“That’s a childish question.”
“Humor me.”
“I’d kill a cobra that threatened my life, just as you would.”
“Did you ever want to kill Jillian?”
He laughed humorlessly. “Is this some sort of sophomoric game?”
“Just a question.”
“You’re wasting my time.”
“Do you still own a Weatherby.257 rifle?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Are you aware that someone with a rifle like that took a shot at Scott Ashton a week after Jillian’s murder?”
“With a.257 Weatherby? For Godsake, you’re not suggesting… you’re not daring to suggest that somehow… What the hell
“I’m just asking you a question.”
“A question with offensive implications.”
“Shall I assume you still have the rifle in your possession?”
“Assume whatever you like. Next question.”
“Can you say for sure where that rifle was on May seventeenth?”
“Next question.”
“Did Jillian ever bring friends home?”
“No-thank God for small favors. I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Gurney.”
“Final question. Do you happen to know the name or address of Jillian’s biological father?”
For the first time in the conversation, Perry hesitated. “Some Spanish-sounding name.” There was a kind of revulsion in his voice. “My wife mentioned it once. I told her I never wanted to hear it again. Cruz, perhaps? Angel Cruz? I don’t know his address. He may not have one. Considering the life expectancy of the average methamphetamine addict, he’s probably been dead for quite a few years.”
He broke the connection without another word.
Getting to sleep proved difficult. If Gurney’s mind was engaged after midnight, turning it off wasn’t easy. It could take hours to loosen its obsessive grip on the problems of the day.
He’d been in bed, he guessed, for at least forty-five minutes without any respite from the kaleidoscope of images and questions embedded in the Perry case when he noted that the rhythm of Madeleine’s breathing had changed. He was convinced she’d been asleep when he came to bed, but now he had the distinct feeling that she was awake.
He wanted to talk to her. Well, actually, he wasn’t sure about that. And he wasn’t sure, if he did talk to her, what it was that he wanted to talk to her about. Then he realized that he wanted her advice, wanted her guidance out of the swamp in which he was getting mired-a swamp composed of too many shaky stories. He wanted her advice, but he wasn’t sure how to ask for it.
She cleared her throat softly. “So what are you going to do with all your money?” she asked matter-of-factly, as though they’d been discussing some related matter for the past hour. This was not an unusual way for her to bring something up.
“The hundred thousand dollars, you mean?”
She didn’t reply, which meant she considered the question unnecessary.
“It’s not
“No, it’s definitely
He turned his head toward her on the pillow, but it was a moonless night, too dark to make out her expression. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true. It’s your hobby, now your very lucrative hobby. And it’s your gallery contact, or your representative, or agent, or whatever she is. And now you’re going to meet your new fan, the art collector, whoever he is. So it’s your money.”
“I don’t understand why you’re saying this.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
“No it’s not. Whatever
She uttered a rueful little laugh. “You don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
She yawned, suddenly sounded very tired. “The art project is yours. All I ever did was complain about how much time you spent on it, how many beautiful days you spent cooped up in your den staring at your screen, staring at the faces of serial killers.”
“That’s got nothing to do with how we think about the money.”
“It’s got everything to do with it. You earned it. It’s yours.” She yawned again. “I’m going back to sleep.”
Chapter 32
Gurney left at 11:30 A.M. the next day for his meeting with Simon Kale, allowing himself a little over an hour for the drive to Cooperstown. Along the way he drank a sixteen-ounce container of Abelard’s house blend, and by the time Lake Otsego was in sight, he was feeling awake enough to take note of the classic September weather, the blue sky, the hint of chill in the air.
His GPS brought him along the hemlock-shaded west shore of the lake to a small white Colonial on its own half-acre peninsula. The open garage doors revealed a shiny green Miata roadster and a black Volvo. Parked at the edge of the driveway, away from the garage, was a red Volkswagen Beetle. Gurney parked behind the Beetle and was getting out of his car just as an elegant gray-haired man emerged from the garage with a pair of canvas tote bags.
“Detective Gurney, I presume?”
“Dr. Kale?”
“Correct.” He smiled perfunctorily and led the way along a flagstone path from the garage to the side door of the house. The door was open. Inside, the place looked very old but meticulously cared for, with the heat- conserving low ceilings and hand-hewn beams typical of the eighteenth century. They were standing in the middle of a kitchen that featured an enormous open hearth as well as a chrome-and-enamel gas stove from the 1930s. From another room came the unmistakable strains of “Amazing Grace” being played on a flute.
Kale laid his tote bags on the table. They were imprinted with the logo of the Adirondack Symphony Orchestra. Leafy vegetables and loaves of French bread were visible in one, bottles of wine in the other. “The elements of dinner. I was sent out to hunt and gather,” he said rather archly. “I do not myself cook. My partner, Adrian, is both chef and flautist.”
“Is that…?” Gurney began, tilting his head in the direction of the faint melody.
“No, no, Adrian is far better than
“The…?”
“The car outside, the one in front of yours, the cutesy red thing.”
“Ah,” said Gurney. “Of course. Which would leave the Volvo for you and the Miata for your partner?”
“You’re sure it’s not the other way around?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Interesting. What exactly is it about me that screams Volvo to you?”
“When you came out of the garage, you came out of the Volvo side of it.”
Kale emitted a sharp cackle. “You’re not clairvoyant, then?”
“I doubt it.”
