John Verdon - Think of a Number

“How much of my time are we talking about?”

“That’s up to you.” When Gurney did not respond, he went on, “Mark Mellery must have admired and trusted you. He asked you to help him deal with a predator. I’m asking you to help me deal with that same predator. Whatever you can give me I’d be grateful for.”

This guy is good , thought Gurney. He’s got the sincerity thing down pat . He said, “I’ll talk to my wife about it. I’ll get back to you in the morning. Give me a number where I can reach you.”

The smile in the voice was huge. “I’ll give you my home number. I have a feeling you’re an early riser like me. Call anytime after six A.M.”

When he returned to the kitchen, Madeleine was at the table, but her mood had changed. She was reading the Times . He sat opposite her at a right angle so he was facing the old Franklin woodstove. He looked toward it without really seeing it and began massaging his forehead as if the decision confronting him were a muscle kink to be worked out.

“It’s not that difficult, is it?” said Madeleine without looking up from her paper.

“What?”

“What you’re thinking about.”

“The DA seems eager for my help.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“An outsider wouldn’t normally be brought into something like this.”

“But you’re not just any outsider, are you?”

“I guess my connection with Mellery makes a difference.”

She cocked her head, peering at him with her X-ray vision.

“He was very flattering,” said Gurney, trying not to sound flattered.

“Probably just describing your talents accurately.”

“Compared to Captain Rodriguez, anyone would look good.”

She smiled at his awkward humility. “What did he offer you?”

“A blank check, really. I’d operate through his office. Have to be very careful not to step on toes, though. I told him I’d decide by tomorrow morning.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether or not I want to do this.”

“Are you joking?”

“You think it’s that bad an idea?”

“I mean, are you joking about not having decided yet?”

“There’s a lot involved.”

“More than you may think, but it’s obvious you’re going to do it.”

She went back to reading her paper.

“What do you mean, more than I may think?” he asked after a long minute.

“Choices sometimes have consequences we don’t anticipate.”

“Like what?”

Her sad stare told him it was a stupid question.

After a pause he said, “I feel I owe something to Mark.”

A flicker of irony was added to the stare.

“Why the funny look?”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you call him by his first name.”

The County Office Building, which had carried that bland designation since 1935, had formerly been called the Bumblebee Lunatic Asylum-founded in 1899 through the generosity (and temporary insanity, his disowned heirs argued to no avail) of the eponymous British transplant, Sir George Bumblebee. The murky redbrick edifice, infused with a century of soot, loomed darkly over the town square. It was about a mile from state police headquarters and the same hour-and-a-quarter drive from Walnut Crossing.

The inside was even less appealing than the outside, for the opposite reason. In the 1960s it had been gutted and modernized. Begrimed chandeliers and oak wainscoting were replaced by glaring fluorescent fixtures and white drywall. The thought crossed Gurney’s mind that the harsh modern light might serve to keep at bay the mad ghosts of its former residents-an odd thing for a man to be thinking on his way to negotiate the details of an employment contract, so he focused instead on what Madeleine had said that morning on his way out: “He needs you more than you need him.” He pondered that as he waited to pass through the elaborate lobby security apparatus. Once past that barrier, he followed a series of arrows to a door whose frosted-glass panel bore the words DISTRICT ATTORNEY in elegant black lettering.

Inside, a woman at a reception desk met his eyes as he entered. It was Gurney’s observation that a man’s choice of a female assistant is based on competence, sex, or prestige. The woman at the desk seemed to offer all three. Despite a possible age of fifty or so, her hair, skin, makeup, clothes, and figure were so well tended they suggested a focus on things physical that was almost electric. The assessing look in her eyes was cool as well as sensual. A little brass rectangle propped up on her desk announced that her name was Ellen Rackoff.

Before either of them spoke, a door to the right of her desk opened and Sheridan Kline stepped into the reception room. He grinned with an approximation of warmth.

“Nine o’clock on the dot! I’m not surprised. You strike me as a person who does exactly what he says he’s going to do.”

“It’s easier than the alternative.”

“What? Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Bigger grin, but less warmth. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“Me, too. Never understood tea. You a dog man or a cat man?”

“Dog, I guess.”

“Ever notice that dog people prefer coffee? Tea is for cat people?”

Gurney didn’t think that was worth thinking about. Kline gestured for him to follow him into his office, then extended the gesture in the direction of a contemporary leather sofa, settling himself into a matching armchair on the other side of a low glass table and replacing his grin with a look of almost comical earnestness.

“Dave, let me say how happy I am that you’re willing to help us.”

“Assuming there’s an appropriate role for me.”

Kline blinked.

“Turf is a touchy issue,” said Gurney.

“Couldn’t agree more. Let me be frank-speak with an open kimono, as the saying goes.”

Gurney hid a grimace under a polite smile.

“People I know at the NYPD tell me impressive things about you. You were the lead investigator on some very big cases, the key man, the man who put it all together, but when the time came for congratulations, you always gave the credit to someone else. Word is, you had the biggest talent and smallest ego in the department.”

Gurney smiled, not at the compliment, which he knew was calculated, but at Kline’s expression, which seemed truly baffled by the notion of reluctance to take credit.

“I like the work. I don’t like being the center of attention.”

Kline looked for a long moment as if he were trying to identify an elusive flavor in his food, then gave it up.

He leaned forward. “Tell me how you think you can have an impact on this case.”

This was the critical question. Anticipating how it might be answered had occupied much of Gurney’s drive from Walnut Crossing.

“As a consulting analyst.”

“What does that mean?”

“The investigation team at BCI is responsible for gathering, inspecting, and preserving evidence, interviewing witnesses, following up leads, checking alibis, and formulating a working hypothesis regarding the identity, movements, and motives of the killer. That last piece is crucial, and it’s the one I believe I can help with.”

“How?”

“Looking at the facts in a complex situation and developing a reasonable narrative is the only part of my job I was any good at.”

“I doubt that.”

“Other people are better at questioning suspects, discovering evidence at the scene-”

“Like bullets no one else knew where to look for?”

“That was a lucky guess. There’s usually someone better than I am at each little piece of an investigation. But when it comes to fitting the pieces together, seeing what matters and what doesn’t, I can do that. On the job I wasn’t always right, but I was right often enough to make a difference.”