And what about the Rick Loomis connection? If Beckert and Turlock were behind the Poulter Street attempt on Loomis’s life, then presumably they were also behind the fatal attack in the hospital. Did Beckert and Jackson enlist Chalise Creel and show her how to drive that ice pick into the man’s brain stem?
The thought of Poulter Street reminded Gurney of a question he’d asked Torres to pursue: Had the real estate agent who’d arranged for the leases on the two sniper sites actually met with Jordan, whose name was on the leases, or had the transaction been handled by an intermediary?
Torres had told Gurney the information would be available as soon as the agent returned from vacation. Gurney’s eagerness to pursue the matter, along with the impossibility of doing so at two o’clock in the morning, kept him spinning what-if scenarios until he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
When he awoke at nine the next morning the sky was blue, and through the open windows he could hear Madeleine out mowing. His first thought was to get in touch with Acme Realty.
He called Mark Torres for the agent’s name, which had slipped his mind.
“Laura Conway,” said Torres. “I have a reminder on my phone to check with her this morning. I’m on my way into Kline’s office to brief him on the Jackson-Creel homicides. By the way, we’ve confirmed that Blaze and Chalise are sisters. And it seems that Chalise has a pretty extensive mental health history, which we’re trying to get access to. As for Laura Conway, if you want to talk to her yourself—”
“I do. Can you give me the number?”
Three minutes later, Laura Conway was telling him what he’d half expected to hear.
“It was all handled by Blaze Jackson. I believe she was Mr. Jordan’s business manager, or something like that. She chose the apartment on Bridge Street and the house over on Poulter.”
“But both of those leases were signed by Marcel Jordan?”
“That’s correct. As I remember, Ms. Jackson took the physical documents to him and brought them back to our office.”
“Were you aware of her prominent role in the Black Defense Alliance?”
“I have no interest in politics. I avoid watching the news. It’s too upsetting.”
“So you never met Marcel Jordan?”
“No.”
“Or spoke to him?”
“No.”
“Did he provide you with any financial references?”
“No.”
“You didn’t require assurances that he could afford those rentals?”
“We didn’t consider it necessary.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“It’s not the normal thing. But neither was the arrangement.”
“Meaning?”
“Both rentals were paid for in advance. For the entire year. In cash.”
“Did that concern you?”
“Some people like cash transactions. I don’t question things like that.”
“Did it cross your mind that Mr. Jordan might not know that his name was on that lease?”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t he know?”
Gurney was sure the answer was that Jordan was being set up in a complex Beckert-Turlock conspiracy to frame him and his BDA associates, along with Cory Payne, for the murders of John Steele and Rick Loomis. So he wasn’t surprised to learn of the man’s potential ignorance of the lease. What got his attention was the presence of Blaze Jackson—with its suggestion of her involvement in the affair from the beginning.
He ended the call and stood for a minute at the window, gazing out at the row of blooming chokecherry trees along the side of the high pasture. He was wondering how extensively involved Blaze Jackson had been in the White River deaths and whether she had been the brains or the tool. As he was turning this over in his mind, his eye caught a movement in the sky above the trees. A red-tailed hawk was circling the edge of the field, searching no doubt for some smaller bird or furry creature to pierce with its talons, tear apart, and devour. Nature, he concluded for the hundredth time, for all its sweetness and blossoms and birdsong, was essentially a horror show.
His phone rang on the nightstand behind him. He turned away from the window and took the call. “Gurney here.”
“Hello, Dave. It’s Marv Gelter.”
“Marv. Good morning.”
“Good and busy is what it is. You’re quite the disrupter, my friend. Whole new political landscape out there.”
Gurney remained silent.
“No time to waste. Let me get to the point. You free for lunch?”
“That would depend on the agenda.”
“Of course it would! The agenda concerns your future. You just turned the world upside down, my friend. Time to take advantage of that. Time to take a look at the rest of your life.”
Gurney’s visceral dislike of Gelter was outweighed by his curiosity.
“Where do you want to meet?”
“The Blue Swan. Lockenberry. Twelve noon.”
By the time he was ready to leave, Madeleine’s mowing had taken her up around the high pasture into one of the grassy trails through the pines. He left her a note with a brief explanation hoping he’d be back by three that afternoon. Then he got the address of the restaurant from the internet, put it into his GPS, and set out.
The immaculate village of Lockenberry, just a mile or so past the Gelters’ strange cubical house, was nestled in its own small valley where spring was further advanced than in the neighboring hills. Daffodils, jonquils, and apple blossoms were already giving way to a profusion of lilacs. The Blue Swan was located on a tranquil, shaded lane off the main street. An elegantly understated sign beside a bluestone path leading to the front door was all that distinguished it from the picture-book Colonial homes on either side of it.
Gurney was met in the cherrywood entry hall by a statuesque blonde with a faint Scandinavian accent.
“Welcome, Mr. Gurney. Mr. Gelter will be here shortly. May I show you to your table?”
He followed her along a carpeted hallway to a high-ceilinged room with a chandelier. The walls consisted of alternating panels of impressionist-style floral murals and gleaming mirrors. There was a single table in the center of the room—round, with a white linen tablecloth, two French provincial dining chairs, and two elaborate place settings. The statuesque blonde pulled out one of the chairs for him.
“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Gurney?”
“Plain water.”
Moments later, Marv Gelter strode into the room—concentrated energy and darting gaze belying the laid-back look of his country-squire tweeds. It was as though a Ralph Lauren weekend ensemble was being modeled by a large caffeinated rat.
“Dave! Glad you made it! Sorry to be late.” He sat across the table from Gurney, glancing back toward the hallway. “Lova, darling, where the hell are you?”
The Nordic beauty entered the room, bringing them two glasses on a silver tray—plain water for Gurney and a rosy-hued drink that looked like a Campari and soda for Gelter. She placed them on the table, stood back, and waited. Gelter took a quick swallow of his. Gurney wondered if he did anything slowly.
“No menu here, David. They do the classics. Fantastic cassoulet. Coq au vin. Confit de canard. Boeuf bourguignon. Whatever you like.”