“You’re telling me that this is a matter of investigative competence? That you want to pass the baton along to a man with sharper skills than yourself? What kind of bullshit is that?”
“It’s the truth. Honest. But . . . to be completely honest . . . it’s not the only reason.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Do you believe in divine providence?”
“Do I believe in what?”
“Serendipity.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“A grand coincidence. At the very moment that Jane Hammond was sitting in my modest home office describing her brother’s desperate situation, describing her desperate need for help, you called.”
Gurney said nothing.
“So there you are—David Gurney, detective first grade, NYPD Homicide, most decorated officer in the history of the department—planning to surveil a porcupine. A brain fit to confront the greatest criminal minds on earth—focused on a quill ball in a tree. Now tell me, if that isn’t fucked up, what is?”
Gurney said nothing.
“So here we are, with a major opportunity that benefits everyone. I get your help in piercing the fog wrapped around this case. Jane gets the investigatory assistance she so badly needs to help her brother. You get to apply your God-given talent to a worthy challenge.”
Gurney found the logic of this appeal almost convincing.
The problem was, he knew Hardwick too well.
“Very smooth sales presentation, Jack. I’m almost ready to test-drive the car. There’s just one thing missing.”
“Missing?”
“The truth. Give me the real reason, and I’ll tell you whether I’m interested.”
After a few seconds of perfect stillness, Hardwick let out a bark of a laugh.
“Just testing you, Davey. Making sure you still have what it takes. Don’t get me wrong. Everything I said was true. But there is one other factor in the equation.” He leaned forward and extended his hands, palms up, in a gesture of openness. “Here’s the problem. I have a history with Gil Fenton. Seven years ago he did me a favor. Big favor, involving an error on my part. Serious error.” Hardwick paused, grimacing. “So Gil has certain facts at his disposal. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a source of great concern. There are reasons he would want to keep these facts to himself. However, if we were to have a head-on collision . . . if he were to see me leading an attack on his handling of the Hammond case . . .”
Gurney gave him a cool, speculative smile. “You want to work quietly in the background while I take your place in the head-on collision?”
“He couldn’t damage you the way he could damage me.”
“You could just drop the case and refer the lady to another private investigator.”
“Sure,” said Hardwick, nodding in an unconvincing imitation of agreement. “I could do that. Maybe I should do that. It would probably be the smartest option. Definitely the safest.”
He hesitated. “Of course, if we send Jane to someone else, they might fuck up the assignment. And if they fuck up the assignment, we might never find out why all those former clients of Richard Hammond killed themselves.”
CHAPTER 5
Gurney heard the side door being opened, followed by the voices of Madeleine and Jane as they hung up their jackets in the mud room.
When the two women entered the kitchen, Madeleine was smiling and shaking ice crystals out of her hair, and Jane was carrying a bulging manila envelope. She brought it to the table and laid it in front of Gurney.
“This is pretty comprehensive. It should give you an idea of what we’re up against. I made copies of everything I could find on the Internet. Local coverage of the four suicides. Obituaries. Talk-show transcripts. Interviews with experts in the field of hypnosis.”
“Has Richard gotten any support from the academic community?”
“That’s a laugh! The so-called ‘academic community’ is teeming with envious little creeps who resent Richard’s success and are probably delighted to see him being attacked.”
Gurney eyed the bulging envelope. “Are Gil Fenton’s press briefings in there?”
“Every misleading word.”
“Did you pull all this together at your brother’s request?”
“Not exactly. He’s . . . confident that the problem will just go away.”
“And you’re not?”
“No . . . yes . . . I mean, yes, of course I know it will eventually be resolved. It has to be. I have faith. But you know the old saying, ‘God will move the mountain, but you have to bring a shovel.’ That’s what I’m doing.”
Gurney smiled. “Apparently Richard believes that God will move the mountain, so long as Jane brings the shovel.”
There was flash of anger in her eyes. “That’s not fair. You don’t know him.”
“So help me understand. Why does he refuse to get a lawyer? Why is it up to you to protect him?”
She gave Gurney a cold stare, then turned away and looked out the window.
“Richard is like no one else on earth. I know people say things like that all the time about people they love, but Richard is truly unique. He always was. I don’t mean he’s perfect. He’s not. But he has a gift.”
There was a well-worn reverence in this statement that made it sound as if she’d been making it all her life—as if everything depended on it.
As he studied her profile, the anxious wrinkles radiating from the corner of her eye, the grim set of her mouth, he realized that at the center of this woman’s psyche was the belief that things would have to turn out well for her brother because the opposite would be unbearable.
Madeleine asked softly, “Richard’s gift—is it for his work as a psychotherapist?”
“Yes. He’s . . . amazing. Which makes this awful attack on him so much worse. He does things no other therapist can do.”
Madeleine shot a glance at Gurney, a suggestion that he pick up the thread.
“Can you give me an example?”
“Richard has an extraordinary power to change people’s behavior virtually overnight. He has an intense sense of empathy. It’s a connection that enables him to motivate his patients at the deepest level. He’s often able in a single session to free a patient from some habit or addiction he’s been struggling with for years. Richard realigns the way people see things. It sounds like magic, but it’s totally real.”
It occurred to Gurney that if her perception of her brother’s talents was anywhere near accurate, the implications could be troubling. If Richard Hammond could so easily persuade people to do things they’d previously been unable or unwilling to do . . .
Perhaps sensing his concern, Jane reiterated her point. “Richard’s talent is totally for the benefit of others. He could never use his gift to harm anyone. Never!”
Gurney changed the subject back to one of his unanswered questions. “Jane, I’m still not clear why the effort to extricate Richard from this situation is all up to you. I get the impression he’s hardly responding to the problem at all. Am I missing something?”
Her reaction was a pained look. She turned back toward the window, shaking her head slowly.
“I hate talking about this,” she said, unfolding a tissue. “It’s hard for ordinary people to understand . . . because of Richard’s uniqueness.” She blew her nose several times, then dabbed at it gingerly. “He has periods of tremendous psychic energy and insight . . . and periods of complete exhaustion. In those periods of achievement, when he does all his best work, he naturally needs someone who can deal with the practical details he doesn’t have time for. And when he slows down, when he has to rest . . . well, then he needs someone to . . . to deal with whatever he doesn’t have the energy for.”