perhaps the sound of an irregular breath, drew their attention simultaneously to the doorway. Incongruously for such a surreptitious arrival, it was the NFL-size hulk who’d earlier been guarding the driveway. He looked like he was having a tooth drilled.
Nardo could see what was coming. “What, Tommy?”
“They’ve located Gary’s wife.”
“Oh, Christ. Okay. Where is she?”
“On her way home from the town garage. She drives the Head Start school bus.”
“Right. Right. Oh, fuck. I should go myself, but I can’t leave here now. Where the fuck is the chief? Anybody find him yet?”
“He’s in Cancun.”
“I know he’s in freaking Cancun. I mean, why the fuck doesn’t he check his messages?” Nardo took a long breath and closed his eyes. “Hacker and Picardo-they were probably closest to the family. Isn’t Picardo the wife’s cousin or something? Send Hacker and Picardo. Christ. But tell Hacker to come see me first.”
The gigantic young cop went as quietly as he’d come.
Nardo took another long breath. He began speaking as though he’d been kicked in the head and hoped that speaking would help him clear his mind. “So you’re telling me they were all alcoholics. Well, Gary Sissek wasn’t an alcoholic, so what does that mean?”
“He was a cop. Maybe that was enough. Or maybe he got in the way of a planned attack on Dermott. Or maybe there’s some other connection.”
“What other connection?”
“I don’t know.”
The back door slammed, sharp footsteps approached, and a wiry man in plainclothes appeared at the door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Sorry to do this to you, but I need you and Picardo to-”
“I know.”
“Right. Well. Keep the information simple. Simple as you can. ‘Fatally stabbed while protecting the intended victim of an attack. Died a hero.’ Something like that. Jesus fucking Christ! What I mean is, no awful details, no pool of blood. You understand what I’m trying to say? The details can come later if they have to. But for now…”
“I understand, sir.”
“Right. Look, I’m sorry I can’t do it myself. I really can’t leave. Tell her I’ll come by the house tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” The man paused at the doorway until it was clear that Nardo had nothing more to say, then marched back the way he came and closed the rear door behind him, this time more quietly.
Again Nardo forced his attention back to his conversation with Gurney. “Am I missing something, or is your understanding of this case pretty much theoretical? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t hear anything about a list of suspects-in fact, no concrete leads to pursue at all, is that right?”
“More or less.”
“And that shitload of physical evidence-envelopes, notepaper, red ink, boots, broken bottles, footprints, taped phone calls, cell-tower transmission records, returned checks, even messages written in skin oil from this freaking lunatic’s fingertips-none of that led anywhere?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
Nardo shook his head in a manner that was getting to be a habit. “Bottom line, you don’t know who you’re looking for or how to find him.”
Gurney smiled. “So maybe that’s why I’m here.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I have no idea where else to go.”
It was a simple admission of a simple fact. The intellectual satisfaction of figuring out the tactical details of the killer’s MO was little more than a distraction from the lack of progress on the central issue so plainly articulated by Nardo. Gurney had to face the fact that despite his eureka insights into the peripheral mysteries of the case, he was almost as far from identifying and capturing his man as he’d been on the morning Mark Mellery brought him those first baffling notes and asked for his help.
There was a small shift in Nardo’s expression, a relaxation of its sharp edge.
“We’ve never had a murder in Wycherly,” he said. “Not a real one, anyway. Couple of manslaughter plead-outs, couple of vehicular homicides, one questionable hunting accident. Never had a killing here that didn’t involve at least one completely intoxicated asshole. At least not in the past twenty-four years.”
“That how long you’ve been on the job?”
“Yep. Only guy in the department longer than me is… was… Gary. He was just shy of twenty-five. His wife wanted him out at twenty, but he figured if he stayed another five… Damn!” Nardo wiped his eyes. “We don’t lose many guys in the line of duty,” he said, as though his tears needed a rational explanation.
Gurney was tempted to say he knew what it was like to lose a colleague. He’d lost two in one bust gone bad. Instead he just nodded in sympathy.
After a minute or so, Nardo cleared his throat. “You have any interest in talking to Dermott?”
“Matter of fact, yes. I just don’t want to get in your way.”
“You won’t,” said Nardo roughly-making up, Gurney supposed, for his moment of weakness. Then he added in a more normal tone, “You’ve spoken to this guy on the phone, right?”
“Right.”
“So he knows who you are.”
“Right.”
“So you don’t need me in the room. Just fill me in when you’re through.”
“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”
“Door on the right at the top of the stairs. Good luck.”
As he ascended the plain oak staircase, Gurney wondered if the second floor would be any more revealing of the occupant’s personality than the first, which had no more warmth or flair than the computer equipment it housed. The landing at the top of the stairs echoed the redundant security motif established downstairs: a fire extinguisher on the wall, a smoke alarm and sprinklers in the ceiling. Gurney was getting the impression that Gregory Dermott was definitely a belt-and-suspenders guy. He knocked at the door Nardo had indicated.
“Yes?” The response was pained, hoarse, impatient.
“Special Investigator Gurney, Mr. Dermott. May I see you for a minute?”
There was a pause. “Gurney?”
“Dave Gurney. We’ve spoken on the phone.”
“Come in.”
Gurney opened the door into a room darkened by partly closed blinds. It was furnished with a bed, a nightstand, a bureau, an armchair, and a tablelike desk against the wall with a folding chair in front of it. All the wood was dark. The style was contemporary, superficially upscale. The bedspread and carpet were gray, tan, essentially colorless. The room’s occupant sat in the armchair facing the door. He sat tilted a little to one side, as though he’d found an odd position that mitigated his discomfort. To the extent that the underlying personality was visible, it struck Gurney as the techie type one might expect in the computer business. In the low light, his age was less definable. Thirty something would be a reasonable guess.
After studying Gurney’s features as if trying to discern in them the answer to a question, he asked in a low voice, “Did they tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“About the phone call… from the crazy murderer.”
“I heard about that. Who answered the phone?”
“Answered it? I assume one of the police officers. One came to get me.”
“The caller asked for you by name?”
“I guess… I don’t know… I mean, he must have. The officer said the call was for me.”
“Was there anything familiar about the caller’s voice?”
“It wasn’t normal.”
“How do you mean that?”
“Crazy. Up and down, high like a woman’s voice, then low. Crazy accents. Like it was some kind of creepy joke,
