“The Mellery case.”
He smiled. The wider the smile got, the nastier it got. “Gurney, right? The genius from shit city. The hell you doing here?”
“Visiting.”
“Visiting who?”
“When it’s appropriate to share that information with you, I will.”
“Appropriate?
Gurney complied calmly with the order. The other officer had circled around to the back of the car.
“Now, like I said, license and registration.”
Gurney opened his wallet, handed the two items to Blatt, who studied them with great care. Blatt went back to the Crown Victoria, got in, and started punching keys on his in-car computer. The officer in back of the car was watching Gurney as if he might be about to sprint across Higgles Road into the thornbushes. Gurney smiled wearily and tried to read the man’s ID, but the plastic holder was reflecting the light. He gave up and introduced himself instead. “I’m Dave Gurney, NYPD Homicide, retired.”
The officer nodded slightly. Several minutes passed. Then several more. Gurney leaned back against his car door, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. He had little appetite for pointless delays, and the complexity of the day was wearing him down. His fabled patience was fraying. Blatt returned and handed him back his items as though he were sick of holding them.
“What’s your business here?”
“You asked me that already.”
“All right, Gurney, let me make something clear to you. There’s a murder investigation in progress here. You understand what I’m saying? Murder investigation. Big mistake for you to get in the way. Obstruction of justice. Impeding the investigation of a felony. Get the message? So I’ll ask you one more time. What are you doing on Badger Lane?”
“Sorry, Blatt, private matter.”
“You saying you’re not here about the Perry case?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
Blatt turned to the other officer, spit on the ground, and pointed his thumb back at Gurney. “This is the guy that almost got everyone killed at the end of the Mellery case.”
The stupid accusation was dangerously close to pushing a button in Gurney that most people didn’t know existed.
Maybe the other officer sensed ominous vibrations, or maybe he’d gotten jammed up by Blatt’s animosities before, or maybe a little light finally went on. “Gurney?” he asked. “Isn’t that the guy with all the NYPD commendations?”
Blatt didn’t answer. But something about the question changed the dynamic of the situation just enough to restrain further escalation. He stared dully at Gurney.
“A word to the wise: Get out of here. Get out of here right this fucking minute. You even breathe on this case, I guarantee you’ll get banged for obstruction.” He raised his hand, pointed his forefinger between Gurney’s eyes, and dropped his thumb like a hammer.
Gurney nodded. “I hear you, but… I have a question. Suppose I discover that all your assumptions about this murder are bullshit. Who should I tell?”
Chapter 22
The coffee on the drive home was a mistake. The cigarette was a bigger mistake.
The gas-station brew had been concentrated by time and evaporation into a caffeine-packed, tar-colored liquid that didn’t taste much like coffee at all. Gurney drank it anyway: a comforting ritual. Not so comforting was the impact of the caffeine on his nerves as the first rush of stimulation gave way to a vibrating anxiety that demanded a cigarette. But that, too, came with pluses and minuses: a brief feeling of ease and freedom, followed by thoughts as bleak as the dispiriting overcast. The memory of something a therapist had said fifteen years earlier:
His new Subaru had no ashtray, and he was making do with the rinsed-out sardine tin he kept in the car for that purpose. As he ground his butt into it, it suddenly brought to mind another acute instance of failure in his personal life, another jabbing reminder of a mind adrift: He’d forgotten about dinner.
His call to Madeleine-omitting his memory lapse, asking only if she wanted him to pick up anything on his way home-did not leave him feeling any better. He had the sense that she knew he’d forgotten, knew he was trying to cover it up. It was a short call with long silences. Their final exchange:
“You’ll clear your murder files off the dinner table when you get home?”
“Yes. I said I would.”
“Good.”
For the balance of the drive, Gurney’s restless mind skittered around a set of bothersome questions: Why was Arlo Blatt waiting at the bottom of Badger Lane? There was no surveillance car there earlier. Had he been tipped that someone was asking questions? That Gurney in particular was asking questions? But who would care enough to call Blatt? Why was Blatt so eager to keep him off the case? Which reminded Gurney of another unresolved question: Why was Jack Hardwick so eager to have him on it?
At exactly 5:00 P.M. under a glowering sky, Gurney turned onto the dirt-and-gravel road that ran up into the hills to his farmhouse. A mile or so along the way, he caught sight of a car ahead of him, a grayish green Prius. As they proceeded up the dusty road, it became increasingly certain that the people in the car were the mystery dinner guests.
The Prius slowed to a cautious crawl on the rutted farm track through the pasture to the informal parking area of matted-down grass next to the house. A second before they emerged, Gurney remembered: George and Peggy Meeker. George, retired professor of entomology in his early sixties, a gangling praying mantis of a man; and Peggy, bubbly social worker in her early fifties who’d talked Madeleine into her current part-time job. As Gurney parked, the Meekers removed from their backseat a platter and a bowl covered with aluminum foil.
“Salad and dessert!” cried Peggy. “Sorry we’re late. George lost the car keys!” She seemed to find this both exasperating and entertaining.
George raised his hand in a gesture of greeting, accompanied by a sour glance at his wife. Gurney managed only a small smile of welcome. The George-and-Peggy dynamic was too close for comfort to what had gone on between his parents.
Madeleine came to the door, her smile directed at the Meekers.
“Salad and dessert,” explained Peggy, handing the covered dishes to Madeleine, who made appreciative noises and led the way into the big farmhouse kitchen.
“I love it!” said Peggy with wide-eyed appreciation, the same reaction she’d had on their two previous visits, adding as she always did, “It’s the perfect house for you two. Don’t you think it fits their personalities perfectly, George?”
George nodded agreeably, eyeing the case files on the table, tilting his head to read the abbreviated content descriptions on the covers. “I thought you were retired,” he said to Gurney.
“I am. This is just a brief consulting assignment.”
“An invitation to a beheading,” said Madeleine.
“What sort of consulting assignment?” asked Peggy with real interest.
“I’ve been asked to review the evidence in a murder case and suggest alternative directions for the
