“I’m not.”
“Because these details fit into a giant blueprint in your head?”
“More like each little piece is starting to form a picture.”
“Yeah, well, watch out how you arrange those little pieces. Or the big picture could be totally fucked up.”
Gurney said nothing. He was used to Hardwick’s cynicism. Besides, the man had a point. In the ensuing silence the rosy-cheeked waitress brought them their breakfast orders. She transferred the items quickly from her serving tray to the table and left.
Halfway through his omelet, Gurney’s appetite waned. He laid his fork down on his plate and pushed the plate an inch away.
Hardwick eyed him curiously. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Madeleine wants me to drop the case.”
“Could be a sign that it’s time to bail.”
Hardwick wasn’t often on the same page as Madeleine, and Gurney’s surprise showed.
“You serious?”
“What the hell are you chasing after, anyway? The real murderer of Lenny Lerman? The real murderer of Sonny Lerman? Vindication for that slimebag Ziko Slade? Suppose you get Slade out of the can—and it turns out he chopped off Lerman’s head after all?”
“What’s your point, Jack?”
“My point is that you’re charging full speed ahead without a clue as to where the fuck you’re going or who you’re chasing. And you’re stirring up some poisonous shit along the way. The headless rabbit, a bash on the head, a crude effort to frame you for murder, an unhappy wife, a pissed-off DA, and fuck only knows what’s next.”
“So?”
“So, maybe the smart move would be to drop the whole fucking thing and walk away.”
41
THE SKY WAS THAT PIERCING BLUE THAT SOMETIMES ACCOMPANIES a frigid autumn day, and the morning sun glistened on the dew in the farm fields, but Gurney hardly noticed. After leaving Dick and Della’s, he could focus on little beyond Hardwick’s final comment.
Even though he’d unearthed some facts that appeared significant, he wasn’t much closer to understanding the Lerman murders. Someone was trying to stop his inquiries, but the reason was less clear. He’d been assuming it was to keep him from discovering something that would exonerate Ziko Slade, but what if he was wrong about that?
His thoughts were interrupted by his phone. The name on the screen was A. Lerman. He pulled onto the shoulder and answered.
“Gurney here.”
“What the hell is going on?” There was a sharp quaver in her voice, the sound of someone crying angry tears.
“Adrienne?”
“Did you . . . kill my brother?”
“No, Adrienne, I didn’t kill your brother.”
“Tell me what happened! Tell me the truth!”
“I’ll tell you everything I know, but I’d rather do it face-to-face.”
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
He spoke as calmly as he could. “Someone attacked me on Blackmore Mountain. Probably the same person who killed Sonny. Your own life may be in danger right now. We need to talk, but I don’t think the phone is a good way to do it. Are you at work?”
“No. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Are you at home?”
“Yes.” The word was barely audible.
He glanced at the time on his dashboard—9:20 a.m.
“I can be there by a quarter past ten.”
COMING INTO THE main street of Winston, he noted an antique shop he’d missed on his previous trip—the Flying Turtle—another genuflection to the god of rural cuteness.
Three minutes later, as he was climbing the steps of the rhododendron-shaded porch of the big Victorian on Moray Court, he received a call from Kyle. He let it go to voicemail and silenced his phone. He pressed the bell for apartment B, and a few seconds later the door buzzed open. The now-familiar litter box odor greeted him. It grew stronger as he climbed to the second floor.
Adrienne met him at the landing and led him into the kitchen with the cat-motif wallpaper where they’d spoken on his previous visit. Her battered but determined optimism seemed to have suffered a fatal blow. There was a new hopelessness in the downturned corners of her mouth. After they’d taken their seats, she wiped tears from her eyes.
“Tell me,” she said in a strained voice. “Tell me what happened.”
“What have the police already told you?”
She shook her head. “All they did was ask questions. About Sonny. About you. They asked, did you and Sonny argue? What about? How long did you know each other? Did he plan to meet you the day he was killed? How well did I know you? On and on like that, and they wouldn’t tell me a single thing about my brother’s death. It was like they were interviewing a stranger. They told me nothing, except he’d been shot and found dead in a tow truck on Blackmore Mountain, and that you were involved. It made no sense. All they wanted to talk about was you! Then, last night, that RAM program! Saying you were there, on the mountain. There was a gun. Fingerprints. A big cover-up. What are they talking about? For God’s sake, I want to know what happened to my brother!”
“So do I, Adrienne.”
“Were you really there?”
“I was there, but I was unconscious. I was on my way to Harbane to meet someone who’d promised to give me information about your father’s murder. As I was driving over the mountain, a tow truck ran me off the road—into a tree stump. I was knocked unconscious. I didn’t know Sonny had been shot until a detective told me later in the hospital.”
“Was Sonny driving the truck?”
“He was found in the driver’s seat, but that may have been a setup. I believe at least one other person was at the scene. I’m trying to find out who that was.”
He turned on his phone, brought up Tess Larson’s sketch of her visitor, and showed it to Adrienne. “Does that face look familiar to you?”
She peered at it with a desperate intentness that faded to disappointment. She shook her head and wiped her eyes again. “You don’t seem to know any more about Sonny’s death than I do.”
“I’m trying to get to the truth of it. And you can help me.”
She shook her head again. “I never knew anything about Sonny’s comings and goings, who he hung around with, nothing. We weren’t close.”
Her reaction reminded Gurney that the pain of losing a relationship that hadn’t lived up to one’s hopes could be worse than losing a satisfying one. Regret over what might have been was probably the most painful of all emotions.
“Actually,” he said gently, “it’s not Sonny I want to ask you about. I’m sure what happened on Blackmore Mountain is connected to your father’s murder. If I can get to the bottom of what happened to your father at Ziko Slade’s lodge, I think what happened to your brother will be clearer.”
Seeing a hint of curiosity in her sad eyes, he continued. “The prosecutor’s understanding of why your father was at the lodge came mainly from comments he’d made to you and Sonny, along with entries he made in a diary. But the diary only covers the period from his learning about something in Slade’s past to his setting out for the lodge. Had he ever kept a diary before?”
Adrienne shook her head. “I don’t think I ever saw him writing anything except lists of things he wanted me to get at the store.”
“But you’re sure that was his handwriting on the diary pages you saw at the trial?”
She nodded. “That was his messy little scrawl, alright. His writing was like a little kid’s.” Her voice had become shaky. She took a paper napkin from a holder on the table and dabbed at her eyes.
“When we met before, you told me that your father admired gangsters and sometimes hinted at having a connection to a big one.”