The Viper

1

SUMMER SLOWLY DECLINED AS IF IN THE GRIP OF A wasting disease, then the orange flare of autumn swept by in the blink of an eye, leaving the western Catskill Mountains a dull brown. November arrived with a windy chill that never let up and a long succession of shortening days that passed with no sign of the sun.

On a raw, gusty afternoon Dave and Madeleine Gurney were hard at work outside their farmhouse, high in the hills outside the village of Walnut Crossing. Autumn leaves skittered across the patio they were reshaping. Dave eased an unwieldy slab of bluestone into its new position. Still lean and strong in his early fifties, he welcomed the exercise.

Madeleine carefully set down a wheelbarrow full of fresh sod next to him. “Did you call your son?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Today is his birthday.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. I’ll give him a call after dinner.”

For the past week, they’d been changing the contours of the old stone patio that lay between the house and the chicken coop. The previous spring’s Harrow Hill murder case had reached its bloody conclusion on this patio, and the intervening months had done so little to free Madeleine from the images of that dreadful night that she still found it a challenge to step out through the French doors. The work they were engaged in was an attempt to alter the look of the place in the hope of diluting the memory of what occurred there. Gurney hoped it might also dissipate the hard-to-define strain present in her expression more often than not these days.

The project was almost finished. He had completed most of the stonework and had broken up the hard Catskill earth for new planting beds. Madeleine had painted the chicken coop and its attached shed a cheerful yellow and planted dozens of tulip bulbs around the reconfigured patio.

As he leaned on his crowbar to adjust the position of the final slab of bluestone, the wind rose, and the first flakes of a promised snow shower swirled around him.

“I think we’ve done enough for today,” said Madeleine, glancing at the slaty sky. “Besides, Emma should be arriving anytime now.” She looked at him. “David, you’re scowling.”

“Maybe because you seem to know more about her visit than you’re telling me.”

“All I know is, she wants to talk to you about a murder case.”

He laid his crowbar next to the wheelbarrow and took off his work gloves. “I doubt she’s coming here just to talk.”

Madeleine turned her strained face away from a gust of wind, started toward the French doors, and froze with a sharp little cry.

Gurney stepped quickly over to her. “What is it?”

She pointed at a spot on the ground just beyond the edge of the patio. He followed her terrified gaze.

“The leaves moved. A snake!”

Gurney approached the spot, his shovel at the ready. When he was within striking distance, a small gray creature darted from the leaves and disappeared under a nearby shrub.

“No snake,” said Gurney. “Just a vole.”

Madeleine breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

He was tempted to remind her that there were no snakes to be concerned about in their part of the Catskills. But he knew it would make no difference.

2

GURNEY STOOD WITH HIS BACK TO THE SHOWERHEAD. The warm, tingling spray massaged his neck and shoulders, gradually releasing the muscle tightness caused by hefting the patio stones, as well as the emotional tension of recalling what had happened on the patio six months earlier.

The soothing water was just beginning to accomplish its magic when Madeleine opened the bathroom door and announced Emma’s arrival.

Gurney dried and dressed. He found Madeleine alone in their big farmhouse kitchen. She was peering through the French doors past the reconfigured patio and overgrown apple tree, to the figure of a woman facing the old pasture that sloped from the house to the barn. Her loose cape-like coat billowed sideways in the snowy wind.

“She told me she wanted to breathe in our pure mountain air,” said Madeleine.

“Unusual day for it.”

“There’s nothing usual about Emma.”

With the placid smile of someone enjoying a summer stroll, Emma turned and slowly returned to the house.

Gurney opened one of the glass-paned doors.

She stopped just outside, her blue-eyed gaze meeting his. “So beautiful here. The sound of the wind rushing through the trees, the earth breathing.” She extended her hand. Her grip was strong, the palm calloused. “Thank you for taking time to see me.”

“Nice to see you, Emma.”

A little gust of snow blew in as she stepped inside. She looked smaller, thinner than he recalled, yet more intense, as if her diminished body had concentrated her energy. The gray-blond hair he remembered was now all gray. Its short style accentuated her cheekbones and the determined set of her mouth.

“I wish we had nicer weather for you,” said Madeleine.

“This is perfect. I could inhale this air forever. It’s detoxifying. I’ve just come from Attica. What a pit of darkness and misery! The air there reeks of fear, hatred, despair.”

“Not so unusual for a max-security facility,” said Gurney.

“Our prison system is a machine that grinds souls into dust. It makes men smaller, harder, one insult away from explosion.”

Her intensity led to a silence, broken by Madeleine’s offer to take her coat. “Why don’t you and Dave sit by the fireplace, and I’ll get some tea going. Are you still a fan of lemon-ginger?”

“That would be nice,” Emma said in a softened voice, slipping out of the loose coat.

Madeleine retreated to the kitchen end of the long room while Gurney and Emma settled into a facing pair of armchairs by the old fieldstone hearth.

“God judges our virtue by how we treat the damaged among us,” Emma said in a tone more sad than angry. “Show me your prisons, and I will know your heart.”

She paused before changing to a cooler, businesslike tone. “You’re wondering why I’m here. How much has Madeleine already told you?”

“Nothing, beyond the fact that it has something to do with a murder case.”

“The murder of Lenny Lerman. I can see the name means nothing to you. It meant nothing to me, either. Not until the conviction of his accused murderer. But I believe that Lerman is the key to the case.”

The wind moaned in the chimney.

“I’m not following you.”

“Lenny Lerman was a middle-aged, small-time criminal. He was murdered in a private Adirondack hunting preserve. His headless body was found in a shallow grave by a trespassing hunter three days later. The owner of the property—a rich young man with a terrible past—was arrested, tried, and convicted. The testimony of witnesses, physical evidence, fingerprints, DNA—all the available facts incriminated him, especially his lurid background. Are you familiar with the name Ziko Slade?”

“Something in the tabloids. Pro golfer gone bad? Drugs, violence, sex trafficking?”

“Tennis, actually. Great talent. Made the finals of all the big tournaments ten, twelve years ago when he was in his late teens. Handsome, charming, magnetic personality. Movie-star charisma. Became an instant fixture not only in the celebrity sports world, but in the art world, the fashion world, the money world, the drug-infested party world. Soon went on to became a drug supplier to the rich and famous. Rumors of money laundering, wild orgies, underage girls. He put all that behind him, became a different person, but terrible reputations have a way of enduring—and giving life to new accusations.”

“Like the murder of Lenny Lerman?”

“The prosecutor put together a compelling case. Motive, means, opportunity—all crystal clear. The jury took less than an hour to find Ziko guilty—close to a record, I’m told, for a major murder case. The judge polled them individually. Guilty, guilty, guilty—twelve times, guilty. He’s just begun serving his sentence. Thirty years to life. In Attica.”

She fell silent, her sharp gaze on Gurney.

“You didn’t drive all the way from Attica just to tell me this story.” Gurney said. “What am I missing?”

“I want you to solve the murder of Lenny Lerman.”

“Sounds like that’s already been done.”

“The person they found guilty is innocent.”

“Innocent? The Ziko Slade you just described to me—”

“That’s the person he once was—a person he stopped being two years before the Lerman murder.”

The eerie sound of the wind in the chimney grew louder.

“How do you mean, the person he stopped being?”

“Three years ago, his drug-addict wife stabbed him with an ice pick. Grazed his heart, puncturing his aorta. He was in intensive care for nine days. Face to face with death. In that position, he saw the wreckage of his life in a new way. The vision changed him.”

“How do you know this?”

“When he was released from the hospital, the vision was still with him. He had clarity about his past but no idea what to do with it. He wanted help to understand who he could be—who he should be. In that state, the universe sometimes intervenes. Connections appear. Someone put him in touch with someone who put him in touch with me.”

“You became his therapist?”

“I don’t use that term. It creates a false impression of what I do.”

Madeleine arrived with a tray holding two cups of tea, a plate of freshly baked scones, a small bowl of jam, spoons, and a butter knife for the jam. She set it on the low coffee table between the facing armchairs and stepped back.

“You’re not joining us?” asked Emma.

“When it comes to murder cases, I’d rather—”

There was a loud thwack against a pane in one of the French doors. Madeleine winced, hurried over to it, peered down at the patio stones, and let out a sigh of relief. “Once in a while a bird flies into the glass. Sometimes the impact is so loud, you expect to find a little body on the ground. But whoever flew into the door just now managed to fly away.” She shivered, began to speak, stopped, and returned to the kitchen end of the room.

After a brief silence, Gurney asked Emma, “Is there a term you prefer to ‘therapist’?”

“There’s no need for any term. I listen. I comment. I take no payment.”

“And your listening sessions with Ziko Slade during the two years between his near-death revelation and the murder of Lerman have convinced you that the change in his character was so great that he couldn’t have done what sworn witnesses and physical evidence convinced twelve jurors that he did?”

“Yes.”

“When was he sentenced?”

“Just a week ago.”

“You’ve spoken to him since then?”

“Most recently this morning.”

“Did he have a competent attorney?”

“Marcus Thorne.”

Gurney was impressed. “Big name. Must have been expensive.”

“Ziko has money.”

“Have you spoken to Thorne about the appeal process?”

“He believes it’s a lost cause.”

“Despite that, you have no doubt about Slade’s innocence?”

“None.”

Gurney took a sip of tea and gave her a long, appraising look. Unshakable certitude regarding a conclusion that seemed at variance with the available facts was not a rare trait. It was fairly common among egomaniacs, the emotionally unstable, and the deeply ignorant. Emma Martin was none of those things.

He cleared his throat. “So . . . what do you want me to do?”

“Discover the facts that prove his innocence.”

“What if the facts prove his guilt?”

She smiled slightly. “Ziko has been betrayed by a legal system more interested in securing a conviction than uncovering the truth. I’m certain that you can find the facts that will exonerate him.” She paused. “I know you’re skeptical of my insight into Ziko’s character. Let me add a more mundane observation. He’s far too intelligent to have committed such a stupid crime.”

“What was stupid about it?”

“According to the prosecutor, he was being blackmailed by Lenny Lerman over some dark secret in his past, and he killed Lerman rather than meet his financial demand.”

Gurney shrugged. “A common enough solution.”

“In general, but not in its details. According to the prosecutor, when Lerman arrived at Ziko’s estate, Ziko knocked him unconscious, dragged his body to a shallow grave he’d already prepared in a pine thicket near the lodge, chopped off his head with an axe and cut off his fingers with a pruning clipper—supposedly to impede identification of the body—covered the body with a scattering of dirt, left his fingerprints on the axe handle, left his DNA on a cigarette butt by the grave, and did every other incriminating thing imaginable. The body, with a few other parts chewed off by scavenging animals, was discovered—”

The clatter of a dropped plate in the sink drew Gurney’s attention to the open kitchen area in time to see Madeleine hurrying from the room.

Emma appeared chagrined. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so explicit.”

“Not your fault. The Harrow Hill business has had some lingering effects.”

“Of course. It must have traumatized you both.”

Gurney responded with a small nod. “Please continue.”

She regarded him with some concern before going on. “My point is that Ziko has the financial resources to deal with a blackmail challenge in other ways. He would never have done what the prosecutor says he did.”

“Smart people can do stupid things under pressure.”

“Suppose you planned to kill someone who was coming to visit you. Would you dig a shallow grave out by your chicken coop and bury the body under a couple of inches of dirt where coyotes and vultures were sure to find it? You would not be so foolish, David, and neither would Ziko.”

Her steady gaze remained on Gurney. There were tiny droplets of water in her hair, the glimmering remnants of melted snowflakes.

3

TWO HOURS LATER, GURNEY AND MADELEINE WERE FINISHING a taciturn dinner of fettuccine bolognese left over from the previous evening. Gurney’s conversation with Emma and Madeleine’s emotional reaction to it hung over them, a silent presence.

Eventually, Madeleine laid down her fork, nudged her plate toward the center of the table, and spoke in a conspicuously neutral tone. “What do you intend to do?”

“She wants me to reinvestigate a murder case that’s been fully adjudicated—a case so strong that the jury returned an immediate guilty verdict, despite the defendant having a top-tier defense attorney.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you took on a challenge like that.”

“But there was always some apparent discrepancy, a crack that could be pried open. Emma’s not offering me anything like that—just her total trust in a supposedly reformed slimeball.”

“You’re very good at discovering little discrepancies that aren’t obvious at first.”

“So . . . you’re telling me I should get involved?”

“I’m not telling you that at all.”

He stared at her. “I’m confused. You invited Emma Martin here. You just said I’d be very good at doing what she wants. That sure sounds like—”

She cut him off. “I didn’t invite her. She called me out of the blue and asked if she could talk to you about a case she felt strongly about. Emma and I were close when we worked together in the city. She was a good friend. She provided guidance when I most needed it. So I couldn’t say no, Emma, you can’t come, you can’t talk to my husband. Instead, I said fine, it’ll be wonderful to see you again. But I had no idea she wanted you to jump head-first into the reinvestigation of a horrible murder.”

“If you don’t want me to do it, why are you telling me I’d be good at it?”

“Because I know what intrigues you, David. I know there’s something in you that comes to life at the challenge of uncovering something that everyone else has overlooked. And if that’s what you want to do—despite what happened here last year, despite both of us coming within an inch of being killed, despite that whole bloody nightmare I can’t get out of my head—then let’s get it out in the open.”

Gurney sighed, placed his hands on the table, and slowly turned up his palms. “The truth is, Maddie, I have no idea what I want to do. God knows, I don’t want to get sucked into something that ends up like . . .” His voice trailed off. He took a deep breath and continued, “Besides, I’m not crazy about the idea of getting involved with Emma.”

“Oh?”

“Her assertiveness can be off-putting. And she’s arrogant.”

Madeleine sighed. “She’s not arrogant. But I understand how she might seem that way to you. At the clinic, she was always at odds with the director. She made categorical statements about the mental status of clients that the director complained were unsupported by specific data. But the thing is, she was incredibly acute in her perceptions. She could see things instantly that could take other therapists a dozen sessions to get to.”

“And she was always right?”

“I never knew her to be wrong.”

“So, you’re assuming she’s right about this Slade character?”

“I’m not assuming anything.”

“Are you pushing me toward this thing or away from it?”

The lines of tension at the corners of Madeleine’s eyes had deepened. “Does it matter?”

Gurney said nothing.

“When I saw Emma out to her car, she said she’d left an envelope for you with information about the case. Looking at it might be the polite thing to do. You don’t owe her anything more.”

4

GURNEY SPENT A RESTLESS NIGHT. THE WINTRY WIND had grown stronger, seething through the trees outside the bedroom windows well into the wee hours of the morning. The shallow sleep he finally fell into just before dawn was disturbed by the recurrent nightmare he’d come to know as “the Danny dream.”

It consisted of a weird, disjointed replay of the accident, long ago, that had killed his son a week before his fourth birthday—the only child he’d had with Madeleine.

On their way to the playground on a sunny day.

Danny walking in front of him.

Following a pigeon on the sidewalk.

Gurney only partly present.

Pondering a twist in a murder case he was working on.

Distracted by a bright idea, a possible solution.

The pigeon stepping off the curb into the street.

Danny following the pigeon.

The sickening, heart-stopping thump.

Danny’s body tossed through the air, hitting the pavement, rolling.

Rolling.

The red BMW racing away.

Screeching around a corner.

Gone.

Gurney awoke in the same agony of grief the dream always produced. For twenty years, the dream had assaulted him at unpredictable intervals. The events, moment by moment, were always the same, always consistent with his memory. And the dreadful feeling in his heart was, as always, undiminished.

He got up, went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face; then put on jeans and a sweatshirt and went out to the kitchen. While his coffee brewed, he stood at the French doors and gazed out at the gray light of dawn over the eastern ridge. He opened one of the doors. The still air was damp and raw, but it attached him to the actual world around him.

There was just enough light to see the frost on the patio stones, frost on the grass beyond it, frost on the bird feeders. Soon the chickadees and nuthatches would be visiting, flitting back and forth from the apple tree. He began to shiver. He closed the door, got his coffee from the sink island, picked up the plain white envelope that Emma had left on the sideboard, and went into the den. In the light of his desk lamp, he opened the envelope and removed its single sheet of paper. On it were just two short items.

The first was the contact information for Ziko Slade’s defense attorney, Marcus Thorne. Thorne, Gurney recalled, had achieved his initial notoriety by demolishing the seemingly airtight prosecution case against Simeon Lorzco (a.k.a. the Kindergarten Killer), who moments after his controversial acquittal was fatally shot by the mother of one of the murdered children. Below Thorne’s phone number Emma had appended a handwritten comment: “He is still retained by Ziko and will answer any questions you have about the case.”

The second item was a link to New York State v. Slade on the video archive of Murder on Trial, the division of RAM-TV that streamed sensational homicide trials.

Rather than go directly to the video, Gurney decided to look at the media coverage of Ziko Slade, past and present. If he had spent years as the sort of tabloid celebrity Emma described, jurors would have held preconceptions of Slade that might have slanted the verdict.

Typing “Slade Tennis Star” on his laptop brought up articles from Sports Illustrated, Tennis Today, and the sports sections of major newspapers. These articles—with headlines like “Hottest Teen in Tennis” and “Ziko-Mania”—covered Slade’s career from ages fourteen to seventeen. The photos were action shots of him on the court—a graceful teenager with wavy hair, sinewy limbs, and an invincible grin.

The words “Slade Celebrity” led to articles covering his late teens and early twenties, a distinctly different phase of his life, in which the media’s attention shifted to his romantic relationships with female pop stars, his frequenting of glitzy art openings, and extravagant promotional events for his “Z” brand of sportswear. In the photos taken in this period his eyes were more knowing, his grin more suggestive. An article titled “Sexiest Man in Tennis” caught Gurney’s eye, mainly because of the writer’s name—Connie Clarke.

Back when Gurney was given an award for a record number of NYPD homicide arrests, Connie Clarke had written a piece about his career for New York Magazine. Its “Supercop” title and adulatory tone raised his department profile in ways he’d found endlessly embarrassing.

The search term “Slade Scandals” brought up stories revealing the dissolution of the twenty-three-year-old darling of society into a recklessly corrupt twenty-six-year-old. There were drug-related arrests, rumors of underage sex trafficking, accusations of statutory rape, links to disgraced politicians, and a succession of fashionable drug rehabs followed by spectacular public relapses.

An enlarged mugshot from this period showed his movie-star features marred by hard eyes and a smirking mouth. The final headline at the end of this chaotic time announced that he’d entered yet another recovery program—a private facility run by a controversial psychologist named Emma Martin. After that, the media lost interest in him, relegating him to the black hole reserved for troubled personalities no longer creating newsworthy trouble.

This period of invisibility ended explosively two years later with the news of his arrest for murder in what the tabloids were calling “The Case of the Headless Hunter.”

A brief announcement had run in The New York Times the previous November.

Former tennis prodigy and society bad-boy Ziko Slade has been arrested in the upstate town of Rexton, New York, for the murder of Leonard Lerman, a sometime employee of the Beer Monster, a local beverage retailer. Rexton Police Chief Desmond Rickles provided the following statement:

“After a thorough investigation, we have arrested Ziko Slade and charged him with the premeditated commission of this heinous crime. Further details will be provided by the Office of the District Attorney at the appropriate time.”

The reference to District Attorney Cam Stryker gave Gurney a jolt. Although Rexton was a good sixty miles from Harrow Hill, it was part of the same sprawling rural county that fell within Stryker’s jurisdiction. His recollection of the young, transparently ambitious DA was mixed at best.

Now that he was up to speed on Slade’s history, Gurney turned to the trial itself. The link Emma provided brought up a flashy page with a pulsating headline: MURDER ON TRIAL. A subhead read, YOUR FRONT-ROW SEAT AT THE ULTIMATE CONTEST IN OUR JUSTICE SYSTEM. In a blue banner were the words, NEW YORK STATE V. ZIKO SLADE—FROM THE TRUE CRIME ARCHIVES OF RAM-TV. Gurney adjusted the angle of his laptop screen, clicked Play, and sat back in his chair.

The front of a courtroom appeared on the screen, centered on the judge’s raised bench. The Rexton courthouse managed to escape the mid-twentieth-century modernization craze of blond furnishings and fluorescent lights that made so many other courtrooms appear shoddy and ephemeral. Dark mahogany covered every surface, from the judge’s bench to the witness box adjoining it and even the wall paneling.

A small plaque identified the dour-faced judge as Harold Wartz. He had unruly gray hair, brushed straight back, and thick features. His heavy-lidded eyes were magnified by his glasses. His first words were delivered in a voice as cheerless as his demeanor.

“Ms. Stryker, you may proceed with your opening statement.”

A lean young woman in gray slacks and a dark blue blazer strode from the prosecution table to a nearby lectern. Placing her hands on it, she leaned slightly forward, making eye contact with each member of the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the crime I’m about to describe is sad and horrifying. It involves a fatal confrontation between a pathetic small-time criminal and a slick, ruthless murderer. It’s the story of an ill-advised blackmail attempt that ended with the would-be blackmailer decapitated and buried behind the country lodge of the powerful man he’d targeted. That would-be blackmailer was Lenny Lerman—a high-school dropout who spent the next twenty-six years of his life in a succession of menial jobs interrupted by arrests for petty theft, possession of stolen property, and passing bad checks. A dreamer with no common sense, always on the lookout for the one big score that would change everything. And then he found it. Or he thought he did.”

Stryker stepped from behind the lectern and approached the jury box.

“It all began when, in Lenny’s own words, a former jail-mate passed along a piece of information involving something awful that had happened in Ziko Slade’s wild, drug-using days. You’ll hear from witnesses how obsessed Lenny became with using this information to get rich. He planned to offer Slade the ‘exclusive rights’ to the information for a million dollars. If Slade balked at this, Lenny figured he could threaten to sell what he knew to the highest bidder.”

As Stryker went on, her angular features seemed to grow sharper and her voice flintier. “Perhaps because he had some inkling of the danger in this plan, Lenny purchased a million-dollar accidental death policy, with his son and daughter as beneficiaries. But, blinded by his dream of wealth, he failed to grasp how great the danger really was.” Stryker sighed in sad amazement at this blindness.

“You’ll hear testimony regarding the phone calls he made to set up a meeting with Slade at his remote Adirondack lodge. You’ll see GPS data and DNA evidence that places Lenny Lerman at that lodge when Slade was also present—at the time the medical examiner has established for Lerman’s death. There’s just one reasonable conclusion: Ziko Slade murdered Lenny Lerman in a vicious, premeditated fashion.” Stryker paused to let this sink in.

“Through witness testimony and forensic data, you’ll be able to follow Lenny’s movements on that final day of his life—as he drove from his little two-room apartment in Calliope Springs to the door of Slade’s grand mountain lodge. From there you’ll follow the evidence trail to the lonely spot in that cold November forest where he was beheaded and buried.”

Stryker let that final image creep into the mind of each member of the jury before going on.

“Ziko Slade knew exactly when Lenny was coming. Slade was ready. When Lenny arrived, Slade let him talk. Let him make his proposition. Let him state his price. Then he killed him.”

Stryker’s voice rose to a high pitch of outrage. “Killed him with an axe and buried him. Coolly, calmly, without hesitation or remorse.” She smiled sadly, her voice suddenly oozing sympathy. “Lenny Lerman was no saint. He’d committed crimes and paid for those crimes. Like many of us, he’d made some mistakes. But he didn’t deserve to be murdered. He had a right to live, something that was stolen from him by Ziko Slade. Lenny Lerman has a right to justice. Justice that you, as members of the jury, can deliver. Thank you for your attention.”

Wartz cleared his throat roughly. “Mr. Thorne, your turn.”

At that moment, Gurney heard Madeleine coming across the hall toward the den, and he paused the video.

She hesitated in the doorway. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?”

“Emma left me a link to the trial video. l decided to take a quick look at it.”

“And?”

“Judging from the DA’s opening statement, the case against Slade is strong.”

“Trying to create that impression is the purpose of an opening statement, right?”

“She succeeded. By the way, the ‘she’ is Cam Stryker.”

Madeleine froze for a moment, then abruptly changed the subject.

“Gerry and I have the early shift at the Crisis Center. She’ll be picking me up in a few minutes. I don’t have time to deal with the chickens. Maybe you could check the feeder and make sure they have fresh water?”

He nodded with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm.

“And,” she went on, “you could give them some blueberries.”

“Blueberries?”

“They’re birds. Birds eat berries. I hear Gerry’s car now. See you tonight.”

“Doesn’t the early shift end in the afternoon?”

“It does. But then we’re meeting with our music group. I’ll be home in time for dinner.” She smiled tightly and departed.

Since the dreadful ending of the Harrow Hill case, the shadow it cast over their lives often made activities that were once normal feel strained. Madeleine seemed determined to maintain her external routine as if nothing had happened, but that determination itself added to the tension in the atmosphere. Occasionally, a small crack appeared in the facade, as it had the previous afternoon with the dropped dish and her retreat from the room, but soon enough the subject would always shift to something like snacks for the chickens or practice sessions with her string quartet. Gurney didn’t see a solution. Conducting business as usual felt artificial, but perhaps there was no better alternative. Maybe the weirdness of it all was the way it needed to be.

More disturbing was his suspicion that the weirdness might be rooted in some central fact of their marriage, something he was unwilling or unable to confront.

For a long while, he stared out the den window at the high pasture. The pale morning sun was just beginning to creep above the eastern ridge, casting a cold light over the hillside’s withered remnants of milkweed and goldenrod.

A slight movement at the top of the field caught his eye. Three deer were standing at the edge of the tree line, alert, ears twitching, as if they sensed that the hunting season—with all its random pain and death—was about to begin.

5

GURNEY MADE HIMSELF A GENEROUS BREAKFAST OF THREE eggs, two slices of toast, and four slices of bacon. Madeleine didn’t approve of bacon, insisting it was full of carcinogens, which made having it in her presence uncomfortable. It was a vice he preferred to enjoy alone.

He finished eating and washed up. It occurred to him that he should tend to the chickens, but that thought was nudged aside by an urge to watch Marcus Thorne’s opening statement. Returning to the den, he resumed the paused trial video.

Thorne stood beside the defense table, facing the jury, his well-fed features constricted in a way that conveyed something between amazed disbelief and a reaction to an unpleasant odor. His voice was cultured, a bit weary, and distinctly mid-Atlantic.

“Well, Ms. Stryker’s statement was really something. I had to keep reminding myself that she was talking about this case. Rarely have I heard a prosecutor sound so sure about facts that are open to so many interpretations. And rarely have I seen ‘evidence’ as inconclusive as what the prosecution intends to present in this trial—evidence that proves nothing beyond the fact that a murder was committed. I’ll say no more at this point. There’ll be no windy introduction from me. I’m sure you’ll see through the prosecution’s so-called logic, and your own common sense will persuade you to acquit this innocent man.”

He took his seat at the defense table next to his client.

This was Gurney’s first clear sight of Ziko Slade. Three years had elapsed since his descent from tennis star to dissolute druggie to moral conversion and involvement with Emma Martin. The man’s face seemed to contain two opposing personalities. The mouth—full-lipped, pouty, on the verge of a sneer—was that of a corrupt Adonis, a mixture of creepiness and seductive charm. The eyes, however, radiated a calm intelligence and something almost ascetic. The mixture of qualities struck Gurney as both unsettling and magnetic.

“Ms. Stryker,” Judge Wartz said, speaking in a voice that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a wet barrel. “Are you ready to proceed?”

She rose, straightening her blazer. “I call Thomas Cazo to the witness stand.”

A bull-necked man in a silvery gray suit approached the witness box, sat down, and cleared his throat. The top two or three buttons of his shiny green shirt were open, revealing more hair on his chest than on his head.

In response to a question from Stryker, he stated that he was employed as a night manager at the Beer Monster in Calliope Springs Mall and that he had been Lenny Lerman’s boss until Lerman quit at the beginning of the previous November. Stryker regarded him with respectful attention, conveying to the jury that this was a man worth listening to.

“So, when he quit,” she said, “that would have been about three weeks before he was murdered?”

“Yeah.”

“And that was your last conversation with Lenny?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you please describe that conversation to the court.”

Cazo cleared his throat again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He came into my office to tell me he was quitting. I asked him why. He said he was onto something real big, and he didn’t need to be stacking cases of beer anymore.”

“Did he tell you what that ‘real big’ thing was?”

“He said he had some facts worth a fucking fortune. Excuse my language, but I’m just saying what he said. A fucking fortune.”

“Did he tell you where he expected that fortune to come from?”

“From Ziko Slade.”

“Did he tell you why Slade would be willing to pay him a fortune for these facts?”

“Because they were about him.”

“About Slade?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he tell you what these facts were?”

“About bad shit that went down with Slade a few years back. I told him all sorts of bad shit about Slade was already common knowledge. He said, not this. This was worse than what everybody knew about. This could get Slade put away for life.”

Stryker nodded, her lips pressed together in a grim line. “Did you interpret what Lenny told you as a plan to extort money from Slade?”

“What else could it be?”

“Did you comment on his plan?”

Cazo grinned. “I told him he better watch his ass and keep away from Slade.”

“Because you thought his plan was too dangerous?”

“Too dangerous for him.”

“Thank you. I have no more questions.”

Wartz peered at his watch. “Mr. Thorne?”

Thorne was already approaching the witness box. “Your name is Thomas Cazo?” He managed to inject some distaste into the name.

“Yeah.”

“The same Thomas Cazo also known as Tommy Hooks?”

Cazo gave him a long hard look. “I might’ve heard somebody say something like that.”

“Interesting nickname. How’d you get it?”

Cazo shrugged. “I used to be a boxer. I had a good left hook.”

“Doesn’t it also refer to your custom of using a meat hook to persuade people who owe you money to pay up?”

Stryker, who’d been on the edge of her chair during this exchange, leapt to her feet with an outraged cry. “Objection! That’s a scurrilous smear! It has no relevance, no—”

Wartz cut her off. “Sustained. Defense counsel’s comment is to be stricken from the record. Mr. Thorne, you’re over the line.”

“My apologies, Your Honor. I have no more questions.”

“Mr. Cazo, you’re excused. Ms. Stryker, call your next witness.”

After a dramatic pause, she called Adrienne Lerman to the stand.

A heavyset young woman in a loose-fitting earth-colored dress made her way to the witness box. She wore no makeup or jewelry. There was a dark mole above her upper lip.

Stryker’s opening questions established that she was a twenty-four-year-old unmarried nurse who provided care to the terminally ill, that she was Lenny Lerman’s daughter, and that she was sure she knew her father better than anyone else on earth.

Adrienne Lerman’s tone sounded both sad and syrupy, worn-down and wistful. She struck Gurney as the sort of woman who believed in lighting candles rather than cursing the darkness, while fully expecting them to be blown out.

Stryker spoke softly, a good imitation of empathy. “Ms. Lerman, we’ve heard witness testimony that your father had a plan that he claimed would make him rich. Did he tell you about it?”

“He told us in a restaurant one night.”

“By us, you mean you and your brother, Sonny?”

“That’s right. We were at the Lakeshore Chop House.” Adrienne frowned, as though making a distasteful admission.

“Not your favorite place?”

She lowered her voice. “It has a reputation for being mob-connected.”

“That didn’t bother your father?”

“He liked being close to that world. To him, those people were strong, impressive. He was like a little kid watching the big kids.”

“He admired gangsters?”

She took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “He wanted to be accepted by them, seen as an equal. I think that’s what trapped him in that awful plan.”

Stryker nodded sympathetically. “What did he tell you about his plan?”

“That he’d got lucky and come by a big secret—a bombshell, he called it—that was going to turn our lives around.”

“Your life as well as his?”

“Mine and Sonny’s. He kept repeating how good it would be for Sonny and me. But he seemed more focused on Sonny, like he was trying to make up for something.”

“Do you know what that something was?”

“The fact that he’d never made anything of himself. That he’d never earned Sonny’s respect.”

“Did your father tell you what he was actually going to do?”

“Yes. Sell some information he had to a famous rich guy with a dirty past.”

“Did he tell you the rich guy’s name?”

“Ziko Slade.”

“He hoped to get a lot of money from Slade for this information?”

“Yes.”

“Did you understand what that really meant?”

“I guess I did. Even though I didn’t want to.”

“Did the terms ‘extortion’ or ‘blackmail’ occur to you at the time?”

Adrienne bit her lower lip and stared down at her clasped fingers. “Yes.”

Stryker glanced significantly at the jury before going on.

“You loved your father, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you believed he was doing this for you and your brother?”

“For Sonny, mainly.”

Stryker smiled softly, as if contemplating the admirable motive behind Lenny Lerman’s foolish plan.

“One more question, Adrienne. Did you get a call from your father on the evening he was killed?”

“He called me at seven o’clock. I was at a hospice patient’s home, checking her meds. I found his message on my phone when I got home.”

Stryker walked from the witness stand to the bailiff’s desk and requested evidence item number AL-009. The bailiff sorted through a file box, removed a cellphone from a plastic bag, and handed it to her.

“Your Honor,” said Stryker, “if it please the court, I’d like to play the message Lenny Lerman left for his daughter, Adrienne, at seven o’clock on November twenty-third of last year—the evening he was killed.”

Wartz nodded. “Proceed.”

After tapping a series of icons, Stryker laid the phone on the front railing of the witness box. Adrienne’s eyes began filling with tears.

A tense male voice spoke from the phone. “Adie? Adie, are you there? It’s me. Dad. Christ, I hope you get this. I’m here at Ziko Slade’s. This is it. What it’s all about, right?” Lerman’s voice sounded like it was breaking. “For Sonny and you. Tell him this is to make up for everything. Whatever happens tonight . . . whatever happens. I wish I was talking to you both instead of some fucking machine. So . . . that’s it. I’m going in.” The voice on the phone let out a crazy, raspy laugh. “Like in the movies. I’m going in.”

Adrienne was shaking. She pressed her handkerchief against her mouth, stifling sobs.

Stryker paused for a long ten seconds, then reached out and put her hand on Adrienne’s arm. “If you feel you can answer, I have one last question.”

Adrienne blew her nose and took a deep breath. “Go ahead.”

“Are you certain that the voice in that phone message was your father’s?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. That will be all. I’m so sorry we had to put you through that.”

Sorry, my ass, thought Gurney. Stryker knew damn well that she had to humanize Lenny Lerman to make the jury care about his murder, and the combination of his paternal angst in that message and his daughter’s tears accomplished the goal. On a prosecutorial success scale of one to ten, Lenny’s words and Adrienne’s reaction added up to a twelve.

Gurney paused the video and went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. When it was ready, he carried it to the table by the French doors and took his habitual seat, the one that gave him a view out past the bluestone patio and the chicken coop, down over the low pasture to the barn and the pond.

His gaze drifted out to the rise on the far side of the pond. The trees were mostly bare now, except for isolated spruces whose summer greens had darkened into somber colorlessness. A few scattered oaks retained clumps of desiccated leaves. The muted color palette on the hillside was typical of a Catskill November—sepias, beiges, murky umbers. The still surface of the pond reminded him of a steel skillet. It wasn’t a pleasant image. He picked up his coffee and returned to the den.

6

THE NEXT WITNESS WAS A SQUARE-JAWED MAN WITH A law-enforcement crew cut, light blue shirt, dark blue tie, and a gray sport jacket with a flag pin on the lapel. He projected the calm, attentive expression of a witness well acquainted with courtrooms. Stryker asked him to state his full name, rank, and connection to the case.

His voice was clear, confident, pleasant. “Detective Lieutenant Scott Derlick, Rexton Police Department. Chief investigating officer assigned to the Leonard Lerman homicide.”

Stryker looked impressed. “You were personally involved in the case from start to finish?”

“Correct.”

“Please take us back to the moment when your involvement began.”

“We received a call from Adrienne Lerman at 9:00 a.m. on the Friday morning after Thanksgiving. She expressed concern about her father, whom she hadn’t heard from since receiving a 7:00 p.m. phone message from him on Wednesday. She did not at that time divulge the full content of that message, nor did she mention his proposed visit to Ziko Slade.”

“Did she give you any indication of where her father was when he called her?”

“She had the impression from something he said that he was somewhere north of Rexton, up near Garnet Lake.”

“Was any action taken at that point?”

“As a courtesy, we gave our mobile units Mr. Lerman’s physical description and vehicle data. However, unless there is evidence of foul play, an adult being out of contact with a family member is not a law-enforcement matter.”

“So, when did this turn into a homicide investigation?”

“Approximately twenty-four hours after we heard from Ms. Lerman, we received a call from a hunter who came upon a partially buried body on a private estate not far from Garnet Lake. We were unable to immediately identify the body as Lenny Lerman’s because the head and fingers had been removed. However, we found a DNA match on the state database of felons.”

“When you informed Ms. Lerman of her father’s death, was she then more forthcoming about his approach to Ziko Slade?”

“She was.”

“Did she explain her earlier evasiveness?”

“She said she was scared that the truth would get her father into legal trouble. But now that he was beyond trouble, all that mattered was bringing his killer to justice.”

“Please describe to the court exactly what you discovered when you arrived at the site of Lenny Lerman’s body.”

“The first thing I noticed was the smell. A decomposing corpse releases foul odors.” Derlick paused as murmurs of disgust arose from the jury box. “As I got closer, I could see it had been buried in a shallow grave, covered with pine needles and loose soil, some of which had been scraped away. By coyotes, most likely.”

Stryker grimaced. “I see. Please go on.”

“As I mentioned, the corpse’s most notable feature was the absence of the head and all ten fingers. The body was also dressed in hunting camos.”

“Anything special about them?”

“They were too big for the size of the body. The sleeves and legs were too long. The pockets contained a box of 30-30 cartridges and a package of venison jerky.”

“What was your initial interpretation of the scene?”

“That I was looking at a murdered hunter. But when we got a positive ID on Lerman and I spoke again to his daughter, she told me her father never hunted, had no gun, no ammunition, no camo outfits.”

“So, what did you make of that?”

“That I was looking at a smokescreen—a setup to point us in the wrong direction.”

Stryker nodded in thoughtful agreement, giving the members of the jury the impression that she was just learning these important facts along with them.

Good actress, thought Gurney. She knew how to create that all-important bond with the people whose verdict she depended on.

Stryker continued. “Did you later discover a diary in Lenny Lerman’s apartment—his own handwritten record of the events leading up to his death?”

“Yes—concealed under his mattress.”

Stryker strode over to the bailiff’s desk, picked up a small spiral notebook, and brought it to Derlick. “Please read the indicated passages aloud.”

Derlick opened the diary to the first page and began reading.

“October 24. Ran into Jingo at the Monster yesterday. Can’t get what he told me out of my head. Question one—is it true? I’m thinking sure why not? Z getting rid of Sally Bones. I can see how that would happen. Question two. What’s it worth? A hundred K? An even mil?”

Derlick continued through the notebook, turning over a new page for each entry.

“October 27. Do I or don’t I? If I do, a mil. If I don’t, nothing. Fucker has the cash. Cost of being a scumbag. Cost of Sally Bones. Need to work it out. One thing after another. Focus. Need sleep.

“November 2. Took A and S to the Lakeshore. Said hello to Pauly Bats at the bar. Big Pauly! Nobody fucks with Pauly Bats!! Explained the plan to A and S. Adie worries like always. What if? What if? What if? Like her mother. Sonny doesn’t talk. But Sonny likes money. Now we’ll have money. Serious money!

“November 5. Got Z’s number and made the call. The asshole picked up. I asked him how much it was worth for me to forget everything I knew about Sally Bones. I told him to think about it. I made the scumbag worry.

“November 6. Talked to Tommy Hooks. Quit the fucking job. Breaking my hump for chump change. Goodbye to that shit!

“November 13. Called Z again. Told him I figured an even Mil was the right number—to save his evil fucking ass. In used twenties. Whining son of a bitch said that was like two suitcases. I told him so what, you worthless prick. What the fuck do I care about suitcases? You got ten days I told him.

“November 23. Called Z, told him his time was up, he better have the fucking Mil. He said he did. I told him to have it ready tonight, make sure he’s alone. I walk with the Mil, or the whole fucking world hears about Sally Bones.”

Derlick closed the diary. “That was the last entry.”

“Thank you, Detective. By the way, were you able to verify the existence of the three phone calls Lenny described?”

“Yes. Phone company records show three calls from Lerman’s number to Slade’s number, corresponding to the entries in the diary.”

Gurney paused the video.

He sat back in his chair. The likely effect of Lerman’s diary on the jury was unclear. On the one hand, the entries supported earlier witness testimony regarding Lerman’s extortion plan, which the prosecution alleged was Slade’s obvious motive for killing him. In that respect, the entries were a plus for Stryker’s narrative. On the other hand, their tone might have eroded whatever sympathy Adrienne’s tears had generated for Lerman as a victim. However, the murder scene photos were yet to come, and they might have the power to regenerate that lost sympathy.

Gurney was reminded of the first time, early in his NYPD career, when he encountered the phenomenon of a serial killer recording his plans for attacking his victims—in a notebook not unlike Lerman’s. A consulting psychologist on the case explained that putting such a plan in writing could serve several purposes. One was the desire to externalize an idea before executing it. Putting the plan on paper made it more real, more exciting. Another was the opportunity to place pejorative labels on the target individual—a way of blaming the victim for the intended crime.

Gurney went for another cup of coffee. While waiting for it to brew, he watched the amber ferns in the asparagus bed sway in an erratic breeze. His gaze wandered to the coop, and he remembered his promise to check the food and water. And bring the chickens some blueberries. He’d tend to all that as soon as he finished watching Scott Derlick’s testimony.

He took his coffee back into the den and resumed the video.

Cam Stryker stood next to the witness box, addressing Derlick.

“Let’s move on to the day of Lenny Lerman’s last call to Slade—the day of his final journey from Calliope Springs to Slade’s lodge in the mountains north of Rexton. What can you tell us about that trip?”

“We retrieved the GPS data that was transmitted continuously from Lerman’s phone and transferred that data to an area map.”

Stryker placed a large, stiff map on an easel.

In the typical meandering path of trips through hilly country, a bright red line followed a succession of secondary roads from the village of Calliope Springs in the lower left corner of the map to a point above Rexton in the upper right corner. There were four black stars along the route, with a time noted next to each star.

Derlick explained that the lower left star showed the location of Lerman’s apartment, and the 4:25 p.m. notation next to it was the time Lerman departed. The star halfway up the red route line was a gas station where he stopped for sixteen minutes. Of the two stars close together at the top end of the line, the first indicated the location where the private road to Slade’s lodge left the public road, and the second indicated the lodge itself.

“That star at the turnoff to Slade’s place,” said Derlick, “is where Lerman made the phone call to his daughter at 6:46 p.m. The next star, in front of the lodge, is the last spot from which Lerman’s phone transmitted location data.”

Stryker put her finger on the final star and turned to the jury. “For Lenny, that was the end of the line—in more ways than one.”

7

STRYKER’S NEXT WITNESS—KYRA BARSTOW—STARTLED Gurney.

Barstow was the forensic supervisor on the Harrow Hill case. She was director of the local college’s forensic sciences program and provided services to the local police department from time to time. Evidently Rexton enjoyed a similar arrangement.

She looked just as Gurney remembered—tall, athletically slim, with a quick intelligence behind striking gray eyes. Working with her had been a pleasure.

Stryker approached the witness box. “Ms. Barstow, please describe your involvement in the Lerman case.”

“I received a call from Detective Derlick approximately fifteen minutes after his arrival at the scene. I was at the opposite end of the county, and it took me a little over an hour to get there. When I arrived, Detective Derlick was finishing his interview with the hunter who found the body.”

Stryker nodded. “Detective Derlick just led us along Lerman’s route from Calliope Springs to Ziko Slade’s lodge. Can you lead us from that spot to the grave in the woods?”

“We found contact DNA from Lerman on the layer of pine needles in front of the lodge, plus traces of his blood,” said Barstow. “The residual pressure deformation of the pine needles indicated that he’d either fallen there or been knocked down.”

Stryker adopted at earnest frown. “But his body was found a hundred yards away in the woods. Can you tell us how it got there?”

“It’s likely that Lerman was dragged, facedown. There was a trail of blood, bits of skin, clothing fibers.”

“Fibers from the camo outfit the body was found in?”

“No. Fibers from the clothing he was wearing when he arrived at the lodge. We found a jacket, shirt, and pants with Lerman’s DNA buried near the grave.”

“Did the clothing switch take place before his head . . .” Stryker hesitated. “Before it was removed?”

“Yes. There were only a few drops of blood on the original clothing, on the back of the shirt collar, consistent with Lerman having received a blow to the back of the head prior to being dragged to the grave. That’s where his clothing would have been switched. We also determined, in cooperation with the ME, that he was still alive at the time of his beheading.”

“How do you know that?”

“The amount of blood in the grave indicated that his heart was still beating when the axe severed the arteries in his neck.”

Stryker grimaced. “So Lenny Lerman was dragged through the woods, dragged into a waiting grave, and then . . . ?”

“Beheaded. Then his fingers were removed with a small pruning clipper. There was very little bleeding from the stumps—meaning the removals occurred postmortem.”

Stifled sounds of revulsion came from several jury members. Stryker lowered her head and closed her eyes for a moment, as if sharing their distress. When she looked up, she turned to the jury box.

“This is the point when I have to show you photos of the crime scene. They’re not easy to look at. But you need to see them.”

She fetched several foam-core boards, leaned them against the prosecution table, and placed the top one on the easel. The color image on the board was of the back of a headless body in camo pants and jacket lying in a roughed-out hollow in the ground. The soil around the truncated neck was stained a brownish black. At the ends of the extended arms fingerless hands lay palms-down on the brown earth. Raw gouges were visible on the backs of the hands and on an exposed calf where the pants leg was torn. After pausing to let the jury’s horror build, Stryker asked Barstow about the gouges.

“The large ones were made by the teeth of coyotes. The small lacerations suggest vultures. In another week there would have been nothing left. Perhaps some bones the coyotes hadn’t carried off.”

Stryker put the next photo on the easel—a full-size image of an axe and a pruning clipper. She asked Barstow if they were the implements used to kill and mutilate Lenny Lerman.

Barstow confirmed this, stating that though the tools had been washed after the murder, presumably by the perpetrator, traces of Lerman’s blood remained at the point where the axe head joined the handle and at the pivot bolt in the center of the clipper.

“We found them both in the shed behind Slade’s lodge,” Barstow added in response to a follow-up question from Stryker. “Next to a shovel with soil traces matching the chemical composition of the soil at the grave.”

“In addition to all these incriminating facts, did you discover any direct physical links between Ziko Slade and the body of Lenny Lerman?”

“Yes.”

“And what were those links?”

“The jacket found on the body contained contact DNA from both Lenny Lerman and Ziko Slade. Ziko Slade’s DNA was also recovered from a cigarette butt found near the grave.”

“Thank you, Ms. Barstow. I have no more questions.”

Marcus Thorne approached the witness box. “Ms. Barstow, were you able to identify the person who supposedly knocked Lerman down in front of the lodge and dragged him into the woods?”

“No.”

“Or the person who dug the grave?”

“No.”

“Did your tests reveal how Mr. Slade’s DNA ended up on that camo jacket?”

“No.”

“Or who may have placed that cigarette butt where you found it?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Ms. Barstow. That’ll be all.”

For a moment, Stryker looked like she might opt for a redirect examination of Barstow to dilute the impact of those negative replies. Instead, she recalled Detective Lieutenant Scott Derlick to the stand.

“Detective, during your testimony you showed us Lenny Lerman’s route from Calliope Springs to Ziko Slade’s lodge. Did he make that trip in his own car?”

“Yes, a black 2004 Corolla—confirmed by video from two strip mall security cameras along the way.”

“Did you find the car?”

“Yes. Three days later we received a call regarding a burnt-out vehicle in an abandoned quarry less than a mile from Slade’s lodge. We were able to identify it via the VIN number on the chassis.”

“You say it was burnt out?”

“Yes. An empty gas container was found at the site, suggesting arson.”

“Did you find anything else of interest?”

“A key on the floor next to the driver’s seat, where it probably fell from the pocket of whoever drove the Corolla to the quarry.”

“What sort of key was it?”

“A padlock key.”

“Were you able to match the key to any particular padlock?”

“Yes. The padlock on Ziko Slade’s tool shed.”

8

MARCUS THORNE ROSE AT THE DEFENSE TABLE.

“I’m curious about that padlock key, Detective,” he said in an innocent, conversational tone. “Might it have been placed in the car on purpose rather than fallen out of someone’s pocket?”

“There’s zero evidence of that.”

“Just as there’s zero evidence that it dropped out of Mr. Slade’s pocket?”

Derlick’s mouth twitched, but he made no reply.

“In fact, Detective, I’m wondering if you have even a speck of real evidence that Mr. Slade emerged from his lodge at any time that day or night—much less that he killed anyone or drove that car to the quarry or set fire to it.”

Derlick’s jaw muscles tightened. “Based on the facts, those are the only reasonable conclusions.”

“So, you have absolute certainty with zero proof. The sort of certainty that puts thousands of innocent people in prison every year.”

Stryker rocketed out of her chair. “Objection! Counsel is inventing statistics and badgering the witness!”

“Sustained,” said Wartz. “Mr. Thorne, your next inappropriate remark will have consequences.”

Thorne smiled meekly and raised his palms in surrender. “Thank you, Your Honor. I’m finished with this witness.” He made “witness” sound like species of rodent.

Wartz turned to Stryker. “You may proceed.”

“The prosecution rests its case, Your Honor.”

Wartz nodded and asked Thorne if he was ready to present the case for the defense.

“Your Honor, my client and I believe we have no need for a formal defense. We prefer to move directly to our closing argument.”

Wartz’s stolid features registered a touch of surprise—the same surprise Gurney felt, until he guessed that the reason was that Slade had no alibi and Thorne was afraid to put him on the stand.

Thorne approached the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen, you and I have just witnessed a carefully orchestrated production in which random bits of dubious evidence were cleverly strung together to create a remarkable piece of fiction. The prosecution wins high marks for creativity. But when it comes to addressing the key questions in the case—all those sources of reasonable doubt—they failed miserably.” He shook his head. “So many problems, it’s hard to know where to begin. Take Lerman, for example. Was he a bumbling fool, broadcasting his dumb plan to the world? Or was he a calculating blackmailer? He couldn’t have been both. But the prosecutor wants you to ignore that contradiction.

“We were shown a map with a dramatic red line highlighting his route—to prove what? That Lerman drove to Slade’s property? But his drive has no bearing on the only question that matters: Who killed him after he arrived?

“In a desperate effort to link Mr. Slade to the murder, the prosecution came up with traces of contact DNA on a camo jacket and a cigarette butt. But key facts were conspicuously missing. We were told there was a match between DNA on the camo garment and Mr. Slade’s DNA. What we didn’t hear was the scientific confidence level attached to that match. Was it ninety percent? Eighty? Seventy? Less than that? We don’t know because we weren’t told. As for that cigarette butt, might not Mr. Slade have dropped numerous butts outside his lodge, and might not the real killer have picked one up and placed it by the grave—to create the sort of false impression the prosecution passed along to you today?”

“Objection!” cried Stryker. “That’s a slanderous characterization of prosecution motives.”

Wartz let out a heavy sigh. “Defense counsel is stretching the envelope to the breaking point. However, I am inclined to overrule the objection in this instance—in the interest of affording maximum leeway to closing arguments.”

“I appreciate Your Honor’s indulgence,” said Thorne, turning back to the jury.

“In my long career as a trial attorney, rarely have I seen a case give rise to so many areas of reasonable doubt. Especially when you realize that the police failed to investigate other plausible scenarios for this murder. Did it not occur to them that Lerman’s public bragging about his plan to extort money from Mr. Slade would provide the perfect cover for an enemy of Lerman’s to follow him and kill him? What about Lerman’s million-dollar life insurance policy? The prosecutor mentioned it in her opening statement, yet I didn’t hear a word about that from Detective Derlick, even though ‘follow the money’ is a foundational principle of sound investigative procedure. So many stones left unturned. So many questions unanswered.”

Thorne paused, making eye contact with each juror. “Faced with this mountain of reasonable doubt, the law demands that you acquit the defendant.”

After a brief silence, Wartz addressed Stryker. “Are you prepared to proceed with your closing argument?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Taking a deep breath, she approached the jury.

“Reasonable doubt.” She articulated the phrase with precision. “If I told you the sky was blue, I’m sure Mr. Thorne could conjure up a dozen reasons that you should doubt that simple fact. But none of them would be reasonable. Creating a smokescreen of doubt and confusion—making you wonder if the sky is really blue—is what defense attorneys are paid to do.”

Thorne shook his head with exaggerated weariness. “Objection, Your Honor. This is scurrilous nonsense.”

“Overruled,” said Wartz. “I’m giving the prosecutor the same leeway I gave you.”

Stryker shot a “gotcha” glance at Thorne before continuing. “The thing about reasonable doubt is that the doubt must actually be reasonable. Defense counsel’s distracting questions and wild suppositions are far from reasonable. He waves the term ‘doubt’ around as though it were magic dust that could make evidence disappear.”

Stryker paused before going on. “This is the moment in a trial when a prosecutor normally reviews all the key evidence and explains to the jury how it fits together. But I don’t think you need to hear it all again. This is a very simple case. So simple that I can sum it up in one sentence: ‘A poor man thought he could acquire a fortune from a rich man, but he had no idea how ruthless that rich man could be.’”

She took a step closer to the jury and spoke softly. “Lenny Lerman didn’t know what Ziko Slade was capable of. But you do. You do, because you saw the photograph of Lenny’s mutilated body—a sight none of us will ever forget—a sight that underscores your duty to find this defendant guilty of premeditated murder.”

9

BY THE TIME MADELEINE RETURNED HOME FROM THE Mental Health Crisis Center that evening, Gurney had viewed the trial video twice, all the way through to the jury’s concluding verdict: guilty of murder in the first degree.

After changing clothes, Madeleine asked about the chickens. Without admitting that he had forgotten about them, Gurney put on his barn jacket, picked up a sack of chickenfeed from the mudroom, and headed out through a chilling wind to the coop.

The five hens pecked at a scattering of cracked corn in the fenced run. Gurney entered the coop and found it acceptably clean. It smelled mainly of the straw spread across the floor and in the nesting boxes. He discovered two fresh brown eggs and slipped them into his jacket pockets. He refilled the feeders, then checked the watering device. It was half full and wouldn’t need replenishing for another day or two. He returned to the house and brought the two eggs to the sink island in the kitchen, where Madeleine was rinsing lettuce in a colander.

“I thought we could have our salad first,” she said, patting the lettuce dry with some paper towels. “Okay with you?”

“Fine.”

“You set the table. I’ll make the dressing.”

He moved two books she was reading off the table—one on the history of the cello and the other on the lives of snails—to make room for the plates and silverware.

WHEN THEY WERE nearly done with their salads, Madeleine asked the question Gurney knew was coming: What did he think of the trial?

He laid his fork on the edge of his plate. “Impressive, on the prosecution’s side. The evidence against Slade was overwhelming. Apart from inflicting a few minor dings, the defense wasn’t able to dent it. In fact, no formal case for the defense was even presented.”

“Any chance of an appeal?”

Gurney shook his head. “I’m surprised this even came to trial. Cases with such a one-sided weight of evidence and no credible defense generally result in a guilty plea in exchange for a reduced charge. I’m tempted to call Slade’s lawyer and ask about it.”

Madeleine frowned and pierced a grape with her fork.

“If his lawyer had even a scrap of exculpatory evidence,” Gurney went on, “I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have introduced it.”

“Well,” Madeleine said with some tightness in her voice, “I suppose, if you’re that curious, you’ll eventually make the call.”

She stood up, cleared the table, then said she was tired and headed to bed.

After sitting alone for a few minutes, Gurney went into the den and called Marcus Thorne.

10

MARCUS THORNE LIVED IN THE LOW-PROFILE, HIGH-NETWORTH village of Claiborne. His driveway led through several acres of mountain laurels, rhododendrons, and ancient oaks to a gravel parking area in front of a large white colonial house. Planting beds bordered the parking area and curved around both sides of the house.

As he stepped from his Outback, Gurney was surprised to hear his name called. He turned and saw a man waving to him from the corner of a stone cottage. Marcus Thorne wore a British-looking field jacket, brown corduroy slacks, and a Harris Tweed pub cap. All that was needed to complete the picture, thought Gurney, was a pricey shotgun and a dead pheasant.

Gurney crossed the wide expanse of freshly mown lawn.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” Gurney said as he shook the shorter man’s hand.

“My office away from the office,” Thorne said, leading the way past a small pond. “I thought we’d be more comfortable chatting here than in the city.”

The exterior of the cottage reminded Gurney of houses built in the eighteenth century, but the only visible remnants of that period inside were the rough-hewn ceiling beams of smoke-blackened oak, a fieldstone fireplace, and a wide-board pine floor. Everything else in the single-room ground floor was starkly modern, minimalist in design, and dominated by a wall of glass on the pond side of the building. The ornamental grasses surrounding the pond were various autumn shades of brown, rust, and ocher.

Thorne tossed his jacket and cap on the back of a couch facing the fireplace. He wore a russet flannel shirt that fit him so perfectly it suggested custom tailoring. Gurney left his light windbreaker on.

“Had ducks out there till a month ago.” Thorne waved toward the pond. “Gone south now. But the damn geese stay. Wife feeds the filthy things. Have a seat.”

He dropped onto a geometric object of black leather and chrome that only faintly resembled a chair. Gurney sat on a similar one at the opposite end of a gleaming glass slab that appeared to function as a coffee table.

“So, Mr. Gurney, illustrious detective, what can I do for you?” Thorne leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers, the gesture of thoughtful attention at odds with the blasé look in his eyes.

On the two-hour drive from Walnut Crossing, Gurney considered several subtle ways of framing his questions, but Thorne’s breezy attitude prompted a franker tone. “To begin with, you can tell me why your defense of Slade was such a disaster.”

Thorne smiled a lawyer’s empty smile. “If you’re asking why the jury returned a guilty verdict, the answer is simple. They didn’t like Slade.”

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

Thorne’s gaze drifted up to the beamed ceiling. “You might say we faced a perfect storm of unfortunate circumstances.”

“Namely?”

“Born with a superabundance of talent, looks, and charm, nothing was difficult for the magical Ziko. Naturally, the jury hated him on sight. That fact alone assured his conviction. Hardly any need for—”

A soft musical tone interrupted him. He took a sleek phone out of his shirt pocket and peered at the screen. His expression became sharper, more attentive. He tapped out a short reply with an aggressive glint in his eye and slipped the phone back in his pocket, his expression reverting to its former nonchalance. “Where was I?”

“The jury hated Slade on sight.”

“Indeed. But the particular difficulty of the case from our point of view was the fact that the primary witness against Slade was the murder victim. Lenny Lerman’s extortion plan, about which he left no doubt, established the perfect motive for Slade to kill him. Lerman drove to Slade’s lodge at a time that Slade was there by himself—with zero alibi. The physical evidence was simple and concrete. And Stryker’s narrative was seamless.”

“You couldn’t come up with a competing narrative?”

Thorne shook his head. “If you’re going to posit an alternate theory, you need facts, which we didn’t have. Otherwise, its weakness enhances by comparison the strength of the prosecution’s narrative. And, of course, Stryker had the bonus of the weapon. Juries love a bloody weapon.” Thorne flashed a chilly grin. “And when it comes to bloody weapons, it’s hard to beat an axe.”

“Had you considered making the argument that Slade was too smart to have committed such a sloppy crime?”

Thorne emitted a high-pitched, metallic-sounding laugh. “That argument goes nowhere. Worse than nowhere. Smart is not an endearing quality. It doesn’t conjure up thoughts of innocence. Now, if a defendant seemed too stupid to have engineered a particular crime, something could be made of that. Stupidity suggests harmlessness. Cleverness suggests danger.”

“Why no character witnesses for the defense?”

“It would have let the prosecution bring in anti-character witnesses from Slade’s past, and that would have been a horror show.”

Gurney nodded. “Slade’s mountain lodge—that’s not his main residence, is it?”

“He has a horse farm in Dutchess County and an apartment in the city—which is where he spent most of his time before the murder last year, when he wasn’t at Emma Martin’s place.”

“Why did he happen to be at the lodge the day of the murder?”

“It was the day before Thanksgiving. He went to the lodge that morning to start preparing a big dinner for the following day.”

“Big dinner for who?”

“A group of Emma Martin’s patients, clients, disciples—whatever she calls them.”

“The dinner actually took place?”

“Indeed.”

“You spoke to the guests?”

“Of course.”

“How did they describe Slade’s emotional state?”

“Calm, pleasant, untroubled, but that didn’t help our case. A sharp prosecutor like Stryker could turn that around and convince the jury that Slade’s serenity was the natural facade of a murdering psychopath.”

Gurney couldn’t argue with that. Juries hated calm killers. “Speaking of Stryker, do you know why she called Lerman’s daughter, Adrienne, to the stand, but not her brother, Sonny?”

Thorne made a mirthless chuckling sound. “Daughter’s an automatic jury favorite. Cuddly, emotional. Sonny, on the other hand, is an obvious piece of garbage. Did two years for assaulting a police officer. Currently on parole. Slimy like his father, and more explosive.”

Gurney sat back in his seat and gazed out the wall-sized window. A late-season wasp, lethargic from the cold, was making its way across the glass. Thorne lifted his phone halfway out of his shirt pocket and glanced meaningfully at the time.

“Just a couple more questions,” said Gurney. “Considering the case against your client, I assume you considered making a deal with the prosecutor?”

“I recommended it. Slade refused. Said he wouldn’t plea to something he didn’t do. Said he wasn’t willing to lie. So, instead of fifteen-to-twenty, which I think I could have gotten him, he’s doing thirty-to-life.” Thorne’s grin returned. “Principles. They can really fuck you.” He paused. “What’s your game, Mr. Gurney?”

“You mean, why did I get involved? Emma Martin asked me to find cracks in the case that could be pried open.”

Thorne uttered a harsh little laugh and shook his head.

“You think I’m wasting my time?”

“Time billed at an appropriate hourly rate is never wasted. But as for finding cracks in the case? Cracks that could be leveraged into a successful appeal? Not likely. And even if an appeal did result in a retrial, you’d still be stuck with Slade’s unsavory history.”

He glanced again at his phone before going on. “Let me tell you a quick story about juries. Years ago, when I was practicing law in Southern California, a high-profile robbery-and-murder case came my way. A bonded precious-gems courier was intercepted in an underground parking lot and relieved of an attaché case containing emeralds worth roughly three mil. He gets a broken nose, the lot attendant gets shot dead, and the three-man heist team gets away with the emeralds. But, according to the courier, only the two who attacked him were wearing masks. The driver wasn’t, and the courier ID’d him as a guy who’d been following him the previous week. He even gave the cops a picture he took of the guy on the street one day. On top of that, the courier got the plate number of the getaway car—which turned out to be registered to a scumbag rumored to be involved in jewelry fencing, money laundering, and sex trafficking. The scumbag had no alibi, and the guy the courier ID’d as the driver turned out to be one of the scumbag’s trusted employees. The courier, by the way, was a retired cop with a spotless record and a strong resemblance to Tom Hanks. I was the scumbag’s defense attorney.”

Thorne paused, as if to verify Gurney was following, before going on. “Surprisingly, the DA offered my client a reasonable plea arrangement. Given the vulnerability of our situation, I strongly recommended that he accept it. He refused. He insisted a business rival, a guy by the name of Jimmy Peskin, was setting him up. He gave me a blank check to launch a private investigation to get to the truth, which I did.”

Thorne produced a self-satisfied smile. “The real story began with the courier’s son. The kid had landed a spot at a hot L.A. law firm. Problem was, he had a gambling, coke, and hooker addiction. His debts got him into deep shit—to the tune of four hundred grand—with a Vegas mob guy who was demanding payment or pictures would be posted on the internet that would end the kid’s career. The kid went begging to Dad. Dad, the courier, approached a character whose reputation suggested he might be open to a certain kind of arrangement. The guy was Jimmy Peskin, business rival of my client. Dad proposed the jewel heist to Peskin with a fifty-fifty split of the proceeds. He even recommended that his own nose be broken to deflect any suspicion regarding his involvement. At first, Peskin wanted seventy percent, but he agreed to settle for fifty—providing that Dad incriminate my client by giving the police a false ID of the driver, a false plate number for the getaway car, a bullshit story about the driver having followed him, and a photo of the man on a busy street—which Peskin would provide. We couldn’t prove any of this, it was all second-hand information, inadmissible hearsay, but it was very credible.”

Thorne gave a Gurney a cagey look. “So how do you think our alternative narrative played out?”

Gurney shrugged. “Depends on how persuasively you presented it, and how adept the prosecutor was in undercutting it.”

Thorne smiled without a hint of warmth. “Our presentation incorporated enough of what we discovered about Peskin to create a textbook example of reasonable doubt. In fact, court reporters and other observers found our case a hell of a lot more persuasive than the prosecutor’s. It was a steel-trap indictment of Jimmy Peskin.”

Gurney sensed what was coming. “However . . . ?”

“However, the jury found my client guilty on all counts. Guilty of armed robbery. Guilty of murder in the commission of a felony, due to the fatal shooting of the parking lot attendant. And guilty of half a dozen bullshit charges on top of those. You know why? It’s simple. The greatest defense in the world doesn’t matter if the jury hates your client.”

“You’re sure they reached the wrong verdict?”

“After my client was sent to prison, he proved his innocence by ordering a hit on Jimmy Peskin. Payback for the frame job.”

After a moment of silence during which Thorne seemed to be savoring the impact of his story, he raised his palms in a gesture that said, Are we finished here?

“One final question. Do you have any bottom-line observations on Ziko Slade?”

Thorne took a long breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve never had an innocent client with so much evidence against him. On the other hand, I’ve never had a guilty client who seemed so forthcoming. For example, take the release he signed to make this conversation possible. It places no limits whatsoever on what I can share with you.”

“So, the facts say he’s a murderer, and his attitude says he’s innocent?”

“Innocent or delusional. He’s so damn unconcerned. When I visited him the other day in that hellhole of a prison, he made jokes about the tie I was wearing.” Thorne checked his phone again, then rose from his chair with the conspicuous energy of a man who enjoyed looking busy. “Good luck with your search for those elusive cracks.”

He started leading the way toward the door, then turned to Gurney with a cold sparkle in his eyes. “Let me know if you find Lerman’s head in one of them.”

11

AS GURNEY PASSED FROM THE RAREFIED ENVIRONS OF Claiborne into the bleaker reality of upstate New York, he spotted a Starbucks in a small strip mall. The sight triggered an instant desire for a double espresso, and he pulled into the nearly empty parking lot.

He checked his phone for messages as he waited to place his order. There weren’t any, but checking reminded him that he forgot to call Kyle for his birthday. Annoyed at himself, he knew he should take care of it before it slipped his mind again. Instead, he decided to make the call as soon as he got his coffee and something to snack on.

Back in his car, munching on a cinnamon bagel and sipping his coffee, Gurney took out his phone. It rang in his hand, just as he started looking up Kyle in his contact list. He didn’t recognize the incoming number, but he answered anyway.

“Gurney here.”

“Are you finished with Marcus Thorne?”

It took him a few seconds to place the owner of the cool, even voice.

“Hello, Emma. How did you know I was meeting with Thorne?”

“I’m psychic.”

He didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure she was joking.

“Adrienne Lerman has agreed to meet with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“She lives in Winston, not that far from Claiborne. You know where it is?”

Gurney cleared his throat. “More or less, but—”

“Good. It’s her day off. She’ll be expecting you. I’m texting you her address.”

She disconnected. A minute later the text arrived: “5 Moray Court, Apt B.”

Gurney took another bite of his bagel and finished his coffee. The bagel was less than half finished, but he tossed the rest in a small garbage bag he kept under the glove compartment. The cinnamon was giving him heartburn.

WINSTON TURNED OUT to be one of those upstate towns endeavoring to survive the collapse of dairy farming by transforming itself into an antiques center—selling its mundane relics to weekend visitors who viewed rusted hay rakes and battered milk pails as objets d’art. Its main street was home to one precious emporium after another with names like the Heavenly Pig, the Blue Mallard, and the Smiling Cow.

Number 5 Moray Court was a large Victorian with two entrances, having been divided into an upstairs and downstairs apartment. Overgrown rhododendrons obscured the front porch, and two cars occupied the driveway. Gurney parked a few car lengths from number 5.

The first thing that struck him as he emerged from the Outback was the raw dampness in the air. The second was the acid-green Corvette farther down the street, conspicuous among the Subarus and Toyotas. The third was the tall, muscular young man walking in his direction. Despite the weather, he wasn’t wearing a jacket—just a tight yellow tee shirt, silky beige slacks, and fancy loafers. His moussed hair was fashionably spiky, his eyes small and dark, his thick neck encircled with tattoos.

The rhythm of his stride put Gurney on guard. He subtly adjusted his balance and centered his attention on the man’s solar plexus—not only as a potential target but as the best focal point from which he could sense either hostile hand or foot movements.

The man stopped just outside Gurney’s personal space. “You want some friendly advice? Stay out of our business.”

Gurney said nothing.

“You hear what I’m saying? You fucking deaf?” His voice was growing louder.

Gurney spoke softly. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

“You’re the one making a fucking mistake. Keep your fucking nose out of our business.”

That our confirmed Gurney’s assumption that this was Sonny Lerman, brother of Adrienne. “You’re in my way. Please step aside.”

The dark little eyes widened with rage. “How about I step on your fucking face?”

Gurney sighed. “You don’t really want to violate your parole, do you, Sonny? Get dumped back in the can for another year?”

“This is no goddamn violation. I’m just telling you, stay the fuck away from my sister. You stir shit up, you’ll eat it, you nosy fuck.”

A loud voice came from the direction of number 5. “Hey, fellas, what’s going on here?”

A big, white-haired, red-faced man stood on the porch steps. He had the look of a retired cop. He held a nightstick partly concealed against the side of his leg.

Sonny Lerman stared at him uncertainly. “Nothing. No problem.” He turned away abruptly and headed for the acid-green Corvette. He opened the door, then called back to Gurney, “You fuck with me, you got big fucking trouble. I got a relative you never wanna meet. Keep that thought in your head, asshole!”

12

GURNEY RANG THE BELL FOR APARTMENT B AND A MOMENT later was buzzed in. A drably carpeted staircase was lit by a single ceiling fixture.

“Come up. I’ll be with you in a minute,” a woman’s voice called from somewhere on the second floor.

The stairs creaked underfoot. There was an unpleasant odor in the air.

From the top landing, he could see into an eat-in kitchen. To his right was a living room with bare wood floors. To his left, a hallway with three open doorways—a bathroom and two bedrooms, he guessed. From one of those rooms came the meowing of multiple cats. The source of the odor he noticed on the way up was likely a busy litter box.

“Are you a cat person, Mr. Gurney?”

A large, soft-looking woman in a gray sweat suit emerged from the hallway, pushing loose hairs back from her forehead. He recognized the same sad smile of repeatedly disappointed optimism on Adrienne Lerman’s face that he had seen in the trial video.

“I’m not sure, but I do like watching them.”

“I’m trying to find a permanent home for some kittens. If you know anyone who might be interested . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Come in, have a seat.”

Gurney joined her at an old Formica-topped table.

“I saw what happened in the street. I’m really sorry. Sonny can be . . . excitable.”

“You told him I was coming?”

“I try to be open about everything. I didn’t expect him to react like that.”

“Any idea why he did?”

She let out sharp little sound that might have been a humorless laugh. “All I told him was what Emma Martin told me—that you were reviewing the case to see if there might be a chance of an appeal. He didn’t seem to have any reaction. But once Sonny starts thinking about something, you never know where it’s going to go. Maybe his mind went back to that insurance company lawyer, Howard Manx, a very mean person, who was trying to keep us from getting the money in the first place. Money means a lot to Sonny. He sees it as the only thing he ever got from our father. It was like Manx was insinuating that we killed our own father for the insurance. What kind of person would kill their own father for money? How sick would you have to be to do that?” She closed her eyes and pressed the tips of her fingers against the lower part of her cheek.

“Are you alright?” asked Gurney.

“Bad tooth. Comes and goes.” She opened her eyes and lowered her hand. “I should get to the dentist. Never seem to have the time. With hospice and the cats and Sonny . . .” She looked vaguely around the kitchen, before going on with a beleaguered smile.

“Most of my problems are gifts, not problems at all. To be busy is to be useful, right? To be useful is a blessing. So, it’s all how you look at it.” She forced a smile. “Emma said that you had some questions.”

“I’ll start with one that occurred to me while I was watching the video of the trial. Why do you think your father told his boss about his money-making scheme?”

She swallowed, and her eyes appeared on the verge of tearing up.

“That night in the restaurant when he talked about it to Sonny and me, I had no idea he was telling anyone else. I’m not even sure I believed what he was saying. But when the district attorney told me what he said to Mr. Cazo, I wasn’t surprised. I knew Lenny liked having people think he was involved in something big, especially involving a celebrity like Ziko Slade. He always wanted respect. It was so important to him. He was obsessed with what people thought of him. He was always chasing acceptance in the wrong ways.”

She shook her head sadly. “He was always trying to be whatever he thought the most powerful person in the room wanted him to be. It was like he had no weight, no center, no direction of his own. He was desperate for approval, especially from Sonny.” A tear appeared and ran down her cheek. She took a napkin from wooden holder on the table, wiped her cheek, and blew her nose.

“Sorry,” she said, “You have other questions?”

“When your brother approached me in the street, he claimed to have a connection to some nasty character. Maybe a gangster? Do you know anything about that?”

She sniffled. “Every time Lenny had a few drinks, he’d start hinting that we had a second or third cousin who was a hitman for the mob—the Russian mob, the Mafia, the Albanians, the story kept shifting. It seemed fantastical to me, but Sonny ate it up. Sonny and Lenny had a lot in common. Fantasies, mainly. Funny how people sometimes have so much in common they can’t stand each other.” She was gazing at Gurney, but her mind seemed to be reviewing sad memories.

“A minute ago you said you weren’t sure you believed what your father told you at the restaurant. Why was that?”

“The extortion scheme—it just wasn’t like him.”

“In what way?”

“It sounded too confrontational.”

“That was out of character for him?”

“Very much so.”

After a silent minute, he stood up from the table and thanked her for her time.

She raised her hand. “Before you go, I’d like to ask you a question. It’s something that’s been on my mind ever since . . . ever since they told me about finding my father’s body. I couldn’t bring myself to ask about it.”

He waited.

She bit her lower lip. “Do you know . . . if he was alive . . . when his fingers were cut off?”

Gurney recalled Barstow’s testimony that there was only slight bleeding at the finger stumps, indicating the absence of cardiac function.

“No, Adrienne. He was not alive at that point.”

She sat back with a long exhalation as though a great tension had been relieved.

“Thank you. I couldn’t bear thinking he was conscious for that.”

AT THE MIDPOINT between Winston and Walnut Crossing, the precipitation began—first as an intermittent drizzle, then a lashing rain that obscured Gurney’s vision. He pulled over onto a weedy shoulder by a cow pasture.

As he waited for the downpour to subside, he became increasingly conscious of an uncomfortable feeling that had begun during his confrontation with Sonny and grown over the course of his conversation with Adrienne. There was something out of joint in the emotional dynamics of the Lerman family—something connected to the “out of character” nature of Lenny’s scheme. Before he could recall everything that had been said, he was interrupted by a call from Madeleine.

“Just wondering if you’ve spoken to Kyle yet.”

The reminder felt like a jab in the gut. “Not yet.”

“Thanksgiving is next week. It would be nice to invite him, don’t you think?”