Nardo was standing at a gray steel door at the opposite end of an unfinished concrete room with exposed joists, dampness-stained walls, a water heater, two oil tanks, a furnace, two smoke alarms, two fire extinguishers, and a sprinkler system.
“The key only fits the padlock,” he said. “There’s also a dead bolt. What’s with this redundant security mania? And where the hell’s the other key?”
Gurney handed it to him. “Says he forgot. Blames it on you.”
Nardo took it with a disgusted grunt and stuck it directly into the lock. “Rotten little fucker,” he said, pushing the door open. “I can’t believe I’m actually checking-What the hell…?”
Nardo, followed by Gurney, walked tentatively through the doorway into the room beyond, which was considerably larger than a utility closet.
At first, nothing they saw made sense.
Chapter 51
Gurney’s immediate reaction was that they’d entered the wrong door. But that didn’t make any sense, either. Apart from the door at the top of the stairs, it was the only door in the basement. But this was no mere storage space.
They were standing in the corner of a large, softly lighted, traditionally furnished, richly carpeted bedroom. In front of them was a queen-size bed with a flowery quilt and a ruffled skirt extending around the base. Several overstuffed pillows with matching ruffles were propped up against the headboard. At the foot of the bed was a cedar hope chest. On it sat a big stuffed bird made of some sort of patchwork quilting. An odd feature in the wall to Gurney’s left attracted his attention-a window that seemed at first glance to provide a view of an open field, but the view, he quickly realized, was a poster-size color transparency illuminated from the rear, presumably intended to relieve the claustrophobic atmosphere. He simultaneously became aware of the low hum of some sort of air- circulation system.
“I don’t get it,” said Nardo.
Gurney was about to agree when he noticed a small table a little farther along the same wall as the fake window. On the table was a low-wattage lamp in whose circle of amber light stood three simple black frames of the sort used to display diplomas. He moved closer for a clearer view. In each frame was a photocopy of a personal check. The checks were all made out to X. Arybdis. They were all in the amount of $289.87. From left to right, they were from Mark Mellery, Albert Rudden, and R. Kartch. These were the checks Gregory Dermott had reported receiving, the originals of which he’d returned uncashed to their senders. But why had he made copies before returning them? And, more troubling, why the hell had he framed them? Gurney picked them up one at a time, as if a closer inspection might provide answers.
Then, suddenly, while he was peering at the signature on the third check-R. Kartch-the uncomfortable feeling he’d had about that name resurfaced. Except this time not just the feeling came to him, but the reason for it.
“Damn!” he muttered at his earlier blindness to the now obvious discrepancy.
Simultaneously, an abrupt little sound came from Nardo. Gurney looked at him, then followed the direction of his startled gaze to the opposite corner of the wide room. There-barely visible in the shadows, beyond the reach of the feeble light cast by the table lamp on the framed checks, partly concealed by the wings of a Queen Anne armchair and camouflaged by a nightgown of the same dusty-rose hue as the upholstery, a frail woman sat with her head bent forward on her chest.
Nardo unclipped a flashlight from his belt and aimed its beam at her.
Gurney guessed that her age might be anywhere from fifty to seventy. The skin was deathly pale. The blond hair, done up in a profusion of curls, had to be a wig. Blinking, she raised her head so gradually it hardly seemed to be moving, turning it toward the light with a curiously heliotropic grace.
Nardo looked at Gurney, then back at the woman in the chair.
“I have to pee,” she said. Her voice was high, raspy, imperious. The haughty upward tilt of her chin revealed an ugly scar on her neck.
“Who the hell is this?” whispered Nardo, as though Gurney ought to know.
In fact, Gurney was sure he knew exactly who it was. He also knew that bringing the key down to Nardo in the basement had been a terrible mistake.
He turned quickly toward the open doorway. But Gregory Dermott was already standing in it, with a quart bottle of Four Roses whiskey in one hand and a.38 Special revolver in the other. There was no trace of the angry, volatile man with a migraine. The eyes, no longer screwed up into an imitation of pain and accusation, had reverted to what, Gurney assumed, was their normal state-the right keen and determined, the left dark and unfeeling as lead.
Nardo also turned. “Wha…?” he began, then let the question die in his throat. He stood very still, eyeing Dermott’s face and gun alternately.
Dermott took a full step into the room, adroitly reached back with his foot, and hooked his toe around the edge of the door, slamming it shut behind him. There was a heavy metallic click as the lock snapped into place. A small, unsettling smile lengthened the thin line of his mouth.
“Alone at last,” he said, mocking the tone of a man looking forward to a pleasant chat. “So much to do,” he added. “So little time.” He apparently found this amusing. The cold smile widened for a moment like a stretching worm, then contracted. “I want you to know in advance how much I appreciate your participation in my little project. Your cooperation will make everything so much better. First, a minor detail. Lieutenant, may I ask you to lie facedown on the floor?” It wasn’t really a question.
Gurney could read in Nardo’s eyes a kind of rapid calculation, but he couldn’t tell what options the man was considering. Or even if he had any idea what was really going on.
To the degree that he could read anything in Dermott’s eyes, it looked like the patience of a cat watching a mouse with nowhere to run.
“Sir,” said Nardo, affecting a kind of pained concern, “it would be a real good idea to put the gun down.”
Dermott shook his head. “Not as good as you think.”
Nardo looked baffled. “Just put it down, sir.”
“That’s an option. But there’s a complication. Nothing in life is simple, is it?”
“Complication?” Nardo was speaking to Dermott as though he were an otherwise harmless citizen temporarily off his medication.
“I plan to put down the gun after I shoot you. If you want me to put it down right away, then I’ll have to shoot you right away. I don’t want to do that, and I’m sure you don’t want that, either. You see the problem?”
As Dermott spoke, he raised the revolver to a point at which it was aimed at Nardo’s throat. Whether it was the steadiness of his hand or the calm mockery in Dermott’s voice, something in his manner convinced Nardo he needed to try a different strategy.
“You fire that gun,” he said, “what do you think happens next?”
Dermott shrugged, the thin line of his mouth widening again. “You die.”
Nardo nodded in tentative agreement, as though a student had given him an obvious but incomplete answer. “And? What then?”
“What difference does it make?” Dermott shrugged again, gazing down the barrel at Nardo’s neck.
The lieutenant seemed to be making quite an effort at maintaining control, over either his fury or his fear.
“Not much to me, but a lot to you. You pull that trigger, in less than a minute you’ll have a couple dozen cops up your ass. They’ll fucking rip you to pieces.”
Dermott seemed amused. “How much do you know about crows, Lieutenant?”
Nardo squinted at the non sequitur.
“Crows are incredibly stupid,” said Dermott. “When you shoot one, another one comes. When you shoot that one, another comes, and then another, and another. You keep shooting them, and they keep coming.”
It was something Gurney had heard before-that crows would not let one of their own die alone. If a crow was
