“We need to think about getting the shed ready,” she said, gazing out through the glass doors. “For the alpacas.”
That took him by surprise, not just because it seemed such a far leap from the current crisis but because the possible acquisition of a pair of alpacas hadn’t been mentioned for the past six months, not since the conclusion of the Harrow Hill case.
Nothing more was said as they nibbled at the edges of their salads for another ten minutes or so. After they’d put down their forks, Madeleine cleared the table and Gurney retreated to the den, closing the door behind him. He needed to be able to speak frankly with Hardwick without Madeleine overhearing.
He settled down at his desk in a position that minimized the dull ache in his back and placed the call.
“The fuck is it now?”
“The driver of the other vehicle was Sonny Lerman.”
“Son of Lenny?”
“Yep.”
“Holy shit. What’s his explanation for ramming you?”
“No explanation. He’s dead. With a bullet in his head. After he ran me off the road, somebody shot him.”
“Who told you this?”
“Stryker, last night in the hospital. She claims the gun that killed him was found in my hand, along with traces of gunshot residue.”
“How’d the GSR get on you?”
“After I hit the tree stump, a blow to the side of my head put me out cold. I figure that’s when the shooter hit Sonny, then held the gun in my hand and fired it a second time to deposit the residue.”
Hardwick uttered a thoughtful grunt. “So, the proposed meeting in Harbane was just a way of getting you on that deserted road at that particular time.”
“So it seems.”
“But you’re still a free man. How come?”
“Stryker told me she’s proceeding slowly out of respect for my NYPD background.”
“Bullshit!”
“I realize that. So, I’m thinking there might be some evidence at the scene that doesn’t add up. I’d like to know whatever she knows about the vehicle that hit me. Also, did Magnussen’s crew find any evidence consistent with the presence of a third party?”
“You suggesting I should just use my instant X-ray vision to look inside Stryker’s head and the BCI case file?”
“Sounds good to me. Also, Magnussen had my phone for a while—which means he made a record of my calls, including the one from the guy offering to meet me in Harbane. I assume he was using an anonymous phone, but the phone company would have the originating cell tower location. If Magnussen tracked that down, I’d like to know what he found out.”
“Okay,” said Hardwick finally, making the word sound more threatening than compliant. “I’ll risk destroying my last positive BCI relationship to apply the kind of pressure this’ll take. But holy fucking shit, Gurney, you are gonna owe me!”
Gurney sat for a while gazing out the den window. A snow squall had engulfed the high pasture. He could hear the faint melody of one of Madeleine’s favorite string pieces coming from her upstairs practice room. She must’ve been using her backup cello, the one she kept as a spare after acquiring a better one from a retiring member of the Glimmerglass orchestra. He explained that her newer one couldn’t be retrieved from his wrecked Outback as long as BCI was treating the vehicle as part of a crime scene.
The day was barely half gone, and he was already feeling exhausted. Determined not to let his concussion symptoms control him, he forced himself to sit up straight, went through the Slade files on his desk, and picked out the transcript he’d been about to read the previous day before he headed for Blackmore Mountain.
The transcript was headlined “Interview with Thomas Cazo, Lerman’s Supervisor at the Beer Monster.” As he made his way through it, an exchange between Derlick and Cazo piqued his curiosity.
S. Derlick: How would you describe Lenny Lerman’s attitude in the period leading up to his resignation?
T. Cazo: Kind of out of it for a month or so. Real quiet. Moody. Then, all of a sudden, he’s excited about his big plan. He tells me he don’t need the job no more. It’s like fuck you, I’m outta here.
It might not mean much, but that reference to Lerman being “kind of out of it for a month or so” prior to quitting his job felt like information worth looking into. The question was who to ask about it. Adrienne would be dealing with the shock of Sonny’s death and, depending on what the police told her, perhaps a belief that Gurney had been involved in it—making an objective conversation impossible.
So that left Cazo. As Gurney considered how to approach the man, his gaze drifted back to the window and the swirling snowstorm. A dark bird flew wildly past the window. Hearing the den door behind him, he turned and saw Madeleine, eyeing him anxiously.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not bad,” he answered, not quite truthfully. “I heard you playing. Is the old cello okay?”
“The tone isn’t great.”
“We can probably retrieve your good one in another couple of days.”
“What about our car?”
“Depends on the verdict of the insurance company. I suspect they’ll total it and give us the money. We should discuss what we want to replace it with.”
She was looking through the window at the snow devils whirling across the hillside. “I hope the hens are in their coop.”
He didn’t reply.
She turned to him. “Any pain?”
“Bit stiff.” It was more than that, but he found it difficult to admit being in pain. He equated pain with weakness, and that was something he couldn’t acknowledge.
She looked at his desk, covered with the case folders. “Are you getting any closer to giving Emma your opinion of all this?”
“It’s hard to tell. I’m intrigued by the odd connection between what happened at Slade’s lodge last November and what happened on Blackmore Mountain yesterday.”
“You mean, the murder victims being father and son?”
“Not only that, but the fact that I was set up to take the blame for the son’s murder—just as Slade may have been set up to take the blame for the father’s. The blackmail demand gave Slade a motive to kill Lenny, just like being rammed off the road gave me a motive to kill Sonny. But the killer’s priority eludes me. Was the ultimate goal to kill both of the Lermans—or were they just collateral damage in an effort to incriminate Slade and then me?”
“The more important question is how involved you should be in any of this. It seems that people on both sides of the law want you out of it. I certainly do, the sooner the better.”
Ignoring her attempt to recast the issue, he went on. “I’m convinced there’s a piece missing from the puzzle, the piece that will make sense of the murders, the frame jobs, everything.”
“That’s magic for you, isn’t it? That missing piece that promises to explain everything, regardless of the danger. And danger is part of the attraction, isn’t it?”
He didn’t reply. He suspected that what she said was true. He’d faced armed killers many times. The fear he felt in those moments had been matched by a sharpening of his focus, a speeding up of his reflexes. He never felt more alive than when his life was threatened.
“I think I’ll scrape the snow out of the chicken run,” said Madeleine in one of those abrupt changes of subject that he’d never quite gotten used to. “Before it gets too deep.”
“I’ll help,” he insisted, rising from his chair. “The air will clear my mind.”
He was halfway out of the den when his phone rang. Seeing Barstow’s name on the screen, he stopped and took the call.