John Verdon - Let the Devil Sleep

“But what about the fact that he made every shot on the kind of curve that would minimize the chance of a collision, that he intercepted each victim’s car at the same approximate midpoint of each curve, that he apparently discarded each gun after it was used, that he managed never to be caught on any surveillance camera and never to be seen by any witness? That way of doing things requires thought, time, and money. Jesus, Jack, discarding a pricey Desert Eagle after a single use? That alone looks to me like a very serious investment in risk control.”

Hardwick grunted. “So you’re saying on the one hand we have a Bible-waving drive-by lunatic boiling over with hate for the rich guys who are fucking up the world…”

“… and on the other,” said Gurney, completing the thought, “we have a stone-cold hit man who’s apparently rich enough to toss fifteen-hundred-dollar handguns out the window.”

A prolonged silence suggested that Hardwick was mulling this over. “And you want the autopsy data… to prove what?”

“Not to prove anything. Just to give me some idea of whether I’m on the right track with my sense of contradictions in this case.”

“That’s the whole reason? You know, ace, I’m thinking there might be something else.”

Gurney couldn’t help smiling at Hardwick’s acuity. The man could be-and frequently was-a smirky, abrasive, boorish pain in the ass. But he was far from stupid.

“Yeah, there might be something else. I’ve been poking a sharp little stick at the accepted theory of the Good Shepherd murders. I intend to keep doing that. In the event that some FBI hornets come swarming out at me, I’d like to surround myself with as much data as I can.”

Hardwick’s interest rose a noticeable notch. He had an allergic reaction to authority, to bureaucracy, to procedure , to men in suits and ties-in other words, to organizations like the FBI. Poking a sharp stick in that direction was an activity he would naturally approve of. “You’ve stirred up a little conflict with our fed brothers, have you?” he asked, almost hopefully.

“Not yet,” said Gurney. “But I may be about to.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Hardwick disconnected without saying good-bye, which was not unusual.

Gurney was slipping his phone back into his pocket when there was a light knock at the open den door behind him. He turned and saw Kim standing there. “Could I interrupt you for just a minute?”

“Come in. You’re not interrupting anything.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?

“For taking that ride on the back of Kyle’s motorcycle.”

“Apologize?”

“It wasn’t the right thing to do. I mean, my timing was really thoughtless-going out for a silly motorcycle ride-when there’s all this serious stuff going on. You must think I’m a selfish airhead.”

“Taking a little break in the middle of a big mess seems pretty reasonable to me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it was appropriate for me to be out there acting like nothing happened, especially if there’s a chance that your barn was destroyed because of me.”

“Do you think Robby Meese is capable of that?”

“There was a time when I would have said, ‘Not in a million years.’ Now I’m not sure.” She looked confused and helpless. “Do you think it was him?”

Kyle appeared in the doorway behind her, listening but saying nothing.

“Yes and no,” said Gurney.

Kim nodded, as though his answer meant more than it did. “There’s one more thing I need to say. I hope you realize that I had no idea a week ago what I was dragging you into. At this point I would totally understand and accept your decision if you wanted out.”

“Because of the fire?”

“The fire, plus the booby trap in the basement.”

Gurney smiled.

She frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“Those are the reasons I don’t want out.”

“I don’t understand.”

Kyle spoke up. “The harder it gets, the more determined he gets.”

She turned, startled.

He went on. “For my dad, difficulty is a magnet. Impossibility is irresistible.”

She looked from Kyle back to Gurney. “Does that mean you’re willing to stay involved in my project?”

“At least until we get things sorted out. What’s next on your agenda?”

“More meetings. With Sharon Stone’s son, Eric. And with Bruno Mellani’s son, Paul.”

“When are they supposed to happen?”

“Saturday.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No, Sat-Oh, my God, tomorrow is Saturday. I lost a day. Do you think you’ll be available?”

“As long as there are no new surprises.”

“Okay. Great. I’d better get going. Time is disappearing. As soon as I get home, I’ll confirm the appointments and call you with the addresses. Tomorrow we’ll meet at the first interview location. That okay with you?”

“You’re going back to your apartment in Syracuse?”

“I need clothes, other things.” She appeared uncomfortable. “I probably won’t stay there overnight.”

“How are you getting there?”

She looked at Kyle. “You didn’t tell them?”

“I guess I forgot.” He grinned, blushed. “I’m giving Kim a ride home.”

“On the back of the bike?”

“The sun’s coming out. It’ll be fine.”

Gurney glanced out the window. The trees at the edge of the field were casting weak shadows over the dead grass.

Kyle added, “Madeleine’s going to lend her a jacket and gloves.”

“What about a helmet?”

“We can pick one up for her right down in the village at the Harley dealer. Maybe a big black Darth Vader thing with a skull and crossbones.”

“Oh, thanks ,” said Kim with a cute imitation of sarcasm, poking his arm with her finger.

There were a number of things Gurney wanted to say. On second thought, none seemed as advisable as silence.

“Come on,” said Kyle.

Kim smiled nervously at Gurney. “I’ll call you with the interview schedule.”

After they left, Gurney leaned back in his chair and stared out at the hillside, which was as motionless and muted as a sepia photograph. The landline phone on the far side of the desk rang, but he made no move to answer it. It rang a second time. And a third. The fourth ring was interrupted halfway through, evidently by Madeleine’s picking up the handset in the kitchen. He heard her voice, but the words were indistinct.

A few moments later, she entered the den. “Man by the name of Trout,” she whispered, handing Gurney the phone. “Like the fish.”

He’d half expected the call but was surprised at how quickly it had come.

“Gurney here.” It was the way he’d answered his phone on the job. In retirement he’d found it a hard habit to break.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gurney. I’m Matthew Trout, special supervisory agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The words rolled out of the man like artillery fire.

“Yes?”

“I’m agent in charge on the Good Shepherd multiple-murder investigation. I believe you’re already aware of that?” When Gurney didn’t answer, he went on. “I’ve been informed by Dr. Holdenfield that you and a client of yours are involving yourselves in that investigation.”

Gurney said nothing.

“Would you agree that’s an accurate statement?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked if your statement was accurate. I said it wasn’t.”

“In what way wasn’t it?”

“You implied that a journalist I’m advising on matters of police procedure is trying to step into your investigation and that I myself am trying to do the same thing. Both those assertions are false.”