He checked his watch. His thoughts about the objects he’d found in the old buried cellar were now fully eclipsed by his efforts to imagine what was on the district attorney’s mind. And how obscure the man’s intentions would be.
At eleven thirty Gurney heard the distant sound of a car coming up the narrow town road below the barn. A minute later a gleaming black Lincoln Navigator passed between the barn and the pond, hesitating at the point where the gravel surface ended, before lumbering up the rutted farm track through the wild pasture grass to an open area beside the house and coming to a stop by Gurney’s dusty Outback.
The first surprise was that it was Sheridan Kline himself who emerged from the big SUV. The second surprise was that he emerged from the driver’s seat. He’d come in his official car but without the services of his driver—a notable departure, thought Gurney, for a man in love with the perks of his office.
Sharply dressed, Kline gave a couple of quick tugs to straighten the creases in his pants. At first glance the man seemed to have gotten smaller since their last meeting, ten months earlier, in the messy legal aftermath of the Peter Pan case. It was an odd perception, as well as an unpleasant reminder of the occasion. A lot of people had died in the horrendous finale of the Pan investigation, and Kline had appeared quite willing to have Gurney indicted for reckless homicide. But as soon as the media’s preference for portraying Gurney as the hero of the case had become clear, Kline had supported that narrative—with a cordial enthusiasm that Madeleine had found nauseating.
He approached the patio now with a fixed smile, taking in the immediate area with a series of assessing glances.
Gurney rose to meet him. “I thought you were going to call.”
The smile remained in place. “Change of plan. I happened to be in White River, meeting with Chief Beckert. Just forty miles from here, forty-five minutes with no traffic. So why not do it face-to-face? Always better that way.”
Gurney inclined his head toward the Navigator. “No chauffeur today?”
“Driver, David, not chauffeur, I’m a public servant, for Christ’s sake.” He paused for a moment, radiating restless energy. “I often find driving relaxing.” A small tic was playing at the corner of his determined smile.
“You drove here directly from White River?”
“As I said. From a meeting with Beckert. Which is what I want to talk to you about.” He nodded toward the Adirondack chairs. “Why don’t we have a seat?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to come inside?”
He made a face. “Not really. Such a beautiful day. I spend too much time indoors.”
Gurney wondered if the man was afraid of being recorded and considered the patio safer than the house. Perhaps that was also his reason for avoiding the phone.
“Coffee?”
“Not right now.”
Gurney gestured toward one of the chairs, sat down in the one facing it, and waited.
Kline removed the jacket of his expensive-looking gray suit, draped it neatly over the chair back, and loosened his tie before perching on the edge of the seat.
“Let me get right to the point. As you can imagine, we’re facing a hell of a challenge. Shouldn’t have been totally unexpected, given the inflammatory statements coming out of that BDA bunch, but something like this is always a shock. You spent twenty-five years in the NYPD, so I can only imagine how it feels to you.”
“How what feels to me?”
“The shooting.”
“What shooting?”
“Christ, how cut off from the world are you up here on this mountain? Were you even aware of the demonstrations going on all week over in White River?”
“For the one-year anniversary of that traffic-stop fatality? Laxton Jones? Hard not to be aware of all that. But I haven’t checked the news yet this morning.”
“A White River cop was shot dead last night. Trying to keep a racial mess from getting completely out of hand.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus. Goddamn right.”
“This happened at a Black Defense Alliance demonstration?”
“Naturally.”
“I thought they were a nonviolent group.”
“Hah!”
“The cop who was shot. Was he white?”
“Of course.”
“How—?”
“Sniper. Fatal head shot. Somebody out there knew exactly what the hell he was doing. This was no coked-up idiot with a Saturday-night special. This was planned.” Kline ran his fingers nervously back through his short dark hair.
Gurney was struck by the emotional intensity of the district attorney’s reaction—natural in most people but noteworthy in such a coldly calculating politician, a man Gurney had come to believe evaluated every event by how it might facilitate or obstruct his own ambitions.
There was the obvious question—which Kline addressed on cue as Gurney was about to ask it. “You’re wondering why I’m bringing this problem to you?” He shifted on the edge of his chair to face Gurney squarely, as though he believed that direct eye contact was essential to communicating an attitude of forthrightness. “I’m here, David, because I want your help. In fact, I need your help.”
3
Sheridan Kline stood silently at the open French doors, watching as Gurney prepared two mugs at the coffee machine in the kitchen. Neither man spoke again until they were back outside on their chairs—the district attorney still looking stiff and uncomfortable, but perhaps feeling assured from his own observation of the coffee-making that Gurney hadn’t taken the opportunity to slip a recording device into his pocket. He took a few sips from his mug, then set it down on the flat wooden arm of the chair.
He took the deep breath of a man about to dive into a cold pool. “I’ll be perfectly frank with you, David. I have a huge problem. The situation in White River is explosive. I don’t know how closely you’ve been following it, but there’ve been outbreaks of looting and arson all this past week down in the Grinton district. Constant stink of smoke in the air. Sickening. And it could get a hell of a lot worse. Keg of dynamite, and these BDA people seem to be trying to set it off. Like this latest attack. Cold-blooded assassination of a police officer.” He fell silent, shaking his head.
After a few moments Gurney tried to nudge him toward explaining his visit. “You said that you drove here directly from a meeting with the White River chief of police?”
“Dell Beckert and his number two, Judd Turlock.”
“About how to respond to the shooting?”
“Among other things. A discussion of the whole situation. All the implications.” Kline made a face as if he were regurgitating something indigestible.
“Is there some connection between that meeting and your coming here?”
Another pained expression. “Yes and no.”
“Tell me more about the ‘yes’ part.”
Before answering, Kline reached for his cup, took a long sip from it, and replaced it carefully on the chair arm. Gurney noted a tremor in his hand.
“The situation in White River is delicate. Feelings are running way too high on all sides. I called it a keg of dynamite, but that’s not right. It’s more like pure nitroglycerin—tricky to handle, unpredictable, unforgiving. Stumble, whack against it the wrong way, and it could blow us all to pieces.”
“I get that. Racial sensitivities. Ugly emotions. Potential for total chaos. But—”