expression. “Karnala Fashion turns out to be a complicated outfit, hard to pin down. It’s owned by another corporation, which is owned by another corporation, which is owned by another corporation in the Cayman Islands. Very hard to say what business they’re actually in. But there seems to be a Sardinian connection, and the Sardinian connection seems to be connected to the Skard family. The Skards are reputed to be very bad people.”
“
“I don’t mean to suggest there’s any doubt about it. There’s just no legal proof of it. According to our friends at Interpol, no member of the Skard family has ever been convicted of anything. Potential witnesses always change their minds. Or they disappear.”
“The Skards own Karnala Fashion?”
“Probably. Everything about them is
“So what the hell is Karnala Fashion all about?”
“Nobody knows. We can’t find a single fabric supplier or clothing retailer who’s ever done business with them. They run ads for incredibly expensive women’s clothes, but we can’t find evidence that they actually sell them.”
“What do their representatives say about that?”
“We can’t find any representatives.”
“Jesus, Jack, who places the ads? Who pays for them?”
“It’s all done by e-mail.”
“E-mail from where?”
“Sometimes from the Cayman Islands. Sometimes from Sardinia.”
“But…”
“I know. It doesn’t make sense. It’s being pursued. We’re waiting for more stuff from Interpol. Also from the Italian police. Also from the Cayman Islands. It’s tricky, since nobody’s been convicted of anything and the missing girls aren’t officially missing. Even if they were, their connection to Karnala wouldn’t prove anything, and there’s nothing on paper connecting Karnala to the Skards.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that instead of a couple of guys in that minefield, we’ve got a dozen tripping over one another.”
“Admit it, Jack, you love it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Right. So I guess this wouldn’t be a good time to ask you for a favor.”
“Like what?” He was suddenly placid. Hardwick was strange that way. His reactions were backward, like a hyperactive kid being calmed by an upper. The best time to ask him for a favor was the exact time you’d think would be the worst, and vice versa. The same upside-down principle governed his response to risk. He tended to view it as a positive factor in any equation. Unlike most cops, who tend by nature to be hierarchical and conservative, Hardwick had the true maverick gene. He was lucky to be alive.
“It’s a rule breaker,” said Gurney, feeling for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours that he was on solid ground. Why hadn’t he thought of Hardwick sooner? “It might involve a little deviousness.”
“What is it?” The man sounded like he’d just been offered a surprise dessert.
“I need to get some prints lifted off a small glass and run against the FBI database.”
“Let me guess-you don’t want anyone to know why, you don’t want a case file opened, and you don’t want the inquiry to be traced back to you.”
“Something like that.”
“Where and when do I get this glass?”
“How about at Abelard’s in ten minutes?”
“Gurney, you’re a presumptuous dick.”
Chapter 47
After entrusting the glass to Hardwick in the tiny parking area in front of Abelard’s, Gurney was struck by the idea of continuing on to Tambury. Abelard’s, after all, was nearly halfway there, and the scene of the crime might have more to reveal to him. He also wanted to keep moving, keep the anxiety of the Jykynstyl business from enveloping him.
He thought about those outdoorsy aristocrats Marian Eliot and Melpomene, Melpomene rooting up the dirt behind the Muller shed, Kiki’s hand sticking out of the ground like a grungy garden glove. And Carl. Christmas Carl. Carl who might very well end up in the frame for his wife’s murder. Of course, the fact that her head was cut off would point the finger at Hector. But if Carl were clever…
Had he discovered her affair with Hector? And decided to kill her the way Hector had killed Jillian Perry? Conceivable but unlikely. If Carl were guilty, that would make Kiki’s murder a tangent off the main course of the Mapleshade business. It would also mean that Carl had been furious enough to kill his wife, rational enough to mimic Hector’s MO, and foolish enough to bury her in a shallow grave in his own backyard. Gurney had seen stranger sequences of events, but that didn’t make this scenario feel any more credible.
He suspected there was a better explanation for Kiki Muller’s murder than the rage of a jealous husband, something that would attach it more directly to the larger mystery at Mapleshade. As he turned into Badger Lane from Higgles Road, he was starting to feel like himself again. He was far from whistling a happy tune, but at least he felt like a detective. And he didn’t feel like throwing up.
Two tattooed clones of Calvin Harlen were standing with the man himself next to the manure pile that separated the wreck of a house from the wreck of a barn. Their dull eyes followed Gurney’s car into the lane with a lazy malevolence.
Driving up toward Ashton’s house, he half expected to see Marian Eliot and Melpomene, exposer of buried sins, striking a dour pose on their front porch, but there was no sign of either. Nor was there any sign of life at the Muller house.
When he got out of his car in Ashton’s brick-paved driveway, he was struck again by the English ambience of the place-its subtle communication of wealth and quiet exclusivity. Rather than proceeding straight to the front door, he walked over to the arched trellis that served as an entryway to the broad lawn extending far behind the house. Although the surrounding shrubs were still primarily green, scattered tinges of yellow and red were beginning to appear in the trees.
“Detective Gurney?”
He turned toward the house. Scott Ashton was standing at the open side door.
Gurney smiled. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning.”
Ashton mirrored his smile. “I wouldn’t expect any distinction between weekday and weekend in a murder investigation. Is there anything specific…?”
“Actually, I was wondering if I could take a closer look at the area around the cottage.”
“A closer look?”
“That’s right. If you don’t mind?”
“Anything in particular you’re interested in?”
“I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it.”
Ashton’s even smile was as measured as his voice. “Let me know if you need any help. I’ll be with my father in the library.”
Some people have “dens,” thought Gurney, and some people have “libraries.” Who said America was a classless society? Certainly no one whose home was built of Cotswold stone and whose father was named Hobart Ashton.
He walked from the driveway across the side lawn through the trellis to the main area of the rear lawn. He’d
