She nodded.
“When your brother was trying to scare me off the first time I came here, he claimed to have that same sort of connection. Do you have any idea who that mob figure might be?”
“Not really. I used to wonder if it was all made up. Dad mainly talked about it when he had too much to drink. And Sonny would say it to threaten people.”
“Did either of them ever mention a name?”
She shook her head. “If you want, I could ask some of my cousins. If this person was related to our family, they might know about it.”
“That could be very helpful. Now, there’s one more thing. When we spoke on the phone a few days ago, I asked if you could remember anything unusual about your father’s behavior in the weeks leading up to his trip to the lodge. Has anything come to mind?”
“Not really. He didn’t do anything unusual, nothing I was aware of. But for a while, he did seem depressed. He could be moody, so I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
“But it was noticeable enough that you can still recall it a year later. Why is that?”
“It may have been a little different from his other down moods. I think maybe it lasted longer and ended more abruptly than the others.”
She paused, as if straining to see into a foggy past. “Now that you’re making me think about it, it was like he was hit with some big problem, then a month or so later the idea of getting a load of money from Ziko Slade seemed to solve it. Do you think that’s important?”
“I think it might be.”
Adrienne looked suddenly exhausted, the red blotches on her face more pronounced.
“When will they release Sonny’s body? I have to make arrangements for his funeral.”
“You should hear from them soon. Maybe today or tomorrow.”
She nodded vaguely. “I’m used to people dying. That’s what hospice nursing is all about. Dying is natural. But being killed . . . that’s horrible.”
“Yes,” said Gurney gently, “I know.”
“It makes it worse when the police won’t tell you anything. As if everything about my brother belongs to them, and I have no right to know anything.”
He could see in the movement of her eyes her mind going from frustration to frustration, feelings of fury and sadness contending with each other. His own mind kept returning to her father’s abrupt depression and its later reversal. What sort of problem did Lenny Lerman have that he hoped to solve by blackmailing Ziko Slade?
Gurney had a frisson-producing suspicion that the solution to both Lerman murders would lie in the answer to that question.
42
HE WAS DRIVING THROUGH FROST-COVERED CORNFIELDS a few miles out of Winston when he remembered Kyle’s call. He pulled over into the grassy edge of a pasture.
Checking his phone, he saw that he’d also gotten a call from Kyra Barstow. He chose Barstow first, which said something about his priorities that made him uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to switch the order.
Her message was brief but promising. “I have answers to your questions. Call me.”
Kyle’s message was more substantive. “Hey, Dad. Got a question for you. Kim Corazon is here in the city, visiting her mom. She called me this morning about getting together. I was wondering, would it be okay for me to bring her up to your place on Thanksgiving? If that would stir up ugly memories of the Good Shepherd case, and you’d rather I didn’t bring her, I’d understand completely. If you have any qualms, just say so, and I’ll come alone. Totally up to you. Love you. See you soon.”
Gurney didn’t think much of Kim Corazon or her insatiable quest for journalistic stardom. Kyle had been involved in an on-and-off relationship with her for a couple of years—“on” when it was convenient for her and “off” when a shiny career opportunity pulled her in another direction.
He called Kyle, got his voicemail, and said, with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm, that bringing Kim on Thanksgiving would be fine.
Then he called Barstow, who picked up right away, her lilting West Indian accent more pronounced than it had been in her terse message.
“Some good news, David. Regarding the truck and motorcycle tread photos you sent me, the database ID’d the tires, along with several vehicles on which they were factory-installed. Then the truck and the motorcycle sketches you sent me narrowed the possibilities to one truck and one motorcycle—a Ford-150 pickup manufactured between 2014 and 2019, and a Moto Guzzi trail bike manufactured between 2002 and 2012.”
As she spoke, Gurney entered the information in a notebook app on his phone.
“I also made progress with the reptile DNA on your rabbit. I pushed the analysis a little further and narrowed the possibilities down to several snake families, all quite dangerous, each in their own way.”
“When you say, ‘each in their own way’ . . . ?”
“Each of these snake groups has a distinctive aggressive weapon. They fall into two broad categories—venom and constriction.”
“Constriction, as in boa constrictor?”
“Boa constrictors, anacondas, pythons, to name a few.”
“And the venom category would include rattlesnakes, copperheads, et cetera?”
“Exactly. The et cetera, by the way, would include some species far more dangerous than rattlesnakes or copperheads.”
HALFWAY FROM WINSTON to Walnut Crossing, Gurney passed a billboard with a circle of red, white, and blue stars surrounding these words:
FREEDOMLAND
GUNS AND AMMO
NEXT RIGHT
With Madeleine’s demand for a gun in the back of his mind, along with his own feeling that it might be a good idea to have a second shotgun in the house, he made the indicated right onto a dirt road that brought him through a patch of evergreen woods to a single-story building in a small clearing. Its wood facade, wide porch, and flat roof reminded him of a western-movie saloon. A smaller version of the roadside billboard stood on the roof, with the words “ERSKINE STOPPARD PROPRIETOR” in place of “NEXT RIGHT.”
Gurney pulled up in front of the porch. There was only one other vehicle in sight, a tan military-style Humvee with a LIVE FREE OR DIE bumper sticker.
When Gurney entered the store, the first things he noted, after the mixed odor of old wood and insecticide, were the security cameras—half a dozen of them, positioned to cover every inch of the place.
Free-standing shelf units displaying camping gear, first-aid kits, water purifying devices, flashlights, and beef jerky occupied the center of the space. Beyond them, a glass-topped counter ran across the width of the store. Signs along the wall behind the counter segmented it into areas of interest: HUNTING, TARGET SHOOTING, PERSONAL SECURITY, and HOME DEFENSE.
In the Home Defense area, a short, dark-bearded customer was conferring with a tall, white-haired clerk behind the counter.
“I hear what you’re saying, Hedley,” the clerk said. “I know it can seem like a tough decision, what with the different advantages. The AR-10’s going to give you more down-range knock-down power. The AR-15 can’t quite match that, but I personally find it to be a sweeter-handling weapon—lighter, smaller, more manageable all around. Higher fire rate, too, and less recoil.”
The customer nodded. “I kinda like that down-range capability with the AR-10.”
“Lot of folks do, Hedley. More power, flatter trajectory, bigger impact. Those are fine qualities. I have a suggestion for you, what a lot of smart folks ’round here have done. Get yourself one of each.”
The customer uttered a thoughtful grunt.