“Interesting, Calvin. You’re a bright guy. I like the way you think.”
Harlen nodded, then spit on the ground again as if to emphasize his agreement with the compliment. “And there’s another thing.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Guilty spic would never let you see his face. Always had one of them rodeo hats on, brim pulled down in front, sunglasses. You know what I think? I think he was afraid to be seen, always hiding in the big house or in that fucking dollhouse. Just like the cunt.”
“Which cunt would that be?”
“The cunt that got whacked. Drive past you on the road, she’d look away like you was some kind of dirt. Like you was roadkill, fucking stupid cunt. So I’m thinking maybe they had something on the side, right, her and Mr. Fucking Greaseball? Both too fucking guilty to look anybody in the eye. Then I’m thinking, hey, wait a minute, maybe it’s more than that. Maybe the spic is afraid of being identified. You ever think of that?”
When Gurney finally concluded the interview, thanking Harlen and telling him he’d be in touch, he wasn’t sure how much he’d learned or what it might be worth. If Ashton had started using Flores instead of Harlen for jobs around the property, Harlen would no doubt have a huge resentment, and all the rest, all the bile that Harlen had been spewing, might have arisen directly from the blow to his wallet and his pride. Or maybe there was more to it. Maybe, as Hardwick had claimed, the whole situation had hidden layers, wasn’t what it seemed to be at all.
Gurney returned to his car on the shoulder of Higgles Road and wrote three short notes to himself in a little spiral pad.
He looked skeptically at his own questions, doubtful that any of them would lead to a useful discovery. Calvin Harlen, angry and seemingly paranoid, was hardly a reliable source.
He checked the clock on the dashboard: 1:00 P.M. If he skipped lunch, he’d have time for one more interview before his appointment with Ashton.
The Muller property was next to the last at the high end of Badger Lane, the last being Ashton’s manicured paradise. It was a world apart from Harlen’s dump at the corner of Higgles Road.
Gurney pulled over just past a mailbox bearing the address listed for Carl Muller on his interview master sheet. The house was a very large white Colonial with classic black trim and shutters, set well back from the road. Unlike the meticulously tended houses preceding it, it had a subtle aura of neglect-a shutter a little askew, a broken-off branch lying on the front lawn, grass shaggy, fallen leaves matted on the driveway, a blown-over lawn chair upside down on a brick path by the side door.
Standing at the paneled front door, Gurney could hear music playing faintly somewhere inside. There was no doorbell, just an antique brass knocker, which he used several times with increasing impact before the door was finally opened.
The man facing him did not look well. Gurney figured that his age could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty, depending on how much of his appearance was attributable to sickness. His limp hair matched the grayish beige of his drooping cardigan.
“Hello,” he said, with no hint of greeting or curiosity.
It struck Gurney as an odd way for the man to speak to a stranger at his door. “Mr. Muller?”
The man blinked, looked like he was listening to a taped replay of the question. “I’m Carl Muller.” His voice had the pallid, toneless quality of his skin.
“My name is Dave Gurney, sir. I’m involved in the search for Hector Flores. I was wondering if I might have a minute or two of your time.”
The taped replay took longer this time. “Now?”
“If that’s possible, sir. It would be very helpful.”
Muller nodded slowly. He stepped back, making a vague gesture with his hand.
Gurney stepped into the dark center hall of a well-preserved nineteenth-century home with wide floorboards and abundant original woodwork. The music he’d dimly heard before entering he now heard more identifiably. It was, strangely out of season, “Adeste Fideles,” and it seemed to be coming from the basement. There was another sound as well, a kind of low, rhythmic buzzing, also coming from somewhere below them. To Gurney’s left, a double doorway opened into a formal dining room with a massive fireplace. In front of him, the broad hallway extended to the rear of the house, where there was a glass-paneled door to what appeared to be an endless lawn. On the side of the hallway, a wide staircase with an elaborate balustrade led to the second floor. To his right was an old- fashioned parlor furnished with overstuffed couches and armchairs and antique tables and sideboards over which hung Winslow-style seascapes. Gurney’s impression was that the inside of the house was better cared for than the outside. Muller smiled vacuously, as though waiting to be told what to do next.
“Lovely house,” said Gurney pleasantly. “Looks very comfortable. Perhaps we could sit for a moment and talk?”
Again the tape delay. “All right.”
When he didn’t move, Gurney gestured inquiringly toward the parlor.
“Of course,” said Muller, blinking as though he were just waking up. “What did you say your name was?” Without waiting for an answer, he led the way to a pair of armchairs that faced each other in front of the fireplace. “So,” he said casually when they were both seated, “what’s this all about?”
The tone of the question was, like everything else about Carl Muller, roughly twenty degrees off center. Unless the man had some organic tendency toward confusion-unlikely in the rigorous profession of marine engineering-the explanation had to be some form of medication, perhaps understandable in the aftermath of his wife’s disappearing with a murderer.
Maybe because of the position of the heating vents, Gurney noted that the strains of “Adeste Fideles” and the faint rising and falling buzz were more audible in this room than in the hall. He was tempted to ask about it but thought it better to stay focused on what he really wanted to know.
“You’re a detective,” said Muller-a statement, not a question.
Gurney smiled. “I won’t keep you long, sir. There are just a few things I need to ask you.”
“Carl.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Carl.” He was gazing into the fireplace, speaking as though the ashy remnants of the last fire had jogged his memory. “My name is Carl.”
“Okay, Carl. First question,” said Gurney. “Before the day she disappeared, did Mrs. Muller have any contact with Hector Flores that you were aware of?”
“Kiki,” he said-another revelation from the ashes.
Gurney repeated his question, changing the name.
“She would have, wouldn’t she? Under the circumstances?”
“The circumstances being…?”
Muller’s eyes closed and opened, too lethargic a process to be described as a blink. “Her therapy sessions.”
“Therapy sessions? With whom?”
Muller looked at Gurney for the first time since they’d entered the room, blinking more quickly now. “Dr. Ashton.”
“The doctor has an office in his home? Next door?”
“Yes.”
“How long had she been seeing him?”
“Six months. A year. Less? More? I don’t remember.”
“When was her last session?”
“Tuesday. They were always on Tuesday.”
For a moment Gurney was bewildered. “You mean the Tuesday before she disappeared?”
“That’s right, Tuesday.”
“And you’re assuming that Mrs. Muller-Kiki-would have had contact with Flores when she went to Ashton’s office?”
