“You give that some serious thought, Hedley, while I see to this other gentleman.” The clerk moved along the counter to the Hunting end where Gurney was standing.
“Yes, sir, how can I help you?” He had a smiling mouth and assessing eyes.
“I’m looking for a simple, short-barrel, pump-action shotgun.”
“No surprise. Folks are snapping them up fast as I can get them. I’ve got some Mossbergs and Remingtons on backorder, but if you’re in a hurry, I’ve got some darn nice used ones.” He reached under the counter for a printed sheet and handed it to Gurney. “That’s our preowned inventory. Lot of them like brand new. Take a minute now, see if there’s something there that interests you. I’ll finish with this other gentleman and be right back.”
As Gurney looked over the list, the clerk resumed his sales pitch at the other end of the counter. “You see the sense of what I’m saying, Hedley? You get them both, you got all your situations covered, a hundred percent. That’s peace of mind. And I just happen to have one of each in stock right now. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re both gone by tomorrow—what with the news coverage of that business up on Blackmore.”
“You talking about the road-rage shooting?”
“What I’m talking about is how once again the pansy-ass gun haters will all be shouting about how we need more laws and less guns—and the thing is, whenever they start that crap about taking away our rifles and handguns, our sales go through the roof. Right through the goddamn roof, Hedley. Smart thing for you right now would be to pick up this pair of ARs while you can.”
Hedley cast a nervous glance in Gurney’s direction, looked around the store, and lowered his voice. “What kind of background check you got to do?”
The clerk smiled the smile of a successful salesman. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Hedley. See, that system only applies to official sales through this licensed establishment here. If the official system isn’t right for you, we can work out a transaction as private individuals. I’ve always considered background checks an invasion of privacy, and I hate conducting them. Forces me to act as an unpaid agent of the state. It’s socialism, is what it is. Now you just wait here a minute while I see to this other fellow.”
He approached Gurney. “Some real nice firearms on that list. You’d hardly know they were ever used. Which ones would you like to see?”
“Hard to decide right now. I need to give the matter more thought.”
The man’s smile faded, and Gurney departed.
There were, in fact, a couple of shotguns on the list that might have addressed the need, but he was less than eager to deal with anyone at that establishment.
When he returned to his car, he took out his phone to check for gun stores within a twenty-five-mile radius of Walnut Crossing. He found half a dozen and was about to get in touch with the nearest when the phone rang. The screen said the call was from C. Stryker. Rather than taking the call, he waited for her to leave a message.
Her voice was icily formal. “David Gurney, this is District Attorney Stryker. Your attendance is required in my office tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. to determine your status in the matter of the Blackmore Mountain homicide. If you choose to be accompanied by counsel, please arrive by 9:45 a.m.”
Listening to her message a second time, he was struck by two things. One, it had no legal force, and two, by her tone and choice of words, she was trying to make it sound like it did. His conclusion was that she’d seen RAM’s Controversial Perspectives program, and it had left her anxious and angry. Still, skipping the meeting would be a pointless provocation, so he needed to prepare for it. That meant gathering as much information as he could as quickly as he could. He called Jack Hardwick.
“The fuck do you want now, Sherlock?”
“I’m meeting with Stryker in the morning, and the more I can find out before then, the better. I’m thinking Garville might be a good starting point. It’s where the tow truck came from, it’s where the call that set me up for the Blackmore attack came from, and it’s where Bruno Lanka’s store is located—which makes it the place that links the two Lerman murders.”
“How the hell does it do that?”
“The bullshit phone call I got promised me information about Lenny’s murder. Then the route to get the information put me in the frame for Sonny’s murder.”
“Shit, Gurney, that way of putting it sounds like a major connection, but it doesn’t tell us fuck-all about what actually connects the two murders. And how does Bruno Lanka fit into it, besides being the guy who found Lenny’s body?”
Gurney sighed. “I’m not sure, but Lanka’s role has gnawed at me from the beginning. Why didn’t he testify at Slade’s trial? In murder trials, the prosecutor generally puts the person who found the body on the stand to describe the discovery. It’s a natural first step in the narrative and juries love it. But Stryker skipped it and had the CIO describe the scene instead. How come?”
“Maybe Lanka looks shady?”
“Or maybe he is shady. I mean, she was willing to put ‘Tommy Hooks’ Cazo on the stand, which makes me wonder what made Lanka too big a risk.”
“You think if we pay him a visit he’s going to confess his sins?”
“No, but it might be interesting to rattle his cage.”
“Cage rattling is fun, so long as you don’t get kicked in the balls while you’re doing it.”
“I’d also like to drop in on whoever runs Top Star Auto Salvage, see if we can get a sense of their moral principles.”
Hardwick uttered a contemptuous grunt. “You’re saying we should take a two-hour drive to some shithole town near Albany and annoy some potentially dangerous scumbags?”
“Something like that.”
“So, instead of taking my heartfelt advice that this might be the ideal time for you to walk away from this goddamn mess, you’ve decided to double down?”
“I just want to turn over a few more rocks. See what’s there.”
“And the worst that could happen is one of the annoyed scumbags shoots us. Sounds fucking irresistible. Mind if I bring my Glock?”
“I was going to suggest it.”
43
GURNEY AND HARDWICK MET IN THE PARKING LOT OF A Home Depot adjacent to the interstate and proceeded from there in Gurney’s rental car to Top Star Auto Salvage on the scruffy outskirts of Garville.
The sprawling automotive junkyard was surrounded by a razor wire–topped fence. An industrial gate stood open to the street. Wind gusts raised eddies of dust from the bare ground between the gate and a large travel trailer—the only office-like structure in a landscape of derelict vehicles.
Hardwick got out of the car first, stretched his thickly muscled neck from side to side, and spat on the street. Despite the icy gusts, which he seemed not to notice, he wore only a light windbreaker over his shoulder-holstered Glock.
A demented-looking pit bull made a straining, snarling appearance at the end of a rusty chain attached to the corner of the trailer. Staying outside the radius of the chain’s arc, they approached the trailer. The door opened abruptly, and a large, heavy-jawed woman in a pink track suit filled the doorframe. She eyed them with bored hostility.
Gurney spoke first.
“Charlene Vesco?”
“What do you want?” She had the hoarseness of a lifelong smoker and the yellow skin that went with it.
He answered loudly enough to be heard over the barking of the pit bull. “We’re following up on a statement you made to Detective Magnussen regarding the theft of your tow truck.”
“When do we get it back?”
“That’s up to Magnussen. Right now we need to ask you about your security system.”