“Maybe just your phone number? I’d love to be able to bounce things off you. Unless that’s a problem.”
Gurney saw no reason to refuse, regardless of how rigid Beckert might be about the flow of information. He shrugged and gave the young detective his cell number.
Torres thanked him, and then was gone—leaving Gurney to muse over the encounter. Like everything else in the case, it felt not quite right. He wondered if the secrecy surrounding the request was the product of Torres’s insecurity, the White River police culture, or something nastier altogether.
His musings were interrupted by the passing shadows of a pair of vultures circling over the weedy field adjacent to the restrooms. It was interesting, he thought, that vultures, nurturing themselves only from the bodies of dead animals, harming no living thing, had become in popular parlance predators devouring the defenseless. More evidence that the popular mind was rarely distracted by the truth.
These musings were interrupted in turn by the ringing of his phone.
It was Hardwick.
“Gurney here.”
“Damn! That text you sent me from Steele’s phone? Could be a legit warning. Or something pretending to be a legit warning. Or some other fucking thing entirely. You know where the call came from?”
“We can pursue that when we get possession of the phone from Steele’s wife. But I’m sure the pursuit will dead-end at an anonymous prepaid cell. You have anything on Beckert or Turlock?”
“A bit more than before. I called in a favor from a guy at NYSP headquarters with access to old recruitment archives—the original forms with the CV data provided by applicants. Beckert’s and Turlock’s applications reveal a very early connection. They both attended the same military prep school in Butris County, Virginia. Beckert was a year ahead of Turlock, but it was a small school, and they would have trained together.”
“Interesting.”
“Also interesting is a notation on Turlock’s application indicating that he had legal problems back at that school. ‘Juvenile court hearing, proceedings sealed. Applicant explanation, supported by Butris County sheriff’s affidavit, deemed adequate for application to proceed at this time.’ That’s all the notation says.”
The vulture shadows passed again across the pavement and out across the scraggly field. “Hmm. Did Beckert have any problems there?”
“If so, nobody noticed. Top of his class every year. Clean as Butris County spring water.”
“Be nice to know what Turlock got banged up for.”
“We’d need a hell of a good cause to persuade a Virginia judge to open the sealed juvie file of a deputy police chief. And as of now we have no cause at all.”
“Be nice to find one.”
“For a guy who’s not sure he wants to get involved, you sound pretty damn involved.”
Gurney waited for another noisy convoy of trucks to pass. “One little peculiarity seems to lead to another, that’s all.”
“Like what?”
“Like the relationship Kline has with Beckert. Kline describes him as a law-and-order god. Even told me in a worshipful tone that Beckert is married to the governor’s cousin.”
“So?”
“So why doesn’t he trust this paragon of justice?”
“You don’t think he does?”
“I think something about Beckert’s approach to this homicide has Kline running scared.”
“The fuck you think is going on?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with Beckert’s plan to run for attorney general?”
Hardwick let out a braying laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Something I just heard. Latest rumor is that the former AG’s passing on to his heavenly reward in a Vegas hotel was more colorful than first revealed. Seems there was a hooker trapped under the fat fucker’s three-hundred-pound corpse.”
“This has some relevance to Beckert?”
“It dumps the former AG’s character into the shitter, which is a plus for Mr. Law-and-Order. Clean new broom to sweep out the nasty crap.”
Gurney thought about this for a moment. “You told me the other day that Beckert’s first wife died of a drug overdose. You have anything more on that?”
“There was no legal case, so no case records. The fuck would that have to do with anything anyway?”
“No idea. I’m just asking questions.”
When Gurney arrived home he found Geraldine Mirkle’s yellow Beetle parked by the asparagus patch. He was led by the sound of female laughter to the patio.
Geraldine and Madeleine were doubled over. Finally Madeleine got hold of herself and said, “Welcome home, sweetheart. Gerry was just describing an encounter with a client.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, you have no idea!” said Geraldine, her round face a picture of glee. “I’ve got to be going now. Buford gets a little crazy if he doesn’t get his dinner on time.” She stood up, surprisingly nimble for a rotund woman, and hurried off to her Beetle. As she was fitting herself into the driver’s seat she called back, “Thanks for the tea, my dear.” With a burst of giggles she drove off.
Madeleine responded to Gurney’s quizzical expression with a dismissive little wave of her hand. “Just a bit of dark clinic humor. Hard to explain. You had to be there.” She wiped her face again and cleared her throat. “I thought we’d have dinner out here this evening. The air is pure heaven.”
He shrugged. “Fine with me.”
She went into the house and came back ten minutes later with place mats, silverware, and two large bowls brimming with her favorite salad of cold shrimp, avocado, diced tomatoes, red-leaf lettuce, and crumbled blue cheese.
They were both hungry and hardly spoke until they were finished. The four chickens were pursuing their own daylong meal, pecking in the grass around the edges of the patio.
“Buford is her cat,” said Madeleine, putting down her fork.
“I thought it was her husband.”
“Hasn’t got a husband. Seems happy enough without one.”
After a pause Gurney launched into a summary of all that had transpired that day, including his meeting with Kline in the parking lot.
“The more he tells me how open and honest he’s being with me, the less I believe it. So I guess I need to make a decision.”
Madeleine said nothing, just cocked her head and eyed him incredulously.
“You think my involvement is a bad idea?” he asked.
“A bad idea? Is it a bad idea to let yourself be used in a murder investigation by a man you think is lying to you? To put your life in the hands of a man you don’t trust? My God, David, on what planet would that be considered a good idea?”
Putting his life in Kline’s hands might be an overly dramatic way of looking at it, but she had a point. “I’ll sleep on it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
In his own mind he was inclined to continue his investigation, at least for a while. What he intended to ‘sleep on’ was his relationship with Kline.
She gazed at him for a long moment. Then she gathered up their salad bowls and forks and carried them into the house.
He