Gerry Mirkle picked Madeleine up at nine thirty, and Gurney departed for his two-hour drive to Garville at nine forty-five, aiming to arrive just before Lanka’s store opened. Most of the trip was on the interstate where, despite the speed limit being sixty-five, it seemed that everyone had set their cruise control at seventy.
The passing landscape was made up of rolling hills, farm fields, and patches of evergreen woods on slopes too steep for cultivation. This pastoral expanse gave way to a flatter, more populated area as he entered the suburbs of Albany. One sight jarred him briefly out of his contemplation of Bruno Lanka—a dead deer on the shoulder of the highway, legs extending stiffly out from the body in rigor mortis. Vultures circled overhead.
From time to time, a sight like this—a deer, a dog, a possum—along the edge of a road touched something in him that he’d learned to suppress at the sight of a human victim. But stifled emotions have a way of coming to the surface, and a dead creature lying alone in a cold, hard place could sometimes bring him close to tears.
His route to Lanka’s Specialty Foods took him through the grungy outskirts of Garville and past Top Star Auto Salvage. He slowed down, noting that the red tow truck had been returned by BCI. It was parked inside the fenced compound next to the trailer-office. He could see the scrapes on the truck’s side, incurred during its collision with his Outback.
He drove into the center of town, turned onto the side street where Lanka’s store was located, and chose a parking spot half a block past it from which he could observe the store’s front door and the entrance to its parking lot in his rearview mirrors.
He had no specific expectations nor any firm plan. He knew from experience that stakeouts were open-ended exercises in patience and improvisation. He tilted his seat back into a semi-reclining position and adjusted his inside and outside mirrors. The dashboard clock said it was 11:49 a.m.
Twelve noon came and went without anyone arriving to open the store. During the next half hour, a Garville police cruiser drove by three times—particularly noticeable, since there was so little traffic on that street. When the cruiser appeared a fourth time, it came to a stop behind him.
After two or three minutes, during which he assumed that his plate number was being being run through the system for outstanding tickets or warrants, a uniformed cop emerged from the cruiser and approached Gurney’s window. He had the shoulders and neck of a bodybuilder. His mouth was set in an approximation of a polite smile. The plastic ID tag on his jacket said his name was Gavin Horst.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I see your license and registration?”
Rather than questioning the reason for the inquiry, he handed over his license and the auto rental agreement, and the cop returned to the cruiser. In his mirror Gurney could see that he was making a phone call rather than checking the license on the in-car computer. After ending the phone call, the cop returned with Gurney’s documents. The smile was gone. “So, where are you coming from today, sir?”
“Walnut Crossing.”
“And where are you heading?”
“Just here, then back to Walnut Crossing.”
“You drove all that way just to park on this street?”
“I’m waiting for Lanka’s Specialty Foods to open. Any idea when that might happen?”
“You came all the way from Walnut Crossing to buy something in that store?”
“Right.”
“That’s a long drive.”
“Interesting store. Unusual merchandise.”
The cop nodded slowly, sucked at his teeth, and handed Gurney his documents. “Store’s not open today. You’re wasting your time.”
“Shame. I was hoping to meet Mr. Lanka.”
“Why is that?”
“A private matter. Do you know him?”
The cop’s artificial smile reappeared. “Like I said, you’re wasting your time. Be a good idea to move on. You have a nice day.” He returned to his cruiser and sat there, watching, as Gurney pulled out of his parking space.
At the end of the block, where Gurney was about to make a turn that would take him back to the main avenue, a black Cadillac SUV drove by in the oncoming lane. He caught only a brief glimpse of the driver, but he recognized him as the unpleasant character he encountered in his last visit and the subject of Tess Larson’s sketch. In his side mirror, he could see the receding license plate, as the SUV turned into the store’s parking lot. He made a note of it on his phone.
Once he was out of Garville and back on the interstate, he pulled into the first rest area and placed a call to Hardwick.
“Yeah?”
“The Garville situation just got more interesting. I had an odd little dance with a cop there, Gavin Horst, who’s probably on Lanka’s payroll.”
“The fuck were you doing there anyway?”
“Watching Lanka’s place of business. I was curious to see who might show up. And guess what. A black Escalade turned into the street as I was being chased away—driven by the same character we saw yesterday in the store.”
“Piece of dirt, in my humble opinion.”
“I agree. So, I’ll give you the Escalade’s plate number, and maybe your guy at BCI could run it though the system. Be nice to know who owns it—along with any other vehicles linked to the same name.”
“Any particular reason my guy would want to do that?”
Gurney gave that some thought before answering, as a convoy of ten-wheelers roared past the rest area.
“If one of those other vehicles turns out to be a Moto Guzzi trail bike, he could get credit for solving the Blackmore Mountain murder case. Plus, he might get to embarrass someone on the case he doesn’t like, maybe someone who zeroed in on the wrong suspect. Or he might just have a natural hunger for the truth.”
“Only natural hunger that fucker has is for women half his age. But the idea of sticking it to a fellow officer might appeal to him.”
“If he’s willing to check out the Escalade owner for other registered vehicles, maybe he could be encouraged to run a similar check on the tow truck owner, Charlene Vesco. Be nice to know how she might fit into the big picture.”
Hardwick let out a harsh one-syllable laugh. “The big picture being some yet-to-be-concocted grand theory that ties Sonny’s murder to Lenny’s murder to Bruno Lanka to the Escalade driver to Charlene Vesco to a shady Garville cop to Cam Stryker to the abominable fucking snowman?”
“Something like that.”
“So, everybody’s a suspect? Everybody except Ziko Slimebag Slade?”
OVER THE COURSE of several homicide investigations, Gurney had come to appreciate the unique nature of Hardwick’s contributions. In discussions, the man invariably raised aggressive objections to just about any proposed hypothesis, but when action was required, he was all in. Therefore, despite his ridiculing any theory that might explain the Lerman murders, Gurney knew that Hardwick would extract every fact he could from his contact at BCI, and if a dangerous confrontation should arise in the future, he would be there without reservation.
At the moment, Gurney’s own potential for action was limited. Short of returning to Garville to stir the pot again, there was little he could do. Any significant next step would depend on whatever information Hardwick could get hold of.
This enforced hiatus allowed Gurney’s mind to move from case-related speculations to concerns about Thanksgiving. As he pulled out from the rest area, those concerns centered on ensuring that the planned dinner would take place without fear of a hostile invasion.
The possibility of installing electronic monitoring devices came to mind, but he’d never put much stock in them. When he and Madeleine lived in the city, protection against intruders consisted of a lobby attendant in their building, a substantial deadbolt on their apartment door, and his NYPD sidearm. After they moved to the old farmhouse, the deadbolt and lobby attendant had been replaced by a shotgun, and by letting it be known that the place was occupied by a former detective.