime of retrials. But I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you.”
“What’s your point?”
She lowered her voice. “I’m going to be under tremendous pressure to arrest and charge you. Because of your police background, I’d like to postpone that decision as long as I can. Of course, the media would accuse me of giving a former cop special consideration.” She paused with a pained expression.
Gurney said nothing, intrigued by where this was leading.
“Should I charge you immediately in this apparent road-rage homicide? Or can I justify leaving that option open, pending further investigation?” Her expression suggested that the dilemma was giving her stomach cramps. “I’m an elected official. Some people with political ambitions would love to use this situation to damage me.” She paused, as if to let the magnitude of the political risk sink in.
She inched her chair closer to his, her earnest tone undermined by the coldness in her eyes. “I can’t fight battles on two fronts at the same time. If you make the Slade conviction a matter of public controversy, then my focus will be split between defending that verdict and defending a decision to let you remain free. Of course, the simplest course of action would be to arrest you immediately—an option the evidence supports, but which, out of respect for your NYPD career, I would prefer to delay. I may be able to defend that delay—but only if that’s the only media battle I have to contend with. Do you understand my position?”
“I do.”
“It’s essential that you have zero contact with the media. It that understood?”
“Understood.”
“Crucially, you are to make no public comments regarding the Slade case.”
“Understood.”
“The final condition is that you must remain in Walnut Crossing for the duration of the Blackmore investigation. If you violate any of these restrictions, I’ll have no option other than to arrest and charge you, based on the current evidence. Is that clear?”
“It is.”
She sat back in her chair, evidently pleased with his apparent acquiescence.
“I’m glad we understand each other. Any questions?”
“Were you able to ID the driver you’re claiming I shot?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have a record?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Assault, among other things.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
She eyed him with an odd combination of skepticism and curiosity.
“Leonard Lerman Jr.,” she said finally. “Also known as Sonny Lerman.”
PART III
CONSPIRACY
32
WEATHER IN THE CATSKILLS WAS ALWAYS UNPREDICTABLE and especially so in the late fall, when a morning’s blue sky could disappear behind an afternoon’s sleet storm. That seemed to be the direction of things now—at 11:05 a.m.—as Madeleine drove him home from Parker Hospital.
He decided earlier that morning that full disclosure, problematic as that might be, was the only reasonable way forward with Madeleine, and so he spent most of their drive filling her in on everything he could remember about the “incident”—plus his own position as prime suspect in the shooting death of Sonny Lerman.
After expressing outrage that Cam Stryker could suggest such a thing, she’d fallen silent and remained that way until they were close to Walnut Crossing. Then, gazing straight ahead, she began to speak.
“I know I encouraged you to take a look at the Slade case as a favor to Emma. I imagined you’d review the evidence, discover the flaws, and write a report. Like a radiologist would study X-rays and provide an opinion without coming into contact with the patient. Stupid of me to think you could keep it at arm’s length. Even now, with all that’s happened, you don’t want to drop it, do you?”
“Stryker sure as hell wants me to.” He paused while a high-pitched ringing in his ears grew louder and then subsided like the passing of siren, fading into a low-level tinnitus. “She’s holding a murder charge over my head to make me stop looking into it. She’s scared to death I’ll discover something that’ll kick the political ladder out from under her.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“About dropping the case? If no one cared whether I did or not, I might be willing to.”
“But someone trying to kill you on Blackmore Mountain, then ending up with a bullet in his own head, and the DA threatening to arrest you for murder if you don’t back away . . . that adds up to an irresistible attraction?”
He didn’t reply. His tinnitus was creeping back up in volume. His eyelids were growing heavy, and soon all he could see were the skaters circling on the frozen pond.
AN ABRUPT CHANGE in momentum awakened him. Blinking to clear his vision, he saw that the car had come to a stop between the asparagus patch and the side door of the house. Snow was falling. Madeleine was looking at him with evident concern.
“Are you alright?”
He winced as he turned to unfasten his seat belt. “Just a sore neck.”
He tried rotating his shoulders and discovered that wasn’t a good idea either.
“Shall I give you a hand?”
“I’m fine.” As if to prove his point, he got out of the car a bit too energetically and nearly fell before regaining his balance and making his way into the house.
She was close behind him. When they reached the kitchen, she asked if she could get him anything.
He shook his head. “I need to make some phone calls. I’m fine, really. My problem is maybe a three out of ten.”
Her lips tightened. “I don’t think that’s true. Not physically, not emotionally, certainly not legally. The idea that Stryker might prosecute you for murder is terrifying. On a scale of one to ten, that’s an eleven!”
He put his hand on the sink island to steady himself. “I don’t know how serious she is about that. All I’m sure of is that she wants me off the Slade case.”
Madeleine’s distress seemed to deepen. “Just like Sonny Lerman running you off that mountain road.”
“Probably. But that wouldn’t explain his getting shot. That’s where I get lost. It’s obvious that somebody other than Sonny is pulling the strings. Someone who talked him into doing what he did. Someone who either followed him to the spot where he rammed me or was waiting there. That’s the only way what happened makes any sense to me.”
Madeleine looked like she had questions she was afraid to ask.
After a fraught silence, she changed the subject.
“Do you want some lunch?”
He was about to say no, not until he made a phone call—to discuss the latest developments with Jack Hardwick—but then he thought better of it. This was not the moment to abandon Madeleine to her fears.
“Sure,” he said. “Good idea.”
33
MADELEINE ASSEMBLED A SALAD WITH THE CONCENTRATION of a person struggling to keep other thoughts at bay. After bringing it to the table, she focused on arranging the plates, silverware, and napkins just so before taking her seat.
“You first,” she said with a tight smile, nudging the bowl toward Gurney.
He served himself some lettuce and a chunk of avocado, but he wasn’t hungry. His hospital breakfast of watery scrambled eggs, a dry muffin, and a slice of unripe melon had killed his appetite.