White River Burning

1

Dave Gurney stood at the sink in his big farmhouse kitchen, holding one of Madeleine’s strainers. He was carefully emptying into it what appeared to be several dirt-encrusted brown pebbles from a very old tinted-glass jar.

As he washed away the soil, he could see that the pebbles were smaller, lighter in color, and more uniform than they’d first appeared to be. He laid a paper towel on the sink-island countertop and eased the contents of the strainer onto it. With another paper towel he carefully patted the pebbles dry, then carried them along with the glass jar from the kitchen to his desk in the den and placed them next to his laptop and large magnifying glass. He started the computer and opened the document he’d created with the archaeological graphics program he’d acquired a month earlier—shortly after discovering the remnants of an old laid-stone cellar in the cherry copse above the pond. What he’d found in his examination of the site so far led him to believe that the cellar may have served as the foundation of a late-seventeenth- or early-eighteenth-century structure—perhaps the home of a settler in what then would have been a wild frontier area.

The archaeology program enabled him to overlay a current photograph of the cellar area with a precisely scaled grid, and then to tag the appropriate grid boxes with identifying code numbers for the items he’d found at those locations. An accompanying list linked the codes to verbal descriptions he’d provided along with photos of the individual items. Those items now included two iron hooks that his internet research told him were used for stretching animal hides; a tool fashioned from a large bone, probably a flesher for scraping hides; a knife with a black handle; the rusted remains of several iron chain links; and an iron key.

He found himself viewing these few objects, barely illuminated by his scant knowledge of the historical period with which they seemed to be associated, as the first tantalizing bits of a puzzle—dots to be connected with the help of dots yet to be discovered.

After recording the location of his newest find, he then used his magnifier to examine the bluish, slightly opaque glass jar. Judging from the pictures on the internet of similar containers, it seemed consistent with his estimate of the foundation’s age.

He turned his attention to the pebbles. Taking a paper clip from his desk drawer, he unbent it into a relatively straight wire and used it to move one of the pebbles around, turning it over this way and that under the magnifier. It appeared relatively smooth except for one facet that consisted of a tiny hollow spot with thin, sharp edges. He went on to a second pebble, in which he saw the same structure; and then on to a third, a fourth, and the remaining four after that. Close examination revealed that all eight, while not quite identical, shared the same basic configuration.

He wondered about the significance of that.

Then it occurred to him that they might not be pebbles at all.

They could be teeth.

Small teeth. Possibly human baby teeth.

If that’s what they were, some new questions came immediately to mind—questions that made him eager to get back down to the site and dig a little deeper.

As he stood up from the desk, Madeleine came into the den. She gave the little objects spread out on the paper towel a quick glance along with that slight flicker of distaste that crossed her face whenever something reminded her of the excavation now blocking the little trail she liked so much. It didn’t help that his approach to the site reminded her of the way he would have approached a murder scene in his days as an NYPD homicide detective.

One of the persistent sources of tension in their marriage was the gap between her desire for a clean break with their past lives in the city, an unquestioning embrace of their new lives in the country, and his inability or unwillingness to shed his career-long mindset, his persistent need to be investigating something.

She put on a determinedly cheerful smile. “It’s an absolutely glorious spring morning. I’m going to hike the quarry trail. I should be back in about two hours.”

He waited for the next sentence. Usually, after informing him that she was going out, she would ask if he wanted to come along. And usually he would make some excuse, involving something else that needed doing. The simple fact was that walking in the woods never gave him the same sense of inner peace it gave her. His own sense of peace, a sense of strength and self-worth, came not so much from enjoying the world around him as from trying to figure out what exactly was going on and why. Peace through investigation. Peace through discovery. Peace through logic.

This time, however, she didn’t offer him an invitation. Instead, she stated with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm, “Sheridan Kline called.”

“The district attorney? What did he want?”

“To talk to you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were out. He called just before you came back up to the house with those things.” She pointed at the pebble-teeth. “He refused to leave a message. He said he’d call again at eleven thirty.”

Gurney looked up at the clock on the den wall. It was now a quarter to eleven. “He didn’t give you any hint of what he wanted?”

“He sounded tense. Maybe it’s about the trouble over in White River?”

He thought about that for a moment. “I can’t imagine how I could help him with that.”

Madeleine shrugged. “Just guessing. But whatever he really wants from you, he’ll probably be less than truthful about it. He’s a snake. Be careful.”

2

While Madeleine was lacing up her hiking boots in the mudroom, Gurney made himself a cup of coffee and took it out to one of the Adirondack chairs on the bluestone patio next to the asparagus patch.

The patio overlooked the low pasture, the barn, the pond, and the little-used town road that dead-ended into their fifty acres of woods and fields. It was a long time since the place had been a working farm, and what he and Madeleine liked to refer to as “pastures” were now really just overgrown meadows. Disuse had made them, if anything, more naturally beautiful—especially now in the early days of May with the first burst of wildflowers spreading across the hillside.

Madeleine emerged from the French doors onto the patio wearing a fuchsia nylon windbreaker half open over a chartreuse tee shirt. Whether it was the exuberant sense of life in the spring air or the anticipation of her outing, her mood had brightened. She leaned over his Adirondack chair and kissed him on the head. “Are you sure you’ll hear the phone out here?”

“I left the window open.”

“Okay. See you in a couple of hours.”

He looked up at her and saw in her soft smile the woman he’d married twenty-five years earlier. He was amazed at how rapidly the tenor of their relationship could shift—how fraught small events and gestures could be and how contagious were the feelings they generated.

He watched as she made her way up through the high pasture, her jacket shining in the sun. Soon she disappeared into the pine woods in the direction of the old dirt road that connected a series of abandoned bluestone quarries along the north ridge. He suddenly wished that she had invited him along, wished that Kline’s call would be coming to the cell phone in his pocket rather than to the landline in the house.

He checked his watch. His thoughts about the objects he’d found in the old buried cellar were now fully eclipsed by his efforts to imagine what was on the district attorney’s mind. And how obscure the man’s intentions would be.

At eleven thirty Gurney heard the distant sound of a car coming up the narrow town road below the barn. A minute later a gleaming black Lincoln Navigator passed between the barn and the pond, hesitating at the point where the gravel surface ended, before lumbering up the rutted farm track through the wild pasture grass to an open area beside the house and coming to a stop by Gurney’s dusty Outback.

The first surprise was that it was Sheridan Kline himself who emerged from the big SUV. The second surprise was that he emerged from the driver’s seat. He’d come in his official car but without the services of his driver—a notable departure, thought Gurney, for a man in love with the perks of his office.

Sharply dressed, Kline gave a couple of quick tugs to straighten the creases in his pants. At first glance the man seemed to have gotten smaller since their last meeting, ten months earlier, in the messy legal aftermath of the Peter Pan case. It was an odd perception, as well as an unpleasant reminder of the occasion. A lot of people had died in the horrendous finale of the Pan investigation, and Kline had appeared quite willing to have Gurney indicted for reckless homicide. But as soon as the media’s preference for portraying Gurney as the hero of the case had become clear, Kline had supported that narrative—with a cordial enthusiasm that Madeleine had found nauseating.

He approached the patio now with a fixed smile, taking in the immediate area with a series of assessing glances.

Gurney rose to meet him. “I thought you were going to call.”

The smile remained in place. “Change of plan. I happened to be in White River, meeting with Chief Beckert. Just forty miles from here, forty-five minutes with no traffic. So why not do it face-to-face? Always better that way.”

Gurney inclined his head toward the Navigator. “No chauffeur today?”

“Driver, David, not chauffeur, I’m a public servant, for Christ’s sake.” He paused for a moment, radiating restless energy. “I often find driving relaxing.” A small tic was playing at the corner of his determined smile.

“You drove here directly from White River?”

“As I said. From a meeting with Beckert. Which is what I want to talk to you about.” He nodded toward the Adirondack chairs. “Why don’t we have a seat?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to come inside?”

He made a face. “Not really. Such a beautiful day. I spend too much time indoors.”

Gurney wondered if the man was afraid of being recorded and considered the patio safer than the house. Perhaps that was also his reason for avoiding the phone.

“Coffee?”

“Not right now.”

Gurney gestured toward one of the chairs, sat down in the one facing it, and waited.

Kline removed the jacket of his expensive-looking gray suit, draped it neatly over the chair back, and loosened his tie before perching on the edge of the seat.

“Let me get right to the point. As you can imagine, we’re facing a hell of a challenge. Shouldn’t have been totally unexpected, given the inflammatory statements coming out of that BDA bunch, but something like this is always a shock. You spent twenty-five years in the NYPD, so I can only imagine how it feels to you.”

“How what feels to me?”

“The shooting.”

“What shooting?”

“Christ, how cut off from the world are you up here on this mountain? Were you even aware of the demonstrations going on all week over in White River?”

“For the one-year anniversary of that traffic-stop fatality? Laxton Jones? Hard not to be aware of all that. But I haven’t checked the news yet this morning.”

“A White River cop was shot dead last night. Trying to keep a racial mess from getting completely out of hand.”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus. Goddamn right.”

“This happened at a Black Defense Alliance demonstration?”

“Naturally.”

“I thought they were a nonviolent group.”

“Hah!”

“The cop who was shot. Was he white?”

“Of course.”

“How—?”

“Sniper. Fatal head shot. Somebody out there knew exactly what the hell he was doing. This was no coked-up idiot with a Saturday-night special. This was planned.” Kline ran his fingers nervously back through his short dark hair.

Gurney was struck by the emotional intensity of the district attorney’s reaction—natural in most people but noteworthy in such a coldly calculating politician, a man Gurney had come to believe evaluated every event by how it might facilitate or obstruct his own ambitions.

There was the obvious question—which Kline addressed on cue as Gurney was about to ask it. “You’re wondering why I’m bringing this problem to you?” He shifted on the edge of his chair to face Gurney squarely, as though he believed that direct eye contact was essential to communicating an attitude of forthrightness. “I’m here, David, because I want your help. In fact, I need your help.”

3

Sheridan Kline stood silently at the open French doors, watching as Gurney prepared two mugs at the coffee machine in the kitchen. Neither man spoke again until they were back outside on their chairs—the district attorney still looking stiff and uncomfortable, but perhaps feeling assured from his own observation of the coffee-making that Gurney hadn’t taken the opportunity to slip a recording device into his pocket. He took a few sips from his mug, then set it down on the flat wooden arm of the chair.

He took the deep breath of a man about to dive into a cold pool. “I’ll be perfectly frank with you, David. I have a huge problem. The situation in White River is explosive. I don’t know how closely you’ve been following it, but there’ve been outbreaks of looting and arson all this past week down in the Grinton district. Constant stink of smoke in the air. Sickening. And it could get a hell of a lot worse. Keg of dynamite, and these BDA people seem to be trying to set it off. Like this latest attack. Cold-blooded assassination of a police officer.” He fell silent, shaking his head.

After a few moments Gurney tried to nudge him toward explaining his visit. “You said that you drove here directly from a meeting with the White River chief of police?”

“Dell Beckert and his number two, Judd Turlock.”

“About how to respond to the shooting?”

“Among other things. A discussion of the whole situation. All the implications.” Kline made a face as if he were regurgitating something indigestible.

“Is there some connection between that meeting and your coming here?”

Another pained expression. “Yes and no.”

“Tell me more about the ‘yes’ part.”

Before answering, Kline reached for his cup, took a long sip from it, and replaced it carefully on the chair arm. Gurney noted a tremor in his hand.

“The situation in White River is delicate. Feelings are running way too high on all sides. I called it a keg of dynamite, but that’s not right. It’s more like pure nitroglycerin—tricky to handle, unpredictable, unforgiving. Stumble, whack against it the wrong way, and it could blow us all to pieces.”

“I get that. Racial sensitivities. Ugly emotions. Potential for total chaos. But—”

“But how do you fit into this?” He flashed an anxious politician’s smile. “David, never in my career have I encountered a greater need to marshal all our available resources. I’m talking about brains—the right kind of brains. The need to understand the angles. See around the corners. I don’t want to get blindsided because we didn’t look into things closely enough.”

“You think Beckert’s department might not be up to the job?”

“No, nothing like that. You won’t hear any criticism of Beckert from me. The man’s a law-and-order icon. Hell of a record of achievement.” He paused. “There’s even a rumor about a run in the special election for state attorney general. Nothing definite, of course.” Another pause. “He could be the perfect candidate, though. Right image. Right connections. Not everyone knows this, he certainly doesn’t advertise it himself, but his current wife happens to be the governor’s cousin. Right man in the right place at the right time.”

“Assuming that everything goes well. Or at least that nothing goes terribly wrong.”

“That goes without saying.”

“So what exactly do you want from me?”

“Your investigative instincts. Your nose for the truth. You’re very good at what you do. Your NYPD homicide record speaks for itself.”

Gurney gave him a puzzled look. “Beckert’s got the whole White River Police Department at his disposal. You’ve got your own investigative staff. If that’s not enough, you could leverage the racial element of the situation and bring in the FBI.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, no. Once the FBI comes in, we lose control. They talk a cooperative game, but they don’t play one. They’ve got their own agenda. Christ, you ought to know how the feds operate. Last thing we want to do is lose our ability to manage the process.”

“Okay, forget the FBI. Between your staff and Beckert’s, you’ve still got plenty of manpower.”

“Might seem like we do, but the fact is my staff is at an all-time low. My right-hand guy, Fred Stimmel, hit his magic pension number six months ago and headed for Florida. My two female investigators are both on maternity leave. And the rest of the crew are locked into assignments I can’t pull them away from—not without a major prosecution going down the tubes. You may think I’ve got ample staff. Fact is I’ve got zip. I know what you’re thinking. That the investigation belongs to the White River PD in any event, not the county DA. The ball is in Beckert’s court, so let him handle it through his own famously effective detective bureau. Right? But I’m telling you there’s way too much at stake to play this game with anything other than a full-court press. That means with all I can muster on my side as well as Beckert’s—period!” A small vein in Kline’s temple was becoming more prominent as he spoke.

“You’d like me to join your staff as some sort of adjunct investigator?”

“Something like that. We’ll work out the details. I have the authority and contingency funds. We’ve worked together before, David. You made huge contributions to the Mellery and Perry cases. And the stakes in this case are sky-high. We need to get to the bottom of this police killing fast—and we need to get it right, so nothing comes back later to bite us in the ass. Get it wrong and it’s chaos time. What do you say? Can I rely on you?”

Gurney leaned back in his chair, watching the vultures soaring lazily above the north ridge.

Kline’s smile tightened into a grimace. “Do you have any concerns?”

“I need to sleep on this, discuss it with my wife.”

Kline chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Okay. Just let me repeat that there’s a hell of a lot at stake here. More than you might think. The right outcome could be enormously beneficial for all concerned.”

He got up from his chair, straightened his tie, and put on his jacket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Gurney. The politician’s smile reappeared in full force. “My personal cell number is on the card. Call me tomorrow. Or tonight if you can. I know you’ll do the right thing—for all of us.”

Two minutes later the big black Navigator passed between the pond and the barn, heading down onto the town road. The crunch of the tires on the gravel surface soon faded into silence.

The soaring vultures had disappeared. The sky was a piercing blue, the hillside a painter’s palette of greens. Next to the patio, in the raised planting bed, the day’s growth of asparagus was awaiting harvest. Above the tender new shoots the airy asparagus ferns were swaying in an almost imperceptible breeze.

The overall picture of spring perfection was tainted only by the slightest hint of something acrid in the air.

4

Gurney spent the next hour visiting various internet sites, trying to get a broader view of the White River crisis than the perspective Kline had presented. He had the feeling that he was being manipulated with a carefully arranged account of the situation.

Countering an impulse to go to the most recent news of the shooting, he decided to search first for coverage of the original incident—to refresh his recollection of the fatal shooting that occurred the previous May and that the Black Defense Alliance demonstrations were commemorating.

He located an early newspaper report in the online archive of the Quad-County Star. The front-page headline was one that had become disturbingly common: “Minor Traffic Stop Turns Deadly.” A brief description of the incident followed:

At approximately 11:30 PM on Tuesday White River Police Officer Kieran Goddard stopped a car with two occupants near the intersection of Second Street and Sliwak Avenue in the Grinton section of White River for failing to signal prior to changing lanes. According to a police spokesman, the driver of the vehicle, Laxton Jones, disputed the officer’s observation and refused several requests to present his license and registration. Officer Goddard then directed Jones to switch off the ignition and step out of the vehicle. Jones responded with a series of obscenities, put the vehicle in reverse, and began backing away in an erratic fashion. Officer Goddard ordered him to stop. Jones then placed the vehicle in drive and accelerated toward the officer, who drew his service weapon and fired through the windshield of the approaching vehicle. He subsequently called for an ambulance as well as appropriate supervisory and support personnel. Jones was declared dead on arrival at Mercy Hospital. The second occupant of the vehicle, a twenty-six-year-old female identified as Blaze Lovely Jackson, was detained in connection with an outstanding warrant and the discovery of a controlled substance in the vehicle.

The next relevant article in the Star appeared two days later on page five. It quoted a statement issued by Marcel Jordan, a community activist, in which he claimed that the police version of the shooting was “a fabrication designed to justify the execution of a man who had embarrassed them—a man dedicated to uncovering and publicizing the false arrests, perjury, and brutality rampant in the White River Police Department. The officer’s claim that Laxton was attempting to run him down is an outright lie. He posed no threat whatever to that officer. Laxton Jones was murdered in cold blood.”

The Star’s next mention of the event appeared a week later. It described a tense scene at Laxton Jones’s funeral, an angry confrontation between mourners and police. The funeral was followed immediately by a press conference at which the activist Marcel Jordan—flanked by Blaze Lovely Jackson, out on bail, and Devalon Jones, brother of the deceased—announced the formation of the Black Defense Alliance, an organization whose mission would be “the protection of our brothers and sisters from the routine abuse, mayhem, and murder carried out by the racist law-enforcement establishment.”

The article concluded with a response from White River Police Chief Dell Beckert. “The negative statement issued by the group calling themselves the ‘Black Defense Alliance’ is unfortunate, unhelpful, and untrue. It demeans honest men and women who have dedicated themselves to the safety and welfare of their fellow citizens. This cynical grandstanding deepens the misconceptions that are destroying our society.”

Gurney found little in other upstate papers and virtually nothing in the national press regarding the shooting of Laxton Jones or the activities of the Black Defense Alliance for the next eleven months—until the BDA’s announcement of demonstrations to mark the one-year anniversary of the shooting and to “raise awareness of racist police practices.”

According to the ensuing media coverage, an initial peaceful demonstration was followed by sporadic instances of violence throughout the Grinton section of White River. The unrest had been going on for a week, becoming more confrontational and destructive with each passing day and generating increasingly dramatic media coverage.

The fact that he’d been only partially aware of this was the result of his and Madeleine’s decision to leave their TV behind when they moved from the city to Walnut Crossing and to avoid internet news sites. They felt that “news” was too often a term for manufactured controversy, superficial half-truths, and events about which they could do nothing. This meant he had some catching up to do.

There was no shortage of current coverage of what one media website was calling “White River in Flames.” He decided to make his way through the local and national reports in the sequence in which they’d been posted. The rising hysteria evident in the changing tone of the headlines as the week progressed suggested a situation spinning out of control:

UPSTATE CITY DEBATES YEAR-OLD CONTROVERSY

BDA PROTEST OPENS OLD WOUNDS

WHITE RIVER MAYOR CALLS FOR CALM IN FACE OF PROVOCATIONS

BDA FIREBRAND MARCEL JORDAN CALLS POLICE MURDERERS

DOZENS INJURED AS DEMONSTRATIONS TURN UGLY

JORDAN TO BECKERT: “YOU HAVE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS”

WHITE RIVER ON THE EDGE OF CHAOS

ROCK-THROWING, ARSON, LOOTING

PROTESTERS BEATEN, ARRESTED IN CLASH WITH POLICE

SNIPER KILLS LOCAL COP—POLICE DECLARE WAR ON BDA

Gurney’s reading of the articles added little to the information in the overheated headlines. His quick perusal of the comments section after each article reinforced his belief that these “reader involvement” features were mainly invitations to idiocy.

His main feeling, however, was a growing sense of unease at Kline’s eagerness to pull him into the gathering storm.

5

When Madeleine returned from her hike, radiating the satisfaction and exhilaration she derived from the outdoors, Gurney was still in his den, hunched over his computer screen. Having moved on from the internet news sites, he was exploring the physical reality of White River with the help of Google Street View.

Although it was only an hour’s drive from Walnut Crossing, he’d never had a compelling reason to go there. He had a sense that the place was emblematic of the decline of upstate New York cities and towns, suffering from industrial collapse, agricultural relocation, a shrinking middle-class population, political mismanagement, the spreading heroin epidemic, troubled schools, eroding infrastructure—with the added element of strained police relations with a sizable minority community, a problem now vividly underscored.

The image of White River was further clouded, ironically, by the looming presence of the area’s largest employer and supplier of much of its economic lifeblood: the White River Correctional Facility. Or, as it was known locally, Rivcor.

What Gurney could see, as Google Street View led him along the city’s main avenues, supported his negative preconceptions. There was even a clichéd set of railroad tracks dividing the good section of town from the bad.

Madeleine was standing next to him now, frowning at the screen. “What town is that?”

“White River.”

“Where all the trouble is?”

“Yes.”

Her frown deepened. “It’s about that traffic-stop shooting of a black motorist last year, right?”

“Yes.”

“And some statue they want removed?”

Gurney looked up at her. “What statue?”

“A couple of people were talking about it at the clinic the other day. A statue of someone connected to the early days of the prison.”

“That part I wasn’t aware of.”

She cocked her head curiously. “Does this have something to do with your call from Sheridan Kline?”

“Actually the call turned out to be a visit. By the man himself.”

“Oh?”

“He said something about not being that far away and preferring face-to-face meetings. But I suspect that coming here was always his plan.”

“Why didn’t he say that from the beginning?”

“Knowing how manipulative and paranoid he is, I’d guess he wanted to take me by surprise to keep me from recording our meeting.”

“The subject was that sensitive?”

Gurney shrugged. “Didn’t seem so to me. But it would be hard to know for sure without knowing what he wants from me.”

“He came all this way and didn’t tell you what he wants?”

“Yes and no. He says he wants my help investigating a fatal shooting. Claims he’s short-staffed, running out of time, with the city on the verge of Armageddon, et cetera.”

“But . . .”

“But it doesn’t add up. Procedurally, the investigation of homicides is strictly a police matter. If there’s a need for more personnel, that’s a police command decision. There are channels for that. It’s not up to the DA or his investigatory staff to take this sort of initiative—unless there’s something he’s not telling me.”

“You said there was a fatal shooting. Who was killed?”

Gurney hesitated. Law-enforcement deaths had always been a sensitive subject with Madeleine, and more so since he himself was wounded two years earlier at the end of the Jillian Perry case. “A White River cop was hit last night by a sniper at a Black Defense Alliance demonstration.”

Her expression froze. “He wants you to find the sniper?”

“That’s what he says.”

“But you don’t believe him?”

“I have the feeling I haven’t gotten the whole story yet.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I haven’t decided.”

She gave him one of those probing looks that made him feel as if his soul were on display, then switched gears. “You remember that we’re going to the big LORA fund-raiser tonight at the Gelters’, right?”

“That thing is tonight?”

“You might actually enjoy it. I understand the Gelters’ house is something to see.”

“I’d rather see it when it isn’t full of idiots.”

“What are you so angry about?”

“I’m not angry. I’m just not looking forward to spending time with those people.”

“Some of those people are quite nice.”

“I find the whole LORA thing a little nuts. Like that logo on their letterhead. A goddamn groundhog standing on its hind legs and leaning on a crutch. Jesus.”

“It’s an injured-animal rehabilitation center. What do you think their logo should be?”

“Better question: Why do we have to attend a fund-raiser for limping groundhogs?”

“When we’re asked to take part in a community event, it’s nice to say yes once in a while. And don’t tell me you’re not angry. You’re obviously angry, and it has nothing to do with groundhogs.”

He sighed and gazed out the den window.

Her expression suddenly brightened in one of those transformations that was part of her emotional wiring. “Want to take the pasture walk with me?” she asked, referring to the grassy path they kept mowed around the perimeter of the field on the slope above the house.

He screwed up his face in disbelief. “You just got back from a two-hour trek on the ridge, and you want to go out again?”

“You spend too much time bent over that computer screen. How about it?”

His first reaction went unvoiced. No, he didn’t want to waste time trudging pointlessly around that old pasture. He had urgent things to think about—the protests verging on all-out riots, the cop killing, Kline’s not-quite-believable story.

Then he reconsidered—remembering that whenever he took one of Madeleine’s annoying suggestions, the result always turned out better than he’d anticipated.

“Maybe just once around the field.”

“Great! We might even find a little creature with a limp—for you to bring to the party.”

As they reached the end of the path, Gurney suggested they go on to his archaeological project in the cherry woods above the pond.

When they reached the partly exposed foundation, he began pointing out where he’d uncovered the various iron and glass artifacts he’d catalogued on his computer. As he was indicating the spot where he’d found the teeth, Madeleine broke in with a sharp exclamation.

“Oh my God, look at that!”

He followed her gaze up into the treetops. “What do you see?”

“The leaves, the sun shining through them, the glowing greens. That light!”

He nodded. He tried not to let his irritation show. “What I’m doing here bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“I guess I’m not as enthusiastic about it as you are.”

“It’s more than that. What is it about my digging here that annoys you so much?”

She didn’t answer.

“Maddie?”

“You want to solve the mystery.”

“What do you mean?”

“The mystery of who lived here, when they lived here, why they lived here. Right?”

“More or less.”

“You want to solve the mystery of what brought them here, what kept them here.”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s what bothers me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not everything has to be figured out . . . dug up, torn apart, evaluated. Some things should be left alone, in peace, respected.”

He considered this. “You think the remains of this old house fall into that category?”

“Yes,” she said. “Like a grave.”

At 5:35 PM, they got in the Outback and set out for the LORA fund-raiser at Marv and Trish Gelter’s famously unique residence, located on a hilltop in the chic hamlet of Lockenberry.

From what Gurney had heard, Lockenberry was close enough to Woodstock to attract a similar crowd of artsy weekenders from Manhattan and Brooklyn, yet far enough away to have its own independent cachet, derived from the poets’ colony at its core. Known simply as the Colony, it was founded by the town’s eponymous whale-oil heiress, Mildred Lockenberry, whose own poetry was revered for its impenetrability.

Just as the value of property within Lockenberry was affected by how close it was to the Colony, the value of any property in the eastern part of the county was affected by how close it was to Lockenberry—a phenomenon Gurney noted in the postcard perfection of the nineteenth-century homes, barns, and stone walls lining the last few miles of the road leading into the hamlet. The restoration and maintenance of these structures could not be inexpensive.

Although the natural endowments of the land and buildings in the immediate vicinity of Lockenberry had been groomed and highlighted, the entire route from Walnut Crossing, winding through a succession of rolling hills and long river valleys, was, in its uncultivated and unpolished way, amazingly beautiful—with wild purple irises, white anemones, yellow lupines, and shockingly blue grape hyacinths scattered among the delicate greens of the spring grasses. It was enough to make him understand, if not feel as deeply, Madeleine’s enthusiasm for the display of sunlit leaves over his excavation by their pond.

When the GPS on the dashboard of their Outback announced that they would be arriving at their destination in another five hundred feet, Gurney slowly pulled over onto the road’s gravelly shoulder and came to a stop by an antique iron gate in a high drystone wall. A freshly graded dirt-and-gravel driveway proceeded from the open gate in a wide curve up through a gently rising meadow. He took out his phone.

Madeleine gave him a questioning look.

“I need to make a couple of calls before we go in.”

He entered the number of Jack Hardwick, a former New York State Police investigator with whom he’d crossed paths a number of times since they’d met many years earlier pursuing in different jurisdictions a solution to the sensational Peter Piggert murder case. Their unique bond was formed through a kind of grotesque serendipity—when they discovered, separately, thirty miles apart, on the same day, the disconnected halves of Piggert’s last victim. Who happened to be Piggert’s mother.

Gurney and Hardwick’s subsequent relationship had had its ups and downs. The ups were based on an obsession with solving homicides and a shared level of intelligence. The downs were the product of their conflicting personalities—Gurney’s calm, cerebral approach versus Hardwick’s compulsive need to debunk, irritate, and provoke—a habit responsible for his forced transition from the state police to his current role as a private detective. The recording on the man’s phone was, for him, relatively inoffensive:

“Leave a message. Be brief.”

Gurney complied. “Gurney here. Calling about White River. Wondering if you know anyone there who might know something that’s not already in the news.”

His second call was to the cell number Sheridan Kline had given him earlier that day. Kline’s recorded voice was as oleaginously cordial as Hardwick’s was curt. “Hello, this is Sheridan. You’ve reached my personal phone. If you have a legal, business, or political matter to discuss, please call me at the number listed on the county website for the office of the district attorney. If your call is personal in nature, when you hear the beep leave your name, number, and a message. Thank you.”

Gurney got directly to the point. “Regarding your description earlier today of the situation in White River, I came away feeling that some critical factor had been left out. Before I decide whether to get involved, I need to know more. The ball’s in your court.”

Madeleine pointed at the dashboard clock. It was 6:40 PM.

He weighed the pros and cons of making a third call, but making it now in Madeleine’s presence might not be a good idea. He restarted the car, passed through the open gate, and headed up the spotless driveway.

Madeleine spoke without looking at him. “Your security blanket?”

“Excuse me?”

“I got the impression you were touching base with the reassuring world of murder and mayhem before having to face the terrifying unknowns of a cocktail party.”

Half a mile into the Gelters’ property the driveway crested a gentle rise, bringing them suddenly to the edge of a field planted with thousands of daffodils. In the slanting sunlight of early evening the effect was startling—almost as startling as the massive, windowless, cubical house overlooking the field from the top of the hill.

6

The driveway led them to the front of the house. The imposing dark wood facade appeared to be perfectly square, perhaps fifty feet in both height and width.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Madeleine with an amused frown.

“What do you mean?”

“Look closely. The outline of a letter.”

Gurney stared. He could just barely make out the distressed outline of a giant G—like a faded letter on a child’s alphabet block—imprinted on the house.

While they were still gazing at it, a young man with chartreuse hair, wearing a loose white shirt and skinny jeans, came running toward the car. He opened the passenger door and held it while Madeleine got out, then hurried around to the driver’s side.

“You and the lady can go right in, sir.” He handed Gurney a small card bearing the name “Dylan” and a cell number. “When you’re ready to leave, call this number and I’ll bring your car around.” Flashing a smile, he got into the dusty Outback and drove it around the side of the house.

“Nice touch,” said Madeleine as they walked across the patio.

Gurney nodded vaguely. “How do you know Trish Gelter?”

“I’ve told you three times. Vinyasa.”

“Vin . . .”

She sighed. “My yoga class. The one I go to every Sunday morning.”

As they reached the front door, it slid open like the pocket door of an enormous closet, revealing a woman with a mass of wavy blond hair.

“Mahdehlennnne!” she cried, giving the name an exaggerated French inflection that made it sound like a jokey endearment. “Welcome to Skyview!” She grinned, showing off an intriguing Lauren Hutton gap between her front teeth. “You look fabulous! Love the dress! And you brought the famous detective! Wonderful! Come in, come in!” She stood to the side and, with a hand holding a frosted blue cocktail, waved them into a cavernous space unlike any home Gurney had ever seen.

It seemed to consist of a single cube-shaped room—if anything so big could be called a room. Cubical objects of various sizes were being used as tables and chairs on which clusters of guests perched and conversed. Sets of cubes pushed together served as kitchen counters at each end of a restaurant-sized brushed-steel stove. No two cubes were the same color. As Gurney had noted from the outside, the five-story-high walls had no windows, yet the whole interior was suffused with a sunny brightness. The roof was constructed of clear glass panels. The sky above it was a cloudless blue.

Madeleine was smiling. “Trish, this place is amazing!”

“Get yourself a drink and have a good look around. It’s full of surprises. Meanwhile, I’ll introduce your shy husband to some interesting people.”

“Good luck with that,” said Madeleine, heading for a bar that consisted of two four-foot-high cubes, one fire-engine red, one acid green. Trish Gelter turned to Gurney, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’ve been reading all about you, and now I get to meet the supercop in person.”

He grimaced.

“That’s exactly what New York magazine called you. It said you had the highest homicide arrest and conviction rate in the history of the department.”

“That article ran more than five years ago, and it’s still an embarrassment.”

His NYPD record was a distinction he didn’t mind having, since it occasionally had the practical value of opening a few doors. But he also found it embarrassing. “Magazines like to create superheroes and supervillains. I’m neither.”

“You look like a hero. You look like Daniel Craig.”

He smiled awkwardly, eager to change the subject. “That big letter out there on the front of the house—”

“A postmodern joke.” She winked at him.

“Pardon?”

“How much do you know about postmodern design?”

“Nothing.”

“How much do you want to know about it?”

“Maybe just enough to understand the big G.”

She sipped her blue cocktail and flashed her gap-toothed grin. “Irony is the essence of postmodern design.”

“The G is an ironic statement?”

“Not just the G. The whole house. A work of ironic art. A rebellion against humorless, boring modernism. The fact that this house and everything in it was designed by Kiriki Kilili says it all. Kiriki loves to stick it to the modernists with his cube jokes. The modernists want a house to be an impersonal machine. Pure efficiency.” She wrinkled her nose as if efficiency had a foul odor. “Kiriki wants it to be a place of fun, joy, pleasure.” She held Gurney’s gaze for an extra couple of seconds on that last word.

“Does the big G stand for something?”

“Giddy, goofy, Gelter—take your choice.”

“It’s a joke?”

“It’s a way of treating the house as a toy, an amusement, an absurdity.”

“Your husband is a playful fellow, is he?”

“Marv? Omigod, no. Marv’s a financial genius. Very serious. The man shits money. I’m the fun one. See the fireplace?” She pointed to one of the walls, at the base of which was a hearth at least ten feet wide. The flames across the width flickered in the full spectrum of a rainbow. “Sometimes I program it for all those colors. Or just green. I love a green fire. I’m like a witch with magic powers. A witch who always gets what she wants.”

Mounted on the wall above the hearth was a TV screen, the largest he’d ever seen. It was displaying three adjacent talking heads in the divided format of a cable news program. Several of the party guests were watching it.

“Trish?” A loud male voice from a corner of the room broke through the general hubbub.

She leaned close to Gurney. “I’m being summoned. I fear I have to be introduced to someone horribly boring. I feel it in my bones.” She managed to make her bones sound like a sex organ. “Don’t go away. You’re the first homicide detective I’ve ever met. An actual murder expert. I have so many questions.” She gave his arm a little squeeze before heading across the room, sashaying through an obstacle course of cubes.

Gurney was trying to make sense of it all.

Postmodern irony?

The big G was a symbol of absurdity?

The whole house was a multimillion-dollar joke?

A witch who gets whatever she wants?

And where the hell were the other rooms?

In particular, where was the bathroom?

As he looked around at the chatting guests, he spotted Madeleine. She was talking to a willowy woman with short black hair and catlike eyes. He made his way over.

Madeleine gave him a funny look. “Something wrong?”

“Just . . . taking it all in.”

She gestured toward the woman. “This is Filona. From Vinyasa.”

“Ah. Vinyasa. Nice to meet you. Interesting name.”

“It came to me in a dream.”

“Did it?”

“I love this space, don’t you?”

“It’s really something. Do you have any idea where the restrooms are?”

“They’re in the companion cube out back, except for the guest bathroom over there.” She pointed to an eight-foot-high pair of vertically stacked cubes a few feet from where they were standing. “The door is on the other side. It’s voice-activated. Everything in this house you either talk to or control with your phone. Like it’s all alive. Organic.”

“What do you say to the bathroom door?”

“Whatever you want.”

Gurney glanced at Madeleine, searching for guidance.

She gave him a perky little shrug. “The voice thing actually does work. Just tell it you need to use the bathroom. That’s what I heard someone do a few minutes ago.”

He stared at her. “Good to know.”

Filona added, “It’s not just the bathroom. You can tell the lamps how bright you want them. You can talk to the thermostat—higher, lower, whatever.” She paused with a half-somewhere-else sort of smile. “This is the most fun place you could ever find out here in the middle of nowhere, you know? Like the last thing you’d expect, which is what makes it so great. Like, wow, what a surprise.”

“Filona works at the LORA shelter,” said Madeleine.

He smiled. “What do you do there?”

“I’m an RC. There are three of us.”

All that came to mind was Roman Catholic. “RC?”

“Recovery companion. Sorry about that. When you’re in something, you forget that not everyone else is in it.”

He could feel Madeleine’s be nice gaze on him.

“So LORA is . . . pretty special?”

“Very special. It’s all about the spirit. People think taking care of abandoned animals is about getting rid of their worms and fleas and giving them food and shelter. But that’s just for the body. LORA heals the spirit. People buy animals like they were toys, then throw them out when they don’t act like toys. Do you know how many cats, dogs, rabbits are tossed out every day? Like garbage? Thousands. Nobody thinks about the pain to those little souls. That’s why we’re here tonight. LORA does what no one else is doing. We give animals friendship.”

The voices of the TV talking heads had gotten louder, more argumentative. Occasional words and phrases were now clearly audible. Gurney tried to stay focused on Filona. “You give them friendship?”

“We have conversations.”

“With the animals?”

“Of course.”

“Filona is also a painter,” said Madeleine. “A very accomplished one. We saw some of her work at the Kettleboro Art Show.”

“I think I remember. Purple skies?”

“My burgundy cosmologies.”

“Ah. Burgundy.”

“My burgundy paintings are done with beet juice.”

“I had no idea. If you’ll excuse me for just a minute . . .” He gestured toward the cubical structure housing the bathroom. “I’ll be back.”

On the far side of it he found a recessed door panel. Next to the panel there was a small red light above what he guessed was a pinhole microphone. He further guessed that the red light indicated that the bathroom was occupied. In no hurry to get back to the discussion of burgundy cosmologies, he stayed where he was.

The variety of people with whom Madeleine cultivated friendships never stopped surprising him. While he tended to be attuned to the dishonesty or loose screw in a new acquaintance, her focus was on a person’s capacity for goodness, liveliness, inventiveness. While he found most people in some way warranting caution, she found them in some way delightful. She managed to do that without being naïve. In fact, she was quite sensitive to real danger.

He checked the little light. It was still red.

His position by the bathroom door gave him an angled view of the wide screen above the hearth. Several more party guests, drinks in hand, were gathering in front of it. The talking heads were gone. With a fanfare of synthesized sound effects, a swirling jumble of colorful letters was coalescing into words:

PEOPLE—PASSIONS—IDEAS—VALUES

THE AMERICAN DREAM IN CRISIS

The list then contracted into a single line to make room for three statements covering the width of the screen, accompanied by a martial-sounding drum roll:

EXPLOSIVE CRISIS—HAPPENING NOW

SEE IT ON BATTLEGROUND TONIGHT

NOTHING’S AS REAL AS RAM-TV

A moment later these statements burst into flying shards, replaced by a video of a nighttime street scene—an angry crowd chanting, “Justice for Laxton . . . Justice for Laxton . . . Justice for Laxton . . .” Demonstrators with signs bearing the same message were thrusting them up and down to the rhythm of the chant. The crowd was being contained by waist-high movable fencing, backed up by a line of cops in riot gear. When the video source was switched to a second camera angle, Gurney could see that the demonstration was taking place in front of a granite-faced building. The words WHITE RIVER POLICE DEPARTMENT were visible on the stone lintel above the front door.

At the bottom of the video screen, the words BATTLEGROUND TONIGHT—ONLY ON RAM-TV were flashing in a bright-red stripe.

The video shifted to what appeared to be another demonstration. The camera was positioned behind the demonstrators, facing the speaker addressing them. He spoke in a voice that rose and fell, paused and stretched in the cadences of an old-time preacher. “We have asked for justice. Begged for justice. Pleaded for justice. Cried for justice. Cried so much. Cried so long. Cried bitter tears for justice. But those days are over. The days of asking and begging and pleading—those days are behind us. Today, on this day that the Lord hath made, on this day of days, on this day of reckoning, we DEMAND justice. Here and now, we DEMAND it. I say it again, lest there be deaf ears in high places—we DEMAND justice. For Laxton Jones, murdered on this very street, we DEMAND justice. Standing on this very street, standing in the place anointed by his innocent blood, we DEMAND justice.” He raised both fists high above his head, his voice swelling up into a hoarse roar. “It is his sacred RIGHT in the sight of God. His RIGHT as a child of God. This RIGHT will not be denied. Justice MUST be done. Justice WILL be done.”

As he spoke, his dramatic pauses were filled with loud amens and other cries and murmurs of approval, growing more insistent as the speech progressed. An identifying line was superimposed on the video like a foreign-film subtitle: “Marcel Jordan, Black Defense Alliance.”

The group standing in front of the Gelters’ TV, holding colorful cocktails and little hors d’oeuvre plates, had grown larger and more attentive, reminding Gurney that nothing attracts a crowd like aggressive emotion. In fact, that one nasty truth seemed to be propelling the race to the bottom in the country’s political discourse and news programming.

As the demonstrators began to sing the old civil rights anthem “We Shall Overcome,” the video scene changed again. It showed a crowd outdoors at night, but very little was happening. The people were loosely assembled with their backs to the camera on a grassy area just beyond a treelined sidewalk. The illumination, evidently coming from overhead streetlights, was partly blocked by the trees. From somewhere out of sight came bits and pieces of an amplified speech, its rhythms indistinctly captured by the camera’s microphone. Two patrol officers in modified riot gear were moving back and forth on the sidewalk, as if to continually vary their lines of sight around the trees and through the crowd.

The fact that nothing of significance was happening in a video selected for broadcast could mean only one thing—that something was about to happen. Just as it occurred to Gurney what it might be, the video frame froze and a statement was superimposed on it:

WARNING!!!

A VIOLENT EVENT IS ABOUT TO BE SHOWN

IF YOU WOULD PREFER NOT TO WITNESS IT

CLOSE YOUR EYES FOR THE NEXT SIXTY SECONDS

The video continued, with the two officers again moving slowly along the sidewalk, their attention on the crowd. Gurney grimaced, his jaw clenched in anticipation of what he was now sure was coming.

Suddenly the head of one of the officers jerked forward, and he fell facedown onto the concrete, hard, as though an invisible hand had slammed him down.

There were cries of shock and dismay from the guests around the TV. Most continued watching the video—the panicky movements of the second officer as he realized what had happened, his frantic attempts at first aid, his shouting into his cell phone, the spreading awareness of trouble, the confused milling and retreat of many of the nearest onlookers.

Two key facts were clear. The shot had come not from the crowd but from somewhere behind the victim. And either the shooter was far enough away or the weapon was sufficiently silenced for the shot not to be picked up by the camera’s audio system.

Gurney was aware of the bathroom door sliding open behind him, but he remained focused on the video. Three more officers arrived on the run, two with weapons drawn; one of the other officers took off his own protective vest and placed it under the man’s head; more cell phone calls were made; the crowd was breaking apart; a distant siren was growing louder.

“Goddamn animals.”

The voice behind Gurney had a rough scraping quality that sharpened the contempt conveyed by the words.

He turned and came face-to-face with a man of his own height, build, and age. His features were individually normal, even ideal; but they didn’t seem to go together.

“Gurney, right?”

“Right.”

“NYPD detective?”

“Retired.”

A shrewd look entered the eyes that seemed a bit too close together. “Technically, right?”

“A bit more than technically.”

“My point is, being a cop gets in the blood. It never goes away, right?” He smiled, but the effect was chillier than if he hadn’t.

Gurney returned the smile. “How do you know who I am?”

“My wife always lets me know who she’s bringing into the house.”

Gurney thought of a cat announcing with a distinctive meow that she was bringing in a captured mouse. “So you’re Marv Gelter. Nice to meet you.”

They shook hands, Gelter eyeing him as one might examine an interesting object for its potential utility.

Gurney nodded toward the TV. “That’s quite a thing you have over there.”

Gelter peered for a moment at the big screen, his eyes narrowing. “Animals.”

Gurney said nothing.

“You had to deal with that kind of shit in the city?”

“Cops being shot?”

“The whole thing. The circus of bullshit. The entitlement.” He articulated the last word with vicious precision. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Gurney, apparently waiting for a response, an endorsement.

Again Gurney said nothing. On the screen, two talking heads were arguing. One was contending that the current problems were part of the endless price being paid for the moral disaster of slavery, that the destruction of families had wrought irreparable damage, carried from generation to generation.

His opponent was shaking his head. “The problem was never the enslavement of Africans. That’s a myth. A politically correct fairy tale. The problem is simpler, uglier. The problem is . . . Africans! Look at the facts. Millions of Africans were never enslaved. But Africa is still a total disaster! Every country, a disaster! Ignorance. Illiteracy. Lunacy. Diseases too disgusting to describe. Mass rapes. Genocides. This isn’t the result of slavery. This is the nature of Africa. And Africans!”

The talking heads froze in place. Jagged triangles of color came swirling in from the edges of the screen, forming the letters of the words that earlier had blown apart:

EXPLOSIVE NEWS—HAPPENING NOW

SEE IT ALL ON BATTLEGROUND TONIGHT

THERE’S NOTHING AS REAL AS RAM-TV

Gelter nodded appreciatively before speaking, his eyes still on the screen. “Killer point about all the slavery bullshit. And he nailed the truth about the African cesspool. Refreshing to hear a man with the balls to tell it like it is.”

Gurney shrugged. “Balls . . . or a mental disorder.”

Gelter said nothing, registering the remark only with a sharp sideways glance.

The three-line statement on the screen blew apart again, and a single line coalesced from tumbling shards of color—THE CONTROVERSY CONTINUES—then it, too, broke into pieces that cartwheeled out of the frame.

A new talking head appeared—a young man in his early twenties, with fine features, a fierce gaze, and thick reddish-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. His name and affiliation crept across the bottom of the screen: “Cory Payne, White Men for Black Justice.”

Payne began in a strident voice, “The police claim to be defenders of the rule of law.”

Gelter grimaced. “You want to hear a mental disorder, listen to this asshole!”

“They claim to be defenders of the rule of law,” repeated Payne. “But their claim is a lie. It’s not the rule of law they defend, but the laws of the rulers. The laws of the manipulators, the ambition-crazed politicians, the dictators who want to control us. The police are their tools of control and repression, enforcers of a system that benefits only the rulers and the enforcers. The police claim to be our protectors. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

Gurney suspected, from the practiced flow of Payne’s accusations, that he’d made them many times before. But there didn’t seem to be anything rehearsed about the anger driving them. Or the intense emotion in the young man’s eyes.

“Those of you who seek justice, beware! Those of you who trust in the myth of due process, beware! Those of you who believe the law will protect you, beware! People of color, beware! Those who speak out, beware! Beware the enforcers who use moments of unrest for their own ends. This is such a moment. A police officer has been shot. The powers that be are gathering to retaliate. Revenge and repression are in the air.”

“You see what I mean? Unmitigated garbage!” Gelter was seething. “You see what civilization is up against? The rabble-rousing crap that spews out of the mouth of that self-indulgent little shit—”

He broke off as Trish came up to him looking hurried and anxious. “You have a call on the house phone.”

“Take a message.”

She hesitated. “It’s Dell Beckert.”

There was a shift in Gelter’s expression.

“Ah. Well. I suppose I should take it.”

After he’d disappeared through one of the doors in the back wall, Trish put on a bright smile. “I hope you like vegan Asian cuisine. I found the cutest young Cambodian chef. My little wok wizard.”

7

They said little during the drive home. Madeleine rarely spoke when they were in the car at night. For his part, he’d been making an effort not to be critical of social events she’d involved him in, and he could think of little positive to say about the party at the Gelters’. As they were getting out of the car by the mudroom door, Madeleine broke the silence.

“Why on earth would they keep that television on all evening?”

“Postmodern irony?” suggested Gurney.

“Be serious.”

“Seriously, I have no idea why Trish would do anything. Because I’m not sure who she is. I don’t think the packaging is particularly transparent. Marv might like to keep the TV on to keep himself angry and right about everything. Bilious little racist.”

“Trish says he’s a financial genius.”

Gurney shrugged. “No contradiction there.”

It wasn’t until they were in the house and Gurney was starting to make himself a cup of coffee that she spoke again, eyeing him with concern. “That moment . . . when the officer . . .”

“Was shot?”

“Were you . . . all right?”

“More or less. I knew it had happened. So the video wasn’t a total shock. Just . . . jarring.”

Her expression hardened. “News, they call it. Information. An actual murder on-screen. What a way to grab an audience! Sell more ads!” She shook her head.

He assumed that part of her fury was indeed provoked by the profit-based hypocrisy of the media industry. But he suspected that most of it arose from a source closer to home—the horror of seeing a police officer, someone like her own husband, struck down. The price of her deep capacity for empathy was that someone else’s tragedy could easily feel like her own.

He asked if she’d like him to put on the kettle for some tea.

She shook her head. “Are you really planning to get involved in . . . all of that?”

With some difficulty he held her gaze. “It’s like I told you earlier. I can’t make any decision without knowing more.”

“What kind of information is going to make—” The ringing of his cell phone cut her question short.

“Gurney here.” Though he’d been out of NYPD Homicide for four years, his way of answering the phone hadn’t changed.

The raspy, sarcastic voice on the other end needed no identification, nor did it offer any. “Got your message that you’re looking for insider shit on White River. Like what? Gimme a hint, so I can direct you to the type of shit you have in mind.”

Gurney was used to Jack Hardwick’s calls beginning with bursts of snide comments. He’d learned to ignore them. “Sheridan Kline paid me a visit.”

“The slimebag DA in person? Fuck did he want?”

“He wants me to sign on as a temporary staff investigator.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking into the cop shooting. At least, that’s what he says.”

“There some reason the regular White River PD detective bureau can’t handle that?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Why the hell’s he getting involved in the investigation? That’s not his turf. And why you?”

“That’s the question.”

“How’d he explain it?”

“City on the verge of chaos. Need to make solid arrests fast. Pull out all the stops. No time for turf niceties. Full assets into the breach. The best and the brightest. Et cetera.”

Hardwick was silent for a bit, then cleared his throat with disgusting thoroughness. “Odd pitch. Distinctive odor of horseshit. I’d be careful where I stepped, if I were you.”

“Before I step anywhere, I want to know more.”

“Always a good idea. So what do you want from me?”

“Whatever you can find out fast. Facts, rumors, anything at all. About the politics, the shot cop, the department, the city itself, the old incident with Laxton Jones, the Black Defense Alliance. Anything and everything.”

“You need all this yesterday?”

“Tomorrow will do.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“Very fucking kind of you.” Hardwick blew his nose about an inch from the phone. Gurney wasn’t sure whether the man had a perpetual sinus problem or just enjoyed producing unpleasant sound effects.

“Okay, I’ll make some calls. Pain in my ass, but I’m a generous soul. You free tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll make myself free.”

“Meet me in Dillweed. Abelard’s. Nine thirty.”

Ending the call, Gurney turned his attention back to Madeleine, recalling that she’d been in the middle of asking him something.

“What were you saying before the phone rang?”

“Nothing that won’t wait till tomorrow. It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.”

He was tempted to join her, but the questions on his mind about the situation in White River were making him restless. After finishing his coffee, he got his laptop from the den and set it on the table in the breakfast nook. He pulled up a chair and typed “White River NY” into the browser. As he scrolled through the results, looking for articles he might have missed earlier in the day, a few items caught his eye:

An article in the Times, emphasizing the ongoing nature of the problem: “Police Officer’s Death Deepens Upstate Racial Divide.”

A shorter, punchier Post article: “Cop Gunned Down at BDA Rally.”

A muted approach in the White River Observer: “Mayor Shucker Calls for Calm.”

And then there was the all-out RAM promotional screamer: FIRST BLOOD DRAWN IN RACE WAR? COP SHOT DEAD AS ACTIVIST INCITES CROWD. SEE IT ALL ON BATTLEGROUND TONIGHT—STREAMING LIVE AT RAM-TV.ORG.

After skimming the articles attached to these headlines and finding nothing that he didn’t know already, he scrolled on. When he came to a link to the official White River municipal website, he clicked on it. It was a predictable presentation of city departments, budget data, upcoming events, area attractions, and local history. A section on “Career Opportunities” listed a job opening for a part-time waitress at the Happy Cow Ice Cream Shoppe. A section titled “Community Renewal” described the conversion of the defunct Willard Woolen Socks Factory into the Winter Goose Artisanal Brewery.

There were pictures of clean but deserted streets, redbrick buildings, and a tree-shaded park named after Colonel Ezra Willard, of the sock-manufacturing family. The first of the two Willard Park photos showed a statue of the eponymous colonel dressed in a Civil War uniform astride a fierce-looking horse. A biographical note below the photo described him as “a White River hero who gave his life in the great war to preserve the Union.”

The second park photo showed two smiling mothers, one white and one brown, pushing their giddy toddlers on adjacent swings. Nowhere on the website was there any reference to the fatal shooting or the hate-driven violence tearing the city apart. Nor was there any mention of the correctional facility that provided the area with its main source of employment.

The next item that attracted Gurney’s attention was a section devoted to White River on a site called Citizen Comments Unfiltered. The site seemed to be a magnet for racial attacks posted by individuals with IDs like Truth Teller, White Rights, American Defender, and End Black Lies. The posts went back several years, suggesting that the city’s overt racial animosities were nothing new. They brought to mind a wise man’s comment that few things on earth were worse than ignorance armed and eager for battle.

He returned for a moment to the section of the White River website that showed the park and the statue of Colonel Willard, wondering if that might be the statue that Madeleine had told him was one of the objects of the current protests. Finding nothing there that answered the question, he decided to do an internet search—trying various combinations of terms: “Ezra Willard,” “Civil War,” “statue,” “New York State,” “White River,” “racial controversy,” “Correctional Facility,” “Willard Park,” “Union,” “Confederacy.” Finally, when he added the term “slavery” to the mix, he was led to the answer in the journal of one of the Civil War historical societies.

The article was about the federal fugitive slave laws that legalized the capture in the North of slaves fleeing from slave owners in the South. Among the examples given of this practice was the “establishment in 1830 by the mercantile Willard family of upstate New York of a detention facility to house captured runaway slaves while payments were negotiated for their return to their Southern owners.”

A footnote indicated that this lucrative practice ended when the war began; that at least one family member, Ezra, ended up fighting and dying on the Union side; and that after the war the former detention site became the core of what was gradually rebuilt and expanded into a state prison, now the White River Correctional Facility.

Pondering the ugly nature of the seed from which the institution had grown, Gurney could understand the impulse to protest the memorialization of a Willard family member. He searched the internet for more information about Ezra but could find nothing beyond brief news references to BDA demands for the removal of his statue.

Putting the historical issue aside, he decided to return his focus to getting as up to date as he could on the current turmoil. He revisited the RAM website in the hope that he might be able to extract some useful information from the opinionated noise they retailed as “news and analysis.”

The site was slow in loading, giving him time to consider the irony of the internet: the world’s largest repository of knowledge having become a megaphone for idiots. Once it appeared, he clicked his way through a series of options until he reached the page titled “Battleground Tonight—Live Stream.”

He was puzzled at first by what he saw on the screen—a close aerial view of a police car with siren blaring and lights flashing, speeding along a thoroughfare. The angle of the shot indicated that the camera was above and behind the cruiser; when the cruiser made a fast right at an intersection, so did the camera. When it came to a stop in a narrow street behind three other cruisers, the camera slowed and stopped, descending slightly. The effect was similar to a tracking shot in a movie chase scene.

He realized that the equipment involved must be a sophisticated drone equipped with video and audio transmitters. As the drone maintained its position, its camera slowly zoomed in on the scene the cruiser had been racing to. Helmeted cops were standing in a semicircle around a black man who was leaning forward with his open hands against the wall of a building. As the two cops from the cruiser joined the others, the man was handcuffed. A few moments later, after he was pushed into the back of one of the original cruisers, a line of text crawled across the bottom of the screen: 10:07 PM . . . DUNSTER STREET, GRINTON SECTION, WHITE RIVER . . . CURFEW VIOLATOR TAKEN INTO CUSTODY . . . SEE DETAILS ON NEXT RAM NEWS SUMMARY.

As the cruiser pulled away, the video switched to a new scene—a fire engine in front of a smoldering brick building, two firemen in protective gear holding a hose and directing its powerful stream through a shattered ground-floor store window. A worn sign above the window identified the burned-out remains as Betty Bee’s BBQ.

The camera’s elevated point of view was similar to that of the first camera, indicating that its source was a similar high-end drone. It would seem, Gurney noted with interest, that RAM was applying significant resources to its coverage of White River.

The next video segment was a street interview between a mic-wielding female reporter and a large fireman whose black helmet displayed in gold letters the word CAPTAIN. The reporter was a slim dark-haired woman whose expression and voice projected great concern. “I’m Marilyn Maze, and I’m talking to Fire Captain James Pelt, the man in charge of the chaotic scene here on Bardle Boulevard.” She turned toward the big man, and the camera zoomed in on his jowly, ruddy-skinned face. “Tell me, Captain, have you ever seen anything like this before?”

He shook his head. “We’ve had worse fires, Marilyn, worse in terms of the heat and the combustion of toxic materials, but never in conditions like this, never this wantonness of destruction. That’s the difference here, the wantonness of it.”

She nodded with professional concern. “It sounds like you’ve concluded that these fires are the intentional work of arsonists.”

“That’s my preliminary conclusion, Marilyn—subject to analysis by our arson investigator. But that’s what I would say the conclusion would be.”

She looked appropriately appalled. “So what you’re telling us, Captain, is that these people—some of these people, I should make that clear right now, that we’re talking about just a percentage, the law-breaking percentage of the population—some of these people are burning down their own neighborhood, their own stores, their own homes?”

“Doesn’t make a darn bit of sense, does it? Maybe the whole idea of sense isn’t part of the thinking here. It is a tragedy. Sad day for White River.”

“All right, Captain, we thank you for taking the time to talk to us.” She turned to the camera. “Interesting comments from Captain James Pelt on the insanity and tragedy of what’s happening in the streets of this city. I’m Marilyn Maze, reporting live for Battleground Tonight.”

The scene shifted back to the earlier talking-heads format. As before, the video was partitioned into three sections. A female newsperson now occupied the center position. She reminded Gurney of a certain kind of girl on a cheerleading squad—blond hair, straight nose, wide mouth, and calculating eyes—every word and gesture a tactic for success.

She spoke with a cool smile. “Thank you, Marilyn, for that thought-provoking exchange with Captain Pelt. I’m Stacey Kilbrick in the RAM News Analysis Center, with two high-powered guests with colliding points of view. But first, these important messages.”

The video went black. With key words flashing in bold red type against the dark background, an ominous voice intoned over the rumble of distant explosions, “We live in dangerous times . . . with ruthless enemies at home and abroad. As we speak, conspirators are plotting to strip us of our God-given right to defend ourselves from those out to destroy our way of life.” The voice went on to offer a free booklet revealing imminent dangers to American lives, values, and the Second Amendment.

A second commercial promoted the unique importance of gold bullion—as the most secure medium of exchange “as our debt-ridden financial system approaches collapse.” An ancient anonymous authority was quoted: “Wisest of all is the man whose treasure is in gold.” A free booklet would explain it all.

The commercial faded out and the video cut back to Stacey Kilbrick, in the center section of the screen. On one side was a thirtysomething, strong-featured black woman with a short Afro. On the other side was a slightly wall-eyed, middle-aged white man with short sandy hair. Kilbrick’s voice projected an artful balance of confidence and concern. “Our subject tonight is the growing crisis in the small city of White River, New York. There are conflicting points of view on what it’s all about.” A bold line of type moved across the bottom of the screen:

WHITE RIVER CRISIS—PERSPECTIVES IN COLLISION

She continued, “On my right is Blaze Lovely Jackson—the woman who was in the car with Laxton Jones one year ago when he was killed in a confrontation with a White River police officer. She’s also a founding member of the Black Defense Alliance and a forceful spokesperson for the BDA point of view. On my left is Garson Pike, founder of ASP, Abolish Special Privileges. ASP is a political action group promoting the repeal of special legal protections for minority groups. My first question is for Ms. Jackson. You’re a founding member of the Black Defense Alliance and an organizer of the demonstrations in White River—demonstrations that have now led to the death of a police officer. My question: Do you have any regrets?”

Since they were evidently in different studios and responding to each other via monitors, each participant was addressing the camera head-on. Gurney studied Blaze Lovely Jackson’s face. Something inside her was radiating an almost frightening determination and implacability.

She bared her teeth in a hostile smile. “No surprise that you have that a little back to front. Nothing new in that, with young black men getting killed all the time. Streets are full of black men’s blood, going back forever. Poison water, rats biting babies, rotten houses full of their blood. Right here in our own little city, there’s the big nasty prison, full of black men’s blood, even back to the blood of slaves. Now one white cop is shot, and that’s the question you have? You ask how much regret I have? You don’t see how you have that all back to front? You don’t think to ask which came first? Was it black men shooting white cops? Or was it white cops shooting black men? Seems to me you have a little sequence problem. See, my question is, where’s the regret for Laxton Jones? Where’s the regret for all them black men shot in the head, shot in the back, beat to death, year after year, forever and ever, hundreds of years, for no good reason on God’s earth? Hundreds of years and no end in sight. Where’s the regret for that?”

“That may be a subject for a larger discussion,” said Kilbrick with a patronizing frown. “Right now, Ms. Jackson, I’m asking a reasonable question raised by the senseless assassination of a community servant trying to maintain public safety at the BDA rally you organized. I’d like to know how you feel about the murder of that man.”

“That one man? You want me push aside hundreds, thousands, of young black men murdered by white men? You want me push them aside so I can fill up with regret about this one white boy? And then tell you all about that regret? And maybe how much I regret being responsible for a shooting I didn’t have nothing to do with? If that’s what you want, lady, I’ll tell you something—you have no idea what world we’re living in. And there’s something else I’ll tell you right here to your pretty face—you have no damn idea how damn crazy you are.”

Along with Stacey Kilbrick’s ongoing frown there was satisfaction in her eyes—perhaps the satisfaction of achieving the RAM goal of maximizing the controversy in every situation. She moved on with a brief smile. “Now, for a different perspective, Mr. Garson Pike. Sir, your viewpoint on the current events in White River?”

Pike responded with a shake of his head and a long-suffering smile. “P-perfectly predictable tragedy. Cause and effect. Chickens coming home to roost. It’s the p-price we all p-pay for years of liberal permissiveness. P-price for political correctness.” His accent was vaguely country. His gray-blue eyes blinked with each small stutter. “These jungle attacks on law and order are the p-price of cowardice.”

Kilbrick urged him on. “Could you elaborate on that?”

“Our nation has been on a p-path of reckless accommodation. Giving in again and again to the demands of every minority race—black, brown, yellow, red, you name it. Lying down like doormats for invading armies of mongrel freeloaders and terrorists. Giving in to the demands of the cultural saboteurs—the atheists, the abortionists, the sodomites. It’s the terrible truth, Stacey, that we live in a country where every vile p-perversion and every worthless segment of society has its champions in high places, its special legal protections. The more detestable the subject, the more protection we give it. The natural result of this surrender is chaos. A society turned upside down. The maintainers of order are attacked in the street, and their attackers pretend to be victims. The inmates, Stacey, have taken over the asylum. We’re supposed to be politically correct while all they do is complain about their minority disadvantages. Hell, like what? Like being p-put front of the line for jobs, promotions, special minority protections? And now they complain that they’re disproportionately represented in p-prisons. Simple reason is that they’re disproportionately committing the crimes that put them there. Eliminate black crime, and we’d have pretty much no crime in America at all.”

He concluded with an emphatic little nod and fell silent. The emotional momentum that had been increasing through his speech left little tics tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Kilbrick limited her reaction to a thoughtful pursing of her lips. “Ms. Jackson? We have about a minute left, if you’d care to offer a brief response.”

Blaze Lovely Jackson’s gaze had hardened. “Yeah, I’ll be brief. That Pike babble’s the same fascist crap you RAM folks been feeding all these years to your trailer-trash fans. I’ll tell you what it really is—what you’re doing is disrespectful. The white man is always making the black man feel small, feel like he’s got no power at all, feel like he’s no kind of man. You don’t give him any decent job, then you tell him he’s worthless cause he ain’t got a decent job. I tell you what that is. That’s the sin of disrespect. Hear me now, even if you don’t hear another thing. Disrespect is the mother of rage, and rage is the fire that’s going to burn this country down. Laxton Jones had no drug, no gun, no warrant. Hadn’t broken any law. Hadn’t done any crime. The man hadn’t done nothing to nobody. But he got shot anyway. Got shot dead in the face. How often do police do that to a white face? How often do they kill a white man who hasn’t done a crime? You want to understand the true place we’re at, you want to understand what BDA is all about, you think on that.”

Kilbrick’s eyes were alive with excitement. “Well, there you have it! Two sides of the White River crisis. In head-on collision. On Battleground Tonight. We move now to our cameras on location—your eyes on the tense streets of White River. I’m Stacey Kilbrick, on the watch for breaking news. Stay with us.”

The studio scene was replaced by an aerial shot of the city. Gurney could see smoke pouring from the roofs of three buildings. Orange flames shot up from one of them. On the main boulevard he noted a procession of police cars, a fire engine, and an ambulance. The aerial camera was picking up the sounds of sirens and bullhorns.

Gurney eased his chair back from the table, as if to distance himself from what he was seeing on his computer screen. The cynical conversion of misery, anger, and destruction into a kind of reality TV show sickened him. And it wasn’t just RAM. Media enterprises everywhere were engaged in the continual promotion and exaggeration of conflict, a business model based on a poisonous insight: dissension sells. Especially dissension along the fault line of race. It was an insight with an equally poisonous corollary: nothing builds loyalty like shared hatreds. It was clear RAM and its host of vile imitators had no qualms about nurturing those hatreds to build loyal audiences.

He realized, however, that it was time to put aside grievances about which he could do nothing and focus on questions that might have answers. For example, might Blaze Lovely Jackson’s rage at the police have been sufficient to involve her in actions beyond staging protests? Actions such as planning, abetting, or executing the sniper attack? And why hadn’t Kline gotten back to him? Had the query he’d left on the man’s voicemail concerning the missing ingredient in their conversation scared him off? Or was the potential answer sensitive enough to demand long consideration or perhaps even discussion with another player in the game?

That thought led by a crooked route to another question that had been in the back of his mind ever since Marv Gelter had abandoned his party to take a call from Dell Beckert. What sort of relationship did the racist billionaire have with the White River police chief?

“Do you know if the upstairs windows are closed?”

Madeleine’s voice startled him. He turned and saw her standing in her pajamas in the hallway that led to the bedroom.

“The windows?”

“It’s raining.”

“I’ll take a look.”

As he was about to shut down his computer, an announcement appeared on the screen in bold type:

CRISIS UPDATE

LIVE-STREAMING PRESS CONFERENCE—9:00 AM TOMORROW

WITH CHIEF BECKERT, MAYOR SHUCKER, DISTRICT ATTORNEY KLINE

He made a mental note of the time, hoping the event would be concluded before he had to leave for his meeting with Hardwick.

Upstairs he found only one window open, but it was enough to fill the room with the flowery aroma of the spring night. He stood there for a while breathing in the soft, sweet air.

His racing thoughts were replaced by a primitive sense of peace. A phrase came to mind, something he’d once read—just the phrase, emerging from an unrecalled context and attaching itself to the moment: a healing tranquility.

Once again, as so often in the past, a pleasant and totally unanticipated consequence had followed from his doing a simple thing Madeleine had asked him to do. He was sufficiently logic-driven to avoid attributing any mystical significance to these experiences. But their occurrence was a fact he couldn’t ignore.

When the wind shifted and the rain began to spatter lightly on the sill, he closed the window and went downstairs to bed.

8

Tranquility, unfortunately, was not his natural state of mind. During several hours of fitful sleep his innate brain chemistry reasserted itself, bringing with it the low-level anxiety and uneasy dreams to which he was accustomed.

At some point during those hours he awoke briefly, discovering that the rain had stopped, a full moon had appeared behind the thinning clouds, and the coyotes had begun to howl. He went back to sleep.

Another round of howling, closer to the house, woke him once more—from a dream in which Trish Gelter was ambling around a white cube in a field of daffodils. Each time she circled the cube she announced, “I’m the fun one.” A blood-covered man was following her.

Gurney tried to clear the image from his mind and doze off again, but the persistent howling and the need to go to the bathroom finally got him out of bed. He showered, shaved, put on his jeans and an old NYPD tee shirt, and went to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.

By the time he’d finished his eggs, toast, and two cups of coffee, the sun was rising above the pine-topped eastern ridge. When he opened the French doors to let in the morning air, he could hear the chickens making their morning clucking noises out in the coop by the apple tree. He stepped onto the patio and for a while watched the goldfinches and chickadees visiting the feeders that Madeleine had set up next to the asparagus patch. His gaze moved across the low pasture to the barn, the pond, and the site of his exploratory dig.

When he’d discovered the buried foundation—accidentally, while clearing large rocks from the trail above the pond—and had exposed enough of it to get a sense of its antiquity, it had occurred to him that he might invite Dr. Walter Thrasher to have a look. In addition to being county medical examiner, Thrasher was an avid historian and collector of Colonial artifacts. At the time, Gurney had wavered on whether to involve him, but now he was inclined to do so. The man’s insights into the remains of the old house could be interesting, and having a personal avenue of access to him might prove useful if Gurney decided to accept Kline’s invitation to step into the White River investigation.

He went back into the house, got his phone, and returned to the patio. He scrolled through his list of numbers, found Thrasher’s, and tapped on it. The call went to voicemail. The recorded announcement was nearly as short as Hardwick’s. Rather than gruff, though, the tone was refined. It invited the caller to simply leave a name and number, but Gurney decided to include some details.

“Dr. Thrasher, this is Dave Gurney. We met when you were the medical examiner on the Mellery homicide. Someone mentioned then that you were an expert on the Colonial history and archaeology of upstate New York. I’m calling because I’ve uncovered a site on my property that may date back to the eighteenth century. There are a variety of artifacts—a flesher tool, ebony-handled knife, iron chain links. Plus possible human remains—a child’s teeth, if I’m not mistaken. If you’d like to know more about this, you can reach me on my cell anytime.” Gurney added his number and ended the call.

“Are you talking to someone out there?”

He turned and saw Madeleine at the French doors. Her slacks-and-blazer outfit reminded him it was one of her workdays at the mental health clinic.

“I was on the phone.”

“I thought maybe Gerry had arrived. She’s picking me up today.”

She stepped out onto the patio, raising her face into the slanting morning sunlight. “I hate the idea of being cooped up in an office on a day like this.”

“You don’t have to be cooped up anywhere. We have enough money to—”

She cut him off. “I don’t mean it that way. I just wish we could see our clients outdoors in weather like this. It would be better for them, too. Fresh air. Green grass. Blue sky. Good for the soul.” She cocked her head. “I think I hear Gerry coming up the hill.”

A few moments later, as a yellow VW Beetle made its way up the weedy lane through the low pasture, she added, “You’re going to let the chickens out, right?”

“I’ll get to it.”

She ignored the edge in his voice, kissed him, and headed out past the asparagus patch just as her exuberant fellow therapist, Geraldine Mirkle, lowered her car window and cried, “Andiamo! The maniacs await us!” She winked at Gurney. “I’m referring to the staff!”

He watched as they drove, bumpily, through the pasture, around the barn, and out of sight onto the town road.

He sighed. That resistance in his response to Madeleine’s chicken reminder was childish. A silly way of trying to be in control when there was no reason for delay. His first wife had complained that he was a control freak. In his early twenties he couldn’t see it. But now it was obvious. Madeleine generally had no reaction to it other than amusement, which made it feel even more childish.

He went out to the henhouse and opened the little door into the fenced-in run. He tossed some commercial chicken feed, corn kernels, and sunflower seeds onto the ground, and the four hens came running out and started pecking at it. He stood there for a moment observing them. He doubted he would ever be as fascinated by them as Madeleine was.

A few minutes before nine he sat down at the breakfast table, opened his laptop, and went to the “Live Stream” section of the RAM website. As he was waiting for the promised press conference to begin, his phone rang. The number on the screen was vaguely familiar.

“Gurney here.”

“This is Walter Thrasher. You’ve discovered something of historical importance?”

“Your judgment on that would be sounder than mine. Would you be interested in taking a look at the site?”

“Did you say something about teeth? And a black-handled knife?”

“Among other things. Pieces of chains, hinges, a glass jar.”

“Pre-Revolution?”

“I think so. The foundation is Dutch-style laid stone.”

“Not dispositive by itself. I’ll take a look. Tomorrow. Early morning. That work for you?”

“I can make it work.”

“See you then, assuming nobody else on my turf gets shot in the meantime.”

Thrasher ended the call first, with no good-bye.

As the RAM news anchor was announcing that the press conference was about to begin, a line of bold type crawled across the bottom of the screen:

OFFICIALS REVEAL SHOCKING NEW DEVELOPMENTS

The scene shifted from the anchor, with her hybrid expression of steadiness and concern, to three conservatively suited men at a table facing the camera. In front of each was a tent card bearing his name and title. Mayor Shucker, Chief Beckert, District Attorney Kline.

Gurney’s attention was drawn to Beckert, a casting director’s fast-tracked Marine general. In his midforties, lean and square-jawed with an unblinking gaze, salt-and-pepper hair in a crisp military crew cut, he was the group’s clear center of gravity.

Mayor Shucker was a corpulent man with pudgy lips, suspicious eyes, and a comb-over dyed the color of rust.

Kline, on the other side of Beckert, looked more conflicted than ever. The determined set of his mouth was belied every few seconds by tiny tremors that reminded Gurney, rather fancifully, of those minuscule vibrations along the San Andreas Fault that create shimmers of unease on the surface of still water.

CRISIS UPDATE began to flash repeatedly on the screen, and the camera moved in on Beckert. When the blinking phrase disappeared, he began to speak. His voice was clear, dry, unaccented. There was also something familiar about it that Gurney couldn’t quite place.

“One hour ago the White River Police Department Special Weapons and Tactics Unit carried out a successful assault on the headquarters of the Black Defense Alliance. Pursuant to appropriate warrants, the premises have been secured and are currently being searched. Files, computers, phones, and other potential evidentiary materials are being gathered for forensic examination. Fourteen individuals have been arrested at the location on charges including felony assault, harassment, obstruction, drug possession, and weapons violations. This process is being conducted pursuant to our receipt of credible information regarding the shooting death of patrol officer John Steele. Be assured that our full investigatory resources are being applied to the apprehension of those responsible for the heinous murder of one of White River’s finest officers, a man who earned my deepest respect and admiration.” He lowered his head for a respectful moment before going on.

“I have an important request. Two high-ranking members of the BDA organization, Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker, were observed leaving the Willard Park demonstration just half an hour prior to the shooting of Officer Steele. We are eager to ascertain their whereabouts at the time of the shooting. We also have reason to believe that these same individuals slipped away from BDA headquarters prior to this morning’s raid. It’s vital that we find these two men. If you know where they are, or have information that could lead us to them, please call us anytime, day or night.”

An 800 number began flashing on the screen next to the words POLICE HOTLINE as Beckert continued, “This savage attack on civilized society will be met with all necessary force. We will not allow jungle law to triumph. We will do whatever it takes to end this anarchy. I promise you—order will prevail.”

Concluding with a gaze of fierce determination, Beckert turned toward Shucker.

“Mayor, you have a few words for us?”

Shucker blinked, looked down at a sheet of paper in his hands, then back up at the camera. “First, Mrs. Steele, my condolences for this tragedy.” He looked down again at the paper. “Those who set out to terrify our community with wanton violence and attack the heroes who protect us are the worst kind of criminals. Their reprehensible acts must be halted to restore peace to our wonderful city. Our prayers go out to the Steele family and to White River’s brave protectors.” He folded his sheet of paper and looked up. “God bless America!”

Beckert turned toward Kline. “Sheridan?”

The district attorney spoke with iron resolve. “Nothing challenges the rule of law like an attack on the men and women sworn to uphold it. My office is applying the full weight of its resources to a thorough investigation, the discovery of the truth, and the achievement of justice for the Steele family and for our whole community.”

The video cut to the female news anchor. “Thank you, gentlemen. Now we go to our follow-up questions from the RAM Issue Analysis Team.” The video cut back to the three men at the table as questions were posed by off-camera voices.

First Male Voice: “Chief Beckert, are you suggesting that Jordan and Tooker are the prime suspects in the sniper shooting?”

Beckert replied expressionlessly: “They’re definitely persons of interest in our investigation.”

Second Male Voice: “Do you consider them fugitives?”

Beckert, in the same flat tone: “We have a high degree of interest in finding them, they have not come forward, and their whereabouts are currently unknown.”

First Female Voice: “Do you have evidence of their involvement in the shooting?”

Beckert: “As I said, we have a high degree of interest in finding them. We are focusing significant resources on that objective.”

Same Female Voice: “Do you think Jordan and Tooker were tipped off prior to the raid?”

Beckert: “A reasonable person might reach that conclusion.”

First Male Voice: “What’s your plan for addressing the ongoing chaos? Fires are still breaking out in the Grinton area.”

Beckert: “Our plan is full-force pushback. We will not tolerate disorder or anyone who threatens disorder. For anyone tempted to use political protest as a cover for looting, burning, hear this: I have instructed my officers to use lethal force wherever necessary to protect the lives of our law-abiding citizens.”

Another male voice asked Chief Beckert if his SWAT team had encountered armed resistance by BDA members. He replied that weapons were present during the operation and more facts would be released after the filing of formal charges.

The same voice asked if injuries had been sustained on either side of the confrontation. As Beckert was giving another “more information later” nonanswer, Gurney noted the time on his computer screen. It was nine fifteen, meaning he needed to leave for his nine thirty meeting with Hardwick. Although he was curious about what might be revealed during the remainder of the press conference, he knew RAM programming was routinely archived for later viewing. He closed his laptop, grabbed his phone, and headed for the Outback.

9

Formerly a creaky old country store with a distinctly musty smell, Abelard’s had been taken over by a transplant from the Brooklyn art scene by the name of Marika. An abstract expressionist, she was an intense thirtysomething woman with a dramatic figure she wasn’t shy about showing off, numerous piercings and tattoos, and a startling array of hair colors.

When she wasn’t painting or sculpting, she’d been gentrifying the place. She’d removed the live-bait cooler and the displays of turkey jerky. She’d sanded and refinished the wide-board floors. She’d installed a new cooler full of things organic and free-range; a bin for locally baked breads; a high-end espresso machine; and four funky cafe tables with hand-painted chairs. The hammered-tin ceiling, pendant-globe light fixtures, and rough-hewn shelving had been left intact.

Gurney parked next to Hardwick’s classic muscle car—a red 1970 GTO. As soon as he entered the store he spotted Hardwick sitting in the back at one of the little round tables. He was wearing the black tee shirt and black jeans that had become his de facto uniform ever since he’d been forced out of the state police for offending his superiors too many times. This combative man with the pale-blue eyes of an Alaskan sled dog, a razor-keen mind, a sour wit, and a fondness for obscenity was definitely an acquired taste—one you could almost get to like if you didn’t choke on it first.

His muscular arms were resting on the table, which seemed too flimsy to support them. He was talking to Marika, who was laughing. Her hair that day was a spiky patchwork of iridescent pink and metallic blue.

“Coffee?” she asked when Gurney arrived at the table. Her striking contralto voice always got his attention.

“Sure. Double espresso.”

With an approving nod she headed for the machine. He took the chair opposite Hardwick, who was watching her departure.

When she disappeared behind the far counter, he turned to Gurney. “Sweet girl, not as batshit as she looks. Or half as batshit as you are if you’re planning to get involved in that White River insanity.”

“Bad idea?”

Hardwick uttered a grunt of a laugh, picked up his mug of coffee, took a long sip, and laid it down with the care one might give an explosive. “Too many virtuous people involved. All with high opinions of their own visions of justice. Nothing in this world worse than a pack of crazy fuckers who know—absolutely know—they’re right.”

“You referring to the Black Defense Alliance?”

“They’re part of it. But only part. Depends on what you want to believe.”

“Tell me more.”

“Where should I start?”

“With anything that would explain Kline’s desire to get me involved.”

Hardwick thought for a moment. “That would probably be Dell Beckert.”

“Why on earth would Beckert want me involved?”

“He wouldn’t. What I mean is, Beckert might be Kline’s problem.”

Before going on, Hardwick made a face like the subject had a bad taste. “I know what the fucker was like when I worked with him ten years ago in the Bureau. That was before he became the big deal he is today. But even then he was on his way. See, that’s the thing—Beckert is always on his way to something. Eye on the goal. He’s got that win-at-any-cost fixation that has a way of turning people into scumbags.”

“From what I’ve heard, his reputation is more law-and-order than scumbag.”

“Like a lot of high-class scumbags, he’s good at nurturing and polishing that reputation. Beckert has an instinct for turning everything to his advantage, even negative shit. Maybe I should say, especially negative shit.”

“Like what?”

“Like his family life. Back then, it was a fucking mess. His son, who was maybe thirteen at the time, was a nasty little bastard. Hated his father. Did everything he could to embarrass him. Painted swastikas on police cars. Told Child Protective Services that his father was selling confiscated drugs. Then the kid tried to set fire to a Marine recruiting office, probably because his father had been a marine. That’s when Dad made his move. Sent the kid off to a super-tough behavior-modification boarding school somewhere down South—more like a prison than a school. And then . . .” Hardwick inserted a dramatic pause.

Gurney stared at him. “And then . . . what?”

“And then Dell Beckert revealed his true talent. He turned the whole stinking pile of crap into gold. Most cops try to keep their domestic problems private. But Beckert did the opposite. He spoke to parent groups. Gave media interviews. Appeared on talk shows. Got well known within the world of parents with shithead kids. The tough-love cop who did what had to be done. And when his painkiller-addicted wife died about a year later of a heroin overdose, he even turned that into a plus. He became the drug-fighting cop whose zero-tolerance attacks on drug dealers came from the heart, from his own painful experience.”

Gurney was getting a bad taste in his mouth. “Sounds like a formidable character.”

“Cold as they come. But he’s managed to position himself as the perfect hard-ass cop every white citizen can love. And vote for.”

“Vote for?”

“There hasn’t been any official statement. But the blue grapevine says he’ll be running for state attorney general in the special election.”

“Kline mentioned the same rumor.”

“It would be the perfect next star on his precious résumé.”

Marika delivered Gurney’s double espresso. Hardwick continued, “That résumé, by the way, is fucking impressive. Highest score in every NYSP promotion exam he took. After a few hot-shit years in the Bureau, during which he picked up a master’s degree in public administration, he took over the top spot in the Professional Standards Unit. Then he moved into the private sector and set up a consulting organization to work with police departments around the state—assessing the psychological status of cops involved in violent confrontations, counseling them, and educating department brass on the nature and causes of violent incidents.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Great for Beckert. Hugely expanded his contacts in the law-enforcement world.”

“But?”

“Legal activists claimed the purpose of his ‘consulting’ was to help the police describe questionable incidents in ways that would minimize their exposure to criminal or civil actions.”

Gurney took a sip of his very strong coffee. “Interesting. So how’d this rising star get to be police chief in White River?”

“Three, four years ago—just before you moved up here—there was a corruption scandal. The then-chief’s phone was hacked, and a lot of embarrassing shit came out. Seems that the chief, one of the captains, and three guys in the detective bureau were on the take from a gang running Mexican heroin into upstate New York. WRPD public relations disaster. Cried out for a new team. And what better guy than Beckert—with his Professional Standards background and hardline image—to fumigate the place, reassure the citizenry, rebuild the department.”

“Another success?”

“Most people thought so. After dumping the tainted guys, he brought in his own people—allies from the state police and his consulting company.” Hardwick’s jaw muscle twitched. “Including a particularly close ally, Judd Turlock, who he installed as deputy chief.”

“How close, exactly?”

“Turlock went through the academy with him, reported to him in the Bureau, and was his number two in the consulting outfit. They’d even been in the fucking Marines together.”

“You don’t sound fond of this guy.”

“Difficult to be fond of a sociopathic attack dog.”

Gurney considered this over another sip of coffee. “Is Beckert’s tenure at White River being viewed as a success?”

“Depends on your point of view. He cleaned up the streets. Put away a lot of drug dealers. Reduced the number of break-ins, muggings, violent crimes.”

“But . . .”

“There’ve been some incidents. Right after he took over, couple years before the Laxton Jones thing, there was a traffic stop that escalated into the beating and arrest of the young black driver. Nelson Tuggle. The cop claimed he found a handgun and a bag of coke under the front seat and that Tuggle took a swing at him. Tuggle asked for a lie detector test. His lawyer got very aggressive with that, even got some media attention by publicly demanding that his client and the cop both be polygraphed. Two days later Tuggle was found dead in his cell. Heroin overdose, according to the ME. Got hold of some jail contraband, was how the COs explained it. Couple of street acquaintances said that was bullshit, that Tuggle might’ve done a little pot now and then, but no hard stuff.”

“Anyone pursue the case?”

“Tuggle had no family. There were no witnesses. No friends. Nobody gave a shit.”

“Is there a pattern? People claiming White River PD plays by its own rules?”

“Most of the convicted drug dealers claim exactly that. Course none of them can prove it. The judges and juries around here are overwhelmingly pro-cop. But the thing is, those popularity points Beckert’s been winning on the white side of White River he’s been losing on the black side. It isn’t that they don’t want to get rid of the criminal element, but they have the feeling the man is playing God and dropping the hammer extra hard on black people to make a point.”

“So the pressure cooker’s been heating up?”

“Big time. Unfortunately for Beckert, resentment that couldn’t really be expressed in support of drug dealers found a perfect outlet in the case of Laxton Jones. The difference between Jones and Tuggle is that Jones wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend who witnessed what happened and was hell-bent to do something about it. Blaze Lovely Jackson.”

“I saw her on that RAM Battleground Tonight program. I’d say she’s an angry woman.”

“Very angry. But also very smart. So there are some damn tricky days ahead for Beckert—sinkholes he needs to avoid to get where he wants to go.”

“You mean the attorney general’s office?”

“And beyond. Fucker might even be picturing himself in the White House someday.”

That seemed a bit of a stretch. But who could say? The man did look the part—more so than a lot of nasty creeps with their eye on the top rung of the ladder. In fact, he had the kind of chiseled face that would be at home on Mount Rushmore.

“In the meantime,” said Gurney, “we have a sniper on the loose. Were you able to find out anything about Steele?”

Hardwick shrugged. “Straight arrow. Everything by the book. Smart. College grad. Going to law school in his spare time. You want me to dig deeper?”

After a thoughtful pause Gurney shook his head. “Not yet.”

Hardwick regarded him curiously. “So what’s next? You signing up for the sniper hunt?”

“I don’t think so. If Kline is worried about Beckert’s methods, that’s his problem, not mine.”

“So you’re going to walk away?”

“It seems like the sensible option.”

Hardwick flashed a hard, glittery grin. “You mean you have no appetite for a clusterfuck in a dark closet? Shit, Gurney, you’re saner than I thought.”

10

Gurney spent the drive home from Abelard’s pondering what Hardwick had told him about Beckert and convincing himself that backing away was, in fact, the sanest course of action.

As he was getting out of the car by the side of the house, he could hear the landline phone ringing. He had some difficulty opening the mudroom door, stuck as it often was in warm weather, and by the time he got to the phone a morose female voice was concluding a message with a call-back number.

He picked up the handset. “Gurney here.”

“Oh . . . Mr. Gurney?”

“Yes?”

“This is Kim Steele. John Steele’s wife.”

He grimaced, picturing the TV image of the cop falling facedown on the sidewalk. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Steele. Terribly sorry.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

“Can I come and speak with you? I don’t want to talk on the phone.” There was another silence, followed by what sounded to Gurney like a stifled sob. “I know where you live. I could be there in twenty-five minutes. Would that be okay?”

He hesitated. “Yes, that’s okay.”

He ended the call, thinking immediately of three good reasons why no would’ve been a smarter answer.

Putting aside his inclination to speculate on why the wife of a dead cop might want to talk to him or how she even knew he existed, he decided to use the intervening time to check the internet for any stories on the shooting that provided more than the bare-bones information he’d already seen.

He went to the table in the breakfast nook where he’d left his laptop. Using the combination of “Steele” and “White River” brought up links to Beckert’s press conference, media reports on the incident, and opinion pieces from every point on the political spectrum—each purporting to explain the true causes of the violence. Nowhere did he find any details on the life of John Steele beyond the fact that he had a wife, now a widow.

He decided to try entering the names “John Steele” and “Kim Steele” at various social media sites. He went first to Facebook. While he was waiting for the page to load, his attention was drawn to movement out beyond the French doors in the low pasture. He stood up just in time to see three whitetail deer bounding through an opening in the ancient rock wall that separated the pasture from the woods. Assuming something had spooked them, he looked in the direction of the barn and pond. And there, at the end of the town road, another kind of movement—a glint of light, perhaps reflecting off a car or pickup truck—caught his eye. Whatever it was, it was obscured by the big forsythia bush at the corner of the barn.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the patio. But the situation was no clearer from there. He was about to walk down to the barn to satisfy his curiosity when the landline phone rang. He went back and checked the ID screen. It was Sheridan Kline.

“Gurney here.”

“Hi, Dave.” Kline’s voice was full of oily sincerity. “I’m responding to your message. The truth is there are some sensitive details in this situation that wouldn’t be appropriate for me to discuss with someone outside the official law-enforcement circle. I’m sure you can understand that. But if you choose to step inside the tent, on day one I’ll make sure you know everything I know. And you’ll have the best of both worlds here—official status plus independence from the bureaucracy. You’ll be reporting only to me.”

That last promise was delivered as though it were a precious privilege.

Gurney said nothing.

“Dave?”

“I’m absorbing what you said.”

“Ah. Well. Good. We’ll leave it at that. The sooner you give me your answer, the better our chances of saving some lives.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“I look forward to it.”

Gurney replaced the handset, aware he’d let pass an opportunity to tell Kline he’d decided not to get involved. He’d hardly begun to rationalize his foot-dragging when he remembered the possible vehicle by the barn.

He headed out through the French doors and down into the pasture. When he reached the far side of the forsythia, he had two surprises. The first was the car. It was a sleek Audi A7, a rarity in an area where “luxury vehicle” usually meant a crew-cab pickup with big tires. The second was that there was no one in it.

He looked around. He saw no one.

“Hello?” he called out.

There was no response.

He walked around the barn. The lush spring grass was moist with dew where the old apple trees shaded it, but there were no footprints.

Back by the car, he scanned the surrounding area—the pastures, the pond, the cleared swath along the edge of the woods. No sign of anyone.

As he was deciding what to do next, he heard a faint scraping sound. He heard it again—sharper this time and coming, it seemed, from the thicket above the pond. The only thing he could see up there that wasn’t part of the natural flora was the tractor he’d been using to clear his little archaeology site.

Curious, he headed up the trail that led to the excavation. The scraping became more distinct. He came around a bend in the trail and the broad rectangular hole came into view. But it wasn’t until he reached the excavation’s edge that he discovered the source of the sound.

A man, intent on his work, was using a hand trowel to probe a crevice between two foundation stones. He was wearing beige slacks, expensive-looking brown loafers, and a tropical sport shirt garishly printed with palm fronds and toucans.

The man spoke without turning away from the ground. “Seventeen hundred, I’d say. Give or take twenty years or so. Could be as early as sixteen eighty. Interesting rust deposits along here.” He tapped the area in front of him with the point of the trowel, which Gurney recognized as the one he kept at the site. “Four separate deposits, at three-foot intervals.”

He straightened up now—a lanky, stork-like man with thinning hair the color of his beige slacks. As he gazed at Gurney the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes. “Those remnants of chain links you mentioned in your message? They were distributed along the base of this wall, am I right?”

Some people were put off by Dr. Walter Thrasher’s mildly autistic avoidance of the social graces, but Gurney—for whom getting to the point was a virtue—was quite comfortable with the man’s approach.

“Right. Directly below the rust spots,” Gurney replied with a puzzled frown. “I thought you said you were coming here tomorrow. Did I lose a day somewhere?”

“No days lost. Just happened to be passing. Coming from White River, going to Albany, took a chance you might be home. Drove up to your barn, caught sight of your tractor, figured that’d be the site. Interesting. Very interesting.” As he was speaking he put down the trowel and scrambled with surprising agility up the short ladder out of the excavation.

“Interesting in what way?”

“Wouldn’t want to answer that prematurely. Depends on the nature of the artifacts. You mentioned baby teeth? And a knife?”

“As well as some glass, bits of rusted metal, hooks for stretching animal hides.”

There was a peculiar intensity in Thrasher’s magnified gaze. “No time to examine it all right now. Maybe just the knife and the teeth. A quick look?”

Gurney shrugged. “No problem.” He thought of asking Thrasher for a ride up to the house, but the chance of the low-slung A7 bottoming out in the pasture ruts was too great. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”

Thrasher was standing by his car when Gurney returned with the knife and the tinted-glass jar containing the teeth.

Thrasher gave the knife, especially what appeared to be a fingernail-sized crescent moon carved in the black handle, a close but rapid inspection. Ending with a nod and a grunt of satisfaction, he handed it back to Gurney. He took the tinted jar with greater care, almost a kind of trepidation, at first holding it up to examine the contents through the glass, then removing the top and peering in at the tiny teeth. He slowly tipped the jar, carefully letting just one tooth slide out onto his palm. He tilted his hand this way and that to view it from different angles. Then he tipped it back into the jar and replaced the lid.

“Would it be all right if I borrowed this for a day or two? Need my microscope to verify what we’ve got here.”

“You’re not sure they’re baby teeth?”

“Oh, they’re definitely baby teeth. No doubt about that.”

“Well, then . . .”

Thrasher hesitated, looked momentarily troubled. “There could be more than one way they ended up in this jar. Until I take a closer look, let’s leave it at that.”

11

There were two paths from the barn up to the house. The more direct one that they used as a driveway went up through the pasture. The roundabout one meandered through the woods below the pasture, then curved up around it to the far side of the henhouse and the bluestone patio.

Gurney chose the second route. He paid attention to the forest sights, sounds, scents—the rustlings and chirpings, the sweetness in the air, the tiny blue flowers among the lush ferns—trying to dispel a vague sense of uneasiness created by Thrasher’s parting comment.

As he was heading for the house by this alternate route, he heard a vehicle approaching on the town road. Soon he saw a small white car coming around the barn. It slowed and began to make its way haltingly up through the pasture.

It came to a stop forty or fifty feet shy of the side door, where Gurney’s Outback was parked. A woman emerged from the car and stood for a moment by its open door. Assuming it must be Kim Steele, Gurney started across the pasture toward her. He was about to call out when she got back in the car and tried to turn it around—an attempt that ended when a rear wheel sank into one of the pasture’s groundhog burrows.

He found her sobbing, hands gripping the steering wheel. Her dark curly hair was disarranged. Her face was drawn.

Gurney blinked, confused for a second or two by the fact that the woman in the car was part African American, which didn’t jibe with the mental image he’d constructed from the fact of her being married to an upstate white cop. Feeling some chagrin at the narrowness of his expectation—and the not-so-subtle prejudice lurking under it—he cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Steele?”

Her eyes had the exhausted red puffiness that comes from hours of crying.

“Mrs. Steele?”

She sniffled, her gaze fastened on the steering wheel. “Damn . . . stupid . . . car.”

“I can pull your car out of that hole with my tractor. Come up to the house. I’ll take care of your car for you. Okay?”

He was about to repeat his suggestion when she suddenly opened the door and stepped out. He noticed that her shirt was unevenly buttoned. She pulled a loose khaki jacket tightly around her despite the warmth of the day.

He led the way to the patio and gestured toward one of the chairs at a small metal cafe table. “Would you like something to drink? Water or coffee?”

She sat at the table and shook her head.

He sat in the chair opposite her. He saw grief, exhaustion, indecision, anxiety.

He spoke softly. “It’s hard to know who to trust, isn’t it?”

She blinked, looking at him now in a more focused way. “You’re a retired police officer?”

“I was a homicide detective with the NYPD. I took my pension after twenty-five years. My wife and I have been up here in Walnut Crossing for three years now.” He paused. “Do you want to tell me why you wanted to see me?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything.”

He smiled. “That may be a good thing.”

“Why?”

“I think doubt is a realistic approach to situations where there’s a lot at stake.”

He was thinking of the times he had felt baffled and how only by talking something out with Madeleine had he been able to decide what to do. He wondered if that was the kind of relationship Kim Steele had enjoyed with her husband. Maybe she’d always relied on their conversations to help resolve her doubts.

Tears began to make their way down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be wasting your time.”

“You’re not wasting my time.”

She stared at him.

He could see in her eyes the battle in her mind—and its sudden resolution.

She reached into the pocket of her big khaki jacket—which he realized was probably her husband’s, adding a poignant note to the way she wrapped herself in it. She pulled out a smartphone. After tapping a few icons, she extended it across the table so he could see the screen. When he reached for it, she pulled back.

“I’ll hold it,” she said. “Just read what it says.”

It was a text message. “Watch ur back. EZ nite for mfs to ice ur ass n blame the BDA.”

Gurney read it three times. He noted the date and time—the evening John Steele was killed, about an hour prior to the shooting.

“What is this?”

“John’s phone. I found that message on it.”

“How come you still have it? Didn’t the crime-scene team want it?”

“It wasn’t at the crime scene. On duty they use BlackBerrys. This is John’s personal phone. It was at home.”

“When did you find the message?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Have you shown it to the police?”

She shook her head.

“Because . . .”

“The message. What it says.”

“What does it mean to you?”

Although she was sitting in the direct sunlight, she wrapped herself more tightly in the jacket. “He was being warned to watch his back. Doesn’t that suggest someone who was supposed to be on his side really wasn’t?”

“You’re thinking someone in the department?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Your husband wouldn’t be the first cop to have enemies. Sometimes the best cops have the worst enemies.”

She met his gaze, nodding with conviction. “That’s who John was. The best. The best person on earth. Totally honest.”

“Do you know if he was doing anything that less honest people in the department might have found threatening?”

She took a deep breath. “John didn’t like to talk about work at home. Once in a while I’d overhear something when he was on the phone. Comments about past cases with questionable evidence, deaths in custody, throwdowns. You know what they are, right?”

He nodded. Some cops wouldn’t go anywhere without one—an easily concealed, unregistered, untraceable pistol that could be dropped next to the body of someone the cop had shot, as “evidence” that the victim had been armed.

“How did he know which cases to look into?”

She hesitated, appeared uncomfortable. “Maybe he had some contacts?”

“People who pointed him in the direction of specific cases?”

“Maybe.”

“People in the Black Defense Alliance?”

“I don’t really know.”

She was a lousy liar. That was okay. It was the good liars he worried about.

“Did he ever tell you how high up in the department the problems might go?”

She said nothing. Her deer-in-the-headlights expression was answer enough.

“What made you come to me?”

“I read about that Peter Pan murder case you solved last year, how you exposed the police corruption behind it.”

The explanation sounded real, as far as it went.

“How did you know where to find me?”

The deer-in-the-headlights look was back. It told him that she couldn’t tell the truth but wouldn’t tell a lie. It was, he thought, the reaction of an honest person in a difficult spot.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll let that go for now. What would you like me to do for you?”

She answered without hesitation. “I want you to find out who killed my husband.”

12

While Kim Steele waited on the patio, Gurney got his tractor from the excavation site, pulled her car from the collapsed groundhog burrow, and got it oriented in the right direction. He promised to look into the White River situation. As she was leaving, she shook hands with him, and for a couple of seconds a smile relieved the desolation in her eyes.

Once she was safely on the town road, he went into the house, opened a new document on his computer, and, from memory, typed in the text from her husband’s phone. Then he called Jack Hardwick and left on his voicemail a summary of what Kim had told him and a request that he use his contacts to dig a little deeper into the backgrounds of Dell Beckert and his number two, Judd Turlock. Then, for good measure, he emailed Hardwick a copy of the text message.

Next he took his cell phone out to the patio where the signal was strongest, activated its Record function, and called Sheridan Kline’s private number.

The man picked up on the second ring, oozing a warmth that didn’t quite conceal an edge of anxiety. “Dave! Great to hear from you. So, tell me, where do we stand?”

“That depends on how accurately I understood your invitation. Let me spell out what I’m agreeing to: full LEO authority, credentials, and protections as a member of your investigation staff; investigatorial autonomy, with a sole reporting line to you personally; and compensation at the standard hourly rate for senior contract investigators. Contract is to be open-ended, cancelable by either party at any time. Have I got it right?”

“You recording this?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No problem at all. I’ll have the contract prepared. There’s a CSMT meeting this afternoon at White River Police Headquarters. Critical Situation Management Team. Three thirty. Meet me in the parking lot at three fifteen. You can sign the contract, attend the meeting, get off to a running start.”

“See you there.”

As Gurney ended the call, a chicken in the pen by the asparagus patch let out a startling squawk. It was a sound that still struck him with the visceral impact of an alarm, even though he’d learned during his year of chicken tending that the sounds they made rarely had any decipherable purpose. Utterances that resembled cries of distress never seemed to coincide with the presence of threats of any kind.

Still, he ambled over to the pen to assure himself that all was well.

The big Rhode Island Red was standing in that perfect chicken pose, presenting the classic profile featured in country-craft art. It reminded him that he needed to sweep out the coop, change the water, and refill the feeder.

While Madeleine always seemed pleased by the variety of her roles in life, Gurney’s reaction to his diverse responsibilities was less positive. A therapist had long ago advised him to actively be everything he was—a husband to his wife, a father to his son, a son to his parents, a fellow worker to his workmates, a friend to his friends. He insisted that balance and peace in one’s life depended on participating in each part of that life. Gurney had no argument with the logic of this. As a guiding principle it felt true and right. But he recoiled from the practice of it. For all its horrors and perils, his detective work was the only part of his life that came naturally to him. Being a husband, a father, a son, a friend—all of these required a special effort, perhaps even a special kind of courage, that tracking down murderers did not.

Of course, he knew in his heart that being a man meant more than being a cop, and leading a good life often meant swimming against the current of one’s inclinations. He also felt the nudging of an axiom his therapist was fond of repeating: The only time a man can do the right thing is right now. So, embracing a sense of duty and purpose, he got the utility broom from the mudroom and headed for the chicken coop.

With an energizing sense of accomplishment from having dealt with the dirt, the water, and the feed, he decided to go on to another maintenance task that needed doing—the mowing of the broad path that encircled the high pasture. That activity did promise certain distinct pleasures—the bursts of fragrance rising from the patches of wild mint, the view from the top of the pasture out over the unspoiled green hills, the sweet air, the cerulean sky.

At the end of the pasture path he came to the trail above the pond that led to his excavation. Although the shaded grass there was slower growing, he decided to mow it as well, proceeding under the canopy of cherry trees until he arrived at the excavation itself. He stopped there, picturing the artifacts he’d uncovered and pondering Thrasher’s strange comment on the teeth. Something told him it would be best to put it out of his mind and finish the mowing job. But that idea was replaced by another—to spend a few minutes digging down a few additional inches along the foundation, just to see if anything of interest might turn up.

His tractor with the mini-backhoe attachment was still up by the house, but there was a spade by the excavation. He went down the little ladder and began prying shovelfuls of soil away from the base of the stone wall that Thrasher had been probing. Working his way along it, finding nothing but more soil and suspecting that he was becoming a trifle obsessive, he decided to return to his mowing. Then, as he turned over a final shovelful, he noted something solid. He took it at first to be just a hardened lump of reddish-brown clay, but when he picked it up and worked it in his hands he discovered embedded in the clay a rusted piece of iron, thick and curved. As he dislodged more of the caked soil, he saw that it was a circle of iron, perhaps three inches in diameter, with a thick chain link attached to the side of it.

While he realized that it could have a variety of uses, one in particular was obvious. It looked very much like some form of shackle—like half of a primitive set of handcuffs.

13

The westbound drive to White River consisted of a gradual descent from modest mountains and sloping meadows through rolling hills and broad valleys into a region of shabby strip malls. The final symbol of the area’s economic depression was the abandoned White River stone quarry, made famous by the sensational news coverage of an explosion that killed six passing motorists, bankrupted the company, and led to the unnerving discovery that someone had made off with more than a hundred sticks of dynamite.

Gurney’s GPS led him into the center of the cheerless city on an avenue that bordered the partly burned and looted Grinton section. At the end of the avenue stood White River’s police headquarters. A world apart from the picturesquely dilapidated barns and tilting silos of Walnut Crossing, the building was constructed of gray-beige brick in the boxy style of the nineteen sixties. Its treeless, grassless setting was as sterile as its aluminum-framed windows and concrete parking lot, both the color of dust.

As he reached the entrance to the lot, a man sitting on what appeared to be a small furniture dolly rolled by, propelling himself along the sidewalk with his gloved hands. He was wearing a grimy army-surplus jacket and a baseball hat. Looking closer, Gurney could see that the man was legless below the knees, and the gloves were actually oven mitts. An American flag hung limply from the top of an old broomstick that was affixed to the back of the dolly. With each thrust of his hands the man cried out repetitively in a voice as abrasive as a rusty hinge, “Sunshine . . . sunshine . . . sunshine . . .”

When Gurney drove into the lot, the first vehicle to catch his eye was Kline’s gleaming black Navigator. In a row marked Reserved, it occupied the space nearest the building’s front door. He parked next to it, got out of his car, and was struck immediately by the odor of smoke, burned plastic, wet ashes.

The Navigator’s tinted rear window descended and Kline peered out at him, at first with a look of satisfaction, then concern. “Everything all right?”

“Bad smell.”

“Arson. Pointless stupidity. Get in. I have your contract.”

Gurney slid into the back seat across from Kline—a luxuriously isolated environment of plush leather and soft lighting.

“High-class vehicle,” said Gurney.

“No cost to the taxpayer.”

“Confiscation?”

“Forfeiture of property employed in the facilitation of drug trafficking.”

Perhaps interpreting Gurney’s silence as a criticism of the controversial practice of seizing an accused individual’s assets prior to trial, Kline added, “The bleeding hearts like to whine about the tiny number of cases where there’s some inconvenience to a guy who ends up beating the rap. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred we’re just transferring ill-gotten goods from scumbags to law enforcement. Perfectly legal and personally satisfying.”

He clicked open an attaché case on the seat between them, pulled out two copies of the contract, and handed them to Gurney with a pen. “I’ve signed these. You sign both, give me one, and keep one for yourself.”

Reading through the contract, he was surprised to find no surprises—no subtle changes from the provisions he’d demanded on the phone. Oddly, this straightforwardness aroused his suspicion. He was sure everything Kline did was some sort of stratagem. Honesty would always be a route to something more important. But he could hardly object to the contract on that basis.

“So, about this meeting, is there an agenda?”

“Just to share the known facts. Establish priorities. Application of resources. Media guidelines. Get everyone in sync.”

“Everyone being who?”

“Dell Beckert; Beckert’s right hand, Judd Turlock; chief investigating officer, Mark Torres; Mayor Dwayne Shucker; Sheriff Goodson Cloutz.” He paused. “Word of warning about Cloutz, so you’re not taken by surprise. He’s blind.”

“Blind?”

“As a bat, supposedly. Wily country boy who talks like a hillbilly. Runs the county jail. Always gets reelected, unopposed the last three times.”

“Any particular reason he’s part of this so-called team?”

“No idea.”

“They all expecting me?”

“I gave Beckert a heads-up. Left it up to him to fill in the others.”

“Any liaisons to outside agencies? FBI? State police? AG’s office?”

“We’re keeping the FBI out unless we’re forced to let them in. Beckert has his own back channels to the state police, to be used at his discretion. As for the AG’s office, they have more than they can handle with the new issues around the AG’s death.”

“What new issues?”

“Some embarrassing questions. The fact that he died in a Vegas hotel room creates speculation. Prurient suggestions.” He grimaced, glanced at his Rolex, then at the contract in Gurney’s lap. “It’s meeting time. You want to sign that so we can go in?”

“One more question.”

“What?”

“As I’m sure you know, I met with Kim Steele this morning. She gave me her perspective on her husband’s death, along with the evidence she found on his phone.” He paused, watching Kline’s face. “I wondered who sent her to me. Then I realized it had to be you.”

Kline’s eyes narrowed. “Why me?”

“Because what she told me was a direct answer to the question I’d raised with you—about what you were leaving out of your description of the situation. The text message on Steele’s phone and its possible implications. Kim was afraid to take it to the local police, who she didn’t trust, so she took it to you. But it was too touchy a matter for you to share with me as long as I was outside the tent. But if the victim’s wife told me about it on her own, you’d be clear of any blowback. Plus, a visit from a grieving widow would put pressure on me to accept your offer.”

Kline stared straight ahead, said nothing.

Gurney signed both copies of the contract, handed one to Kline, and slipped the other into his jacket pocket.

The inside of White River Police Headquarters was a predictably drab reflection of the outside—with buzzing fluorescent lights, stained acoustic ceiling tiles, and the smell of a disinfectant whose ersatz pine aroma was mixing with the sourness of whatever was being disinfected.

Kline ushered him quickly through a security checkpoint and led him down a long corridor with colorless cinder-block walls. At the end of the corridor they passed through an open door into an unlit conference room. Kline felt for a light switch and pressed it. Fluorescent tubes flickered on.

The wall opposite the door was devoted mainly to a wide window over which blinds had been lowered. A long conference table stood in the center of the room. On the wall to the left was a whiteboard on which CSMT 3:30 had been printed with a black marker. According to a circular clock above the board, it was now 3:27. Looking to his right, Gurney was surprised to see the chair at the end of the table was occupied by a thin man with dark glasses. A white cane lay on the table in front of him.

Kline turned with a start. “Goodson! I didn’t see you sitting there.”

“But now you do, Sheridan. Course I can’t see you. Bein’ kept in the dark’s my natural state. It’s the cross I bear, to be forever at the mercy of my sighted companions.”

“Nobody in this part of the world is less in the dark than you, Goodson.”

The thin man cackled. The exchange had the tone of a jokey ritual that had long since lost what humor it may once have contained.

Footsteps approached in the corridor, accompanied by the sound of someone blowing his nose. A short fat man stepped into the room, recognizable to Gurney from the press conference as Mayor Dwayne Shucker, holding a handkerchief to his face.

“Goddamnit, Shucks,” said the blind man, “sounds like you got yourself pollinated.”

The mayor stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his too-small sport jacket, took a seat at the opposite end of the table, and yawned. “Nice to see you, Sheriff.” He yawned again, looked at Kline. “Hey, there, Sheridan. Leaner and meaner than ever. Meant to ask you at that press affair—you still running them marathons?”

“Never did, Dwayne, just the occasional 5K.”

“Five Ks, fifty Ks, all the same to me.” Sniffling again, he gave Gurney a once-over. “You’re our DA’s new investigator?”

“Right.”

The thin man at the other end of the table raised his blind man’s cane in a kind of salute. “I knew there was another party in the room, just wondered when you’d make yourself known. Gurney, is it?”

“Right.”

“Man of action. I’ve heard about your exploits. I hope our modest level of mayhem up here in the backwoods don’t bore you.”

Gurney said nothing. Kline looked uncomfortable.

The man replaced his cane carefully on the table and produced a lizardy smile. “Seriously, Mr. Gurney, tell me—what’s your big-city impression of our little problem here?”

Gurney shrugged. “My impression is that ‘little’ might be the wrong word.”

“Tell me, what word would you—”

He was interrupted by the energetic entry into the room of two men. Gurney recognized the tall one in a crisply tailored dark suit as Dell Beckert. He was carrying a slim briefcase. The other man, presumably Judd Turlock, in a nondescript sport jacket and slacks, combined the body of a defensive lineman with the impassive face of a mobster in a mug shot.

Beckert nodded to Kline, then turned to Gurney. “I’m Dell Beckert. Welcome. You’ve met everyone?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “We’re missing Mark Torres, CIO on the homicide. He’s been delayed a few minutes. But let’s get started.” He strode around to the other side of the table, chose the center chair, placed his briefcase squarely in front of it, and sat down. “Can we get some more light in here?”

Judd Turlock stepped behind Beckert’s chair and raised the blinds, carefully and evenly. Gurney, in the seat across from Beckert, was struck by the stark composition of the view framed by the picture window.

A black macadam road, bordered by chain-link fences topped with razor wire, extended out from the police headquarters to another colorless brick building, several times larger but with narrower windows. A black-and-white sign identified it as the Haldon C. Eppert Detention Center, official name of the county lockup. Looming on a rise a few hundred yards beyond it were the massive concrete wall and guard towers of what Gurney recognized as the White River Correctional Facility, the state prison named after its city host. With this bleak tableau serving as a backdrop for the man at the center of the table, it occurred to Gurney that if someone in a fanciful moment should consider those incarceration facilities as a kind of hell, then Beckert had positioned himself as hell’s gatekeeper.

“To keep us on track we have an agenda.” Beckert reached into his briefcase and pulled out some papers. Turlock passed one to each man at the table. Beckert added, “Orderly process is important—especially when we’re confronting an insane level of disorder.”

Gurney scanned the terse list of topics. It was orderly, but revealed little.

“We’ll start with the RAM-CAM videos from the Willard Park homicide site,” said Beckert. “The digital files are being—”

He stopped at the sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor. A moment later a slim, young Hispanic man entered the room, nodded apologetically all around, and took a seat at the table between Gurney and the sheriff. Turlock slid a copy of the agenda across the table, which the young man examined with a thoughtful frown. Gurney extended his hand to him.

“I’m Dave Gurney, with the DA’s office.”

“I know.” He smiled, looking more like an earnest college kid than the chief investigating officer on a major homicide. “I’m Mark Torres. White River PD.”

With a flicker of irritation, Beckert continued, “The original digital files are being enhanced at the forensic computer lab. These will serve our purposes for now.”

He nodded at Turlock, who tapped a few icons on a small tablet computer. A large video monitor high on the wall behind the sheriff came to life.

The first segment of the video was a longer version of the clip Gurney had seen at Marv and Trish Gelter’s house. The extra length consisted of several minutes of additional footage prior to the actual shooting—the period during which Officer Steele was walking back and forth on the sidewalk at the edge of the park, his attention on the crowd. At the side of the crowd, as if preparing to charge into it on his great stone horse, was the larger-than-life statue of Colonel Ezra Willard.

Perhaps because there was less distraction here than at the Gelters’, or because this portion of the video was longer, Gurney noticed something he’d originally missed—a tiny red dot moving on the back of Steele’s head. The dot followed Steele for at least two minutes prior to the fatal shot, stopping when he stopped, moving with him when he moved, centering itself on the base of his skull just below the edge of his protective helmet. The fact that it was obviously the projected dot of a rifle’s laser sight gave Gurney a sick feeling.

Then the bullet struck, knocking Steele facedown onto the sidewalk. Even though Gurney knew it was coming, he flinched. The reassuring words of a wise man he’d once known came back to him: Flinching at another’s injury is the essence of empathy, and empathy is the essence of humanity.

At a gesture from Beckert, Turlock stopped the video and switched off the monitor.

The silence in the room was broken by Mayor Shucker. “The damage being done to the businesspeople of this city by that damn RAM-CAM video is just awful. They run the damn thing over and over. Makes our little city look like a war zone. A place to avoid. We have restaurants, B and Bs, the museum, kayak rentals—the tourist season about to start, and not a damn customer in sight. This media thing is killing us.”

Beckert showed no reaction. He looked toward the opposite end of the table. “Goodson? I know the video’s already been described to you in detail. Comments?”

Cloutz fingered his white cane with an unpleasant smile. “I do appreciate Shucks’s business concerns. Natural for a man invested in the economy of the city to feel that way. On the other hand, I do see some value in givin’ folks around the state a glimpse of the barbarian shit we’re facin’ here. Folks need to see it to appreciate the steps we need to take.”

Gurney thought he detected a nod of agreement from Beckert. “Other comments?”

Kline shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

“How about our new investigator?”

Gurney shrugged, his voice casual. “Why do you think it took the shooter so long?”

Beckert frowned. “Long?”

“The dot from the laser sight was on Steele’s head for quite a while.”

Beckert shrugged. “I doubt that it matters. Let’s move on to the next agenda item, the ME’s report. Copies of the full report will be available shortly, but Dr. Thrasher has provided me with the salient points.”

He removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase and read aloud: “‘In re John Steele, DOA, Mercy Hospital. Cause of death: catastrophic damage to medulla oblongata, cerebellum, and posterior cerebral artery, leading to immediate failure of heart and respiratory functions. Damage initiated by the passage of a bullet through the occipital bone at the base of the skull, through critical brain and brain-stem regions, emerging through the lacrimal bone structure.’”

He replaced the paper in his briefcase. “Dr. Thrasher further estimated, informally, that the bullet was probably a thirty-caliber high-energy FMJ. That estimate has now been confirmed by preliminary ballistic analysis of the bullet recovered at the Willard Park site. Any questions?”

Shucker sniffled. “What the hell’s an FMJ?”

“Full metal jacket. Keeps the bullet from expanding or fragmenting, so it passes through the target intact. Plus side is that it preserves the rifling marks for ballistics, so we can match the bullet to the weapon that fired it.”

“Assuming you recover the weapon?”

“Assuming we recover it. Any other questions?”

Kline steepled his fingers. “Any progress finding the shooter site?”

Beckert looked at Torres. “Ball’s in your court, Mark.”

The young CIO looked pleased at the handoff. “We’re narrowing the possibilities, sir. Aligning the position of the victim’s head in the video frame that captured the impact with the position of the recovered bullet gave us a general vector for the bullet’s path. We’ve laid that vector out on a map of the area to identify possible sites. Priority goes to those farthest from the victim, since the shot wasn’t heard at the site, and no audible traces were picked up by the RAM-CAMs. We have patrol officers out now doing door-to-doors.”

Cloutz was idly stroking his cane. “And you ain’t gettin’ diddly-shit cooperation from our minority citizens. Am I right?”

Gurney noted that the sheriff’s fingernails were nicely manicured.

Torres frowned, his jaw muscles tightening. “The level of cooperation so far has been uneven.”

Kline continued. “Apart from the door-to-doors, Mark, what else is under way?”

Torres leaned forward. “We’re collecting and reviewing video data from the security, traffic, and media cameras in the area. A careful examination of that data is likely to—”

Mayor Shucker broke in. “What I want to know is, do we have any real leads on them sons of bitches on the run? That’s gotta have priority. Catch ’em, incarcerate ’em, and put this goddamn nightmare to rest.”

There was a hard edge to Beckert’s voice. “Jordan and Tooker are at the top of our list. We’re going to get them. That’s a personal guarantee.”

Shucker seemed mollified.

Kline steepled his fingers again. “Can we tie them directly to the shooting?”

“We know from reliable informers that they were involved. And we just heard from a credible source that a third person may have been involved along with them—possibly a white male.”

Kline appeared startled. “I didn’t think the BDA had white members.”

“They don’t. Not technically. But they do have some white enablers, even financial supporters.”

“Leftie loonies, need to have their goddamn heads examined,” interjected the sheriff.

Kline looked pained.

Beckert exhibited no reaction at all. “We hope to identify that third person and have Jordan and Tooker in custody within the next forty-eight hours. And we expect that Mark and his people will have conclusive physical evidence very soon—from the shooter site, from BDA materials seized in the raid, and from cooperating BDA members.”

“Speakin’ of which,” said the sheriff, “I would hope that Sheridan here will be askin’ the judge to set bail high enough on our BDA detainees so they don’t go flyin’ out free as fuckin’ birds. More time we have them in custody, better our chances of gettin’ what we need.”

Gurney knew what the sheriff was talking about. He’d no doubt already separated the detainees from each other and put them in cells with jailhouse snitches who might be eager to trade incriminating information for sentence reductions. It was one of the rottenest parts of a rotten system.

Beckert glanced at his watch. “Any further questions?”

Gurney spoke with bland curiosity. “Do you think there’s any chance your hypothesis might not be correct?”

“What hypothesis?”

“That the Black Defense Alliance is responsible for the shooting.”

Beckert stared at him. “What makes you ask that?”

“I’ve made some mistakes myself by getting too sure too soon. I stopped asking questions because I thought I had all the answers.”

“Is this a general concern, or do you have a specific pebble in your shoe?”

“I had a visit this morning from Kim Steele, John Steele’s widow.”

“And?”

“She showed me an odd text that was sent to her husband’s personal phone the night he was shot. I made a note of it.” Gurney brought it up on his phone and slid it across the table.

Beckert read through the text, frowning. “You’ve seen this, Sheridan?”

“Dave discussed it with me before we came in.”

It struck Gurney that wielding the truth deceptively was one of Kline’s talents.

Beckert passed the phone on to Turlock, who gazed expressionlessly at the message and then passed it back.

The sheriff spoke up in an oily voice. “Could someone kindly enlighten me?”

Beckert read aloud from the screen with obvious contempt for the street-slanginess of the text. “ ‘Watch ur back. EZ nite for mfs to ice ur ass n blame the BDA.’ ”

“Hell’s that all about?”

Ignoring the question, Beckert gave Gurney a long look. “Did you take possession of Steele’s phone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Mrs. Steele wasn’t ready to hand it over, and I had no standing to demand it.”

Beckert tilted his head speculatively. “Why would she bring this matter to you?”

“She referred to some work I’d done on another case.”

“What work?”

“I helped exonerate a woman who’d been framed for murder by a corrupt cop.”

“What relevance does that have here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Really? None at all?”

“I’m determined to keep an open mind.”

Beckert held Gurney’s gaze for a long moment. “We need that phone.”

“I know.”

“Will she surrender it willingly, or do we have to hit her with a warrant?”

“I’ll talk to her. If I can persuade her, that would be a better route.”

“You do that. In the meantime Judd will get a warrant. In case we need it.”

Turlock, who had been flexing his fingers and examining his knuckles, nodded.

“Okay,” said Beckert. “That wraps it up for now. Just a final word. Procedure is key. Lack of orderly procedure produces chaos, chaos produces failure, and failure is not an option. All communications will be routed through Judd here. He’ll be the hub of the wheel. Everything flows in to him, and everything flows out from him. Any questions?”

There were none.

It struck Gurney as a strange arrangement, since that central role normally would be filled by the CIO, in this case Mark Torres. And the tone of bureaucratic rigidity seemed like anything but a plus. But this need for control was obviously coming from a central point in Beckert’s personality, and Gurney didn’t want to strain his relationship with the man any further by probing the matter. At least not for the moment.

14

Kline and Gurney left the building together, saying nothing until they reached their cars. Kline glanced around like a man wary of being overheard.

“I want to clarify something, David. I don’t want you thinking I’m being less than totally honest with you. In the meeting you explained that you couldn’t ask Kim Steele for the phone because at that point you had no official standing in the case. Well, that’s exactly why I couldn’t tell you she’d come to me. You can understand the sensitivity of the thing.”

“The same sensitivity that kept you from telling Beckert about it?”

“I was delaying slightly on that—mainly out of respect for Kim’s concerns. But one thing leads to another. The best of intentions can create problems.”

“What problems?”

“Well, the simple fact of any delay at all. If that came to light, it could create the impression that I shared Kim’s mistrust of the department. That’s why I chose to handle it the way I did—not out of any desire to mislead you. By the way, how you handled the phone business in the meeting—that was ideal.”

“It was the truth.”

“Of course. And the truth can be very useful. The more truth, within reason, the better.” There were beads of sweat on Kline’s forehead.

From their first meeting back at the start of the Mellery case, Gurney was aware that there were two distinct layers in Kline’s construction: the veneer of a confident politician with his eye on the gold ring and, beneath it, a frightened little man. What struck Gurney now was the increasing visibility of the fear.

Kline looked around the lot again and checked his watch. “You see or hear anything in that meeting that surprised you?”

“The possible involvement of a third person was interesting.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Too soon to say.”

“What’s your next step?”

“I’d like more information.”

“Like what?”

“You want me to email you a list?”

“Easier this way.” He took out his phone and tapped a couple of icons. “It’s recording.”

“I’d like to see the incident report; crime-scene photos; copies of the video we just saw; ballistics report; victim bio; Jordan’s and Tooker’s criminal records; anything you can pry out of Beckert regarding his informants; and I’d like to know what’s behind his obvious hatred for Jordan and Tooker.”

Kline shut off the Record function of his phone. “That last one I can answer right now. Beckert’s strengths as a law enforcer come with a passion for maintaining order. He sees Jordan, Tooker, the whole BDA organization as agents of anarchy. Dell Beckert and the BDA are like matter and antimatter—a huge explosion waiting to happen.”

As he began his drive home, Gurney had two things on his mind. The first was Kline’s obvious anxiety. It suggested that he mistrusted the handling of the case by the department or by Beckert himself. He wondered if the source of that mistrust ran deeper than the phone text. The second was the motorcycle that had been maintaining a consistent position about a hundred yards behind the Outback since he’d left White River.

He slowed from seventy to sixty and noted that the motorcycle did the same.

He increased his speed from sixty to seventy-five with a similar result.

A few minutes later, as he passed a sign indicating a rest stop one mile ahead, the motorcycle accelerated into the left lane, rapidly coming abreast of the Outback. The rider, unidentifiable in a helmet with a face shield, extended his hand—holding a gold detective’s shield—and gestured toward the upcoming exit ramp.

The rest area turned out to be nothing more than a row of parking spaces in front of a small brick building that housed a pair of restrooms. The area was isolated from the highway by a line of overgrown shrubbery. As the motorcycle pulled in and stopped a couple of spaces away, the loneliness of the place prompted Gurney to move his Beretta handgun from his glove compartment to his jacket pocket.

When the rider stepped off the machine and removed his helmet, Gurney was surprised to see that it was Mark Torres.

“Sorry if you thought I was following you. I live out this way, my wife and I, in Larvaton. The next exit.”

“And?”

“I wanted to talk to you. I’m not sure whether it’s okay to be speaking to you directly, I mean privately like this. I don’t like going outside channels—with everything supposed to be going through Deputy Chief Turlock—but then I decided it would be sort of okay, since we’ve met before.”

“We have?”

“You probably wouldn’t remember, but I attended a seminar you gave at the academy a couple of years ago on investigative procedures. It was really amazing.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, but . . .”

“I should get to the point.” He looked like the idea was causing him physical pain. “The thing is . . . I kind of feel in this case like I’m in a little over my head.”

Gurney waited as a series of heavy trucks roared by on the far side of the bushes. “In what way?”

“I just got promoted from patrol to the detective bureau six months ago. To be put in this position on a case like this, with so much at stake . . .” He shook his head. “To be honest, I’m a little uncomfortable.” The hint of an accent was creeping into his voice.

“With the responsibility? Or something else?”

Torres hesitated. “Well, it’s sort of like I’m the case CIO and sort of not. Chief Beckert seems to be running it. Like this thing of staying focused on Jordan and Tooker, like he’s positive they’re guilty. But I don’t see enough evidence to be that positive about it myself. Is this a big mistake, talking to you directly about this?”

“That depends on what you want from me.”

“Maybe just your phone number? I’d love to be able to bounce things off you. Unless that’s a problem.”

Gurney saw no reason to refuse, regardless of how rigid Beckert might be about the flow of information. He shrugged and gave the young detective his cell number.

Torres thanked him, and then was gone—leaving Gurney to muse over the encounter. Like everything else in the case, it felt not quite right. He wondered if the secrecy surrounding the request was the product of Torres’s insecurity, the White River police culture, or something nastier altogether.

His musings were interrupted by the passing shadows of a pair of vultures circling over the weedy field adjacent to the restrooms. It was interesting, he thought, that vultures, nurturing themselves only from the bodies of dead animals, harming no living thing, had become in popular parlance predators devouring the defenseless. More evidence that the popular mind was rarely distracted by the truth.

These musings were interrupted in turn by the ringing of his phone.

It was Hardwick.

“Gurney here.”

“Damn! That text you sent me from Steele’s phone? Could be a legit warning. Or something pretending to be a legit warning. Or some other fucking thing entirely. You know where the call came from?”

“We can pursue that when we get possession of the phone from Steele’s wife. But I’m sure the pursuit will dead-end at an anonymous prepaid cell. You have anything on Beckert or Turlock?”

“A bit more than before. I called in a favor from a guy at NYSP headquarters with access to old recruitment archives—the original forms with the CV data provided by applicants. Beckert’s and Turlock’s applications reveal a very early connection. They both attended the same military prep school in Butris County, Virginia. Beckert was a year ahead of Turlock, but it was a small school, and they would have trained together.”

“Interesting.”

“Also interesting is a notation on Turlock’s application indicating that he had legal problems back at that school. ‘Juvenile court hearing, proceedings sealed. Applicant explanation, supported by Butris County sheriff’s affidavit, deemed adequate for application to proceed at this time.’ That’s all the notation says.”

The vulture shadows passed again across the pavement and out across the scraggly field. “Hmm. Did Beckert have any problems there?”

“If so, nobody noticed. Top of his class every year. Clean as Butris County spring water.”

“Be nice to know what Turlock got banged up for.”

“We’d need a hell of a good cause to persuade a Virginia judge to open the sealed juvie file of a deputy police chief. And as of now we have no cause at all.”

“Be nice to find one.”

“For a guy who’s not sure he wants to get involved, you sound pretty damn involved.”

Gurney waited for another noisy convoy of trucks to pass. “One little peculiarity seems to lead to another, that’s all.”

“Like what?”

“Like the relationship Kline has with Beckert. Kline describes him as a law-and-order god. Even told me in a worshipful tone that Beckert is married to the governor’s cousin.”

“So?”

“So why doesn’t he trust this paragon of justice?”

“You don’t think he does?”

“I think something about Beckert’s approach to this homicide has Kline running scared.”

“The fuck you think is going on?”

“I don’t know. Something to do with Beckert’s plan to run for attorney general?”

Hardwick let out a braying laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Something I just heard. Latest rumor is that the former AG’s passing on to his heavenly reward in a Vegas hotel was more colorful than first revealed. Seems there was a hooker trapped under the fat fucker’s three-hundred-pound corpse.”

“This has some relevance to Beckert?”

“It dumps the former AG’s character into the shitter, which is a plus for Mr. Law-and-Order. Clean new broom to sweep out the nasty crap.”

Gurney thought about this for a moment. “You told me the other day that Beckert’s first wife died of a drug overdose. You have anything more on that?”

“There was no legal case, so no case records. The fuck would that have to do with anything anyway?”

“No idea. I’m just asking questions.”

When Gurney arrived home he found Geraldine Mirkle’s yellow Beetle parked by the asparagus patch. He was led by the sound of female laughter to the patio.

Geraldine and Madeleine were doubled over. Finally Madeleine got hold of herself and said, “Welcome home, sweetheart. Gerry was just describing an encounter with a client.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, you have no idea!” said Geraldine, her round face a picture of glee. “I’ve got to be going now. Buford gets a little crazy if he doesn’t get his dinner on time.” She stood up, surprisingly nimble for a rotund woman, and hurried off to her Beetle. As she was fitting herself into the driver’s seat she called back, “Thanks for the tea, my dear.” With a burst of giggles she drove off.

Madeleine responded to Gurney’s quizzical expression with a dismissive little wave of her hand. “Just a bit of dark clinic humor. Hard to explain. You had to be there.” She wiped her face again and cleared her throat. “I thought we’d have dinner out here this evening. The air is pure heaven.”

He shrugged. “Fine with me.”

She went into the house and came back ten minutes later with place mats, silverware, and two large bowls brimming with her favorite salad of cold shrimp, avocado, diced tomatoes, red-leaf lettuce, and crumbled blue cheese.

They were both hungry and hardly spoke until they were finished. The four chickens were pursuing their own daylong meal, pecking in the grass around the edges of the patio.

“Buford is her cat,” said Madeleine, putting down her fork.

“I thought it was her husband.”

“Hasn’t got a husband. Seems happy enough without one.”

After a pause Gurney launched into a summary of all that had transpired that day, including his meeting with Kline in the parking lot.

“The more he tells me how open and honest he’s being with me, the less I believe it. So I guess I need to make a decision.”

Madeleine said nothing, just cocked her head and eyed him incredulously.

“You think my involvement is a bad idea?” he asked.

“A bad idea? Is it a bad idea to let yourself be used in a murder investigation by a man you think is lying to you? To put your life in the hands of a man you don’t trust? My God, David, on what planet would that be considered a good idea?”

Putting his life in Kline’s hands might be an overly dramatic way of looking at it, but she had a point. “I’ll sleep on it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

In his own mind he was inclined to continue his investigation, at least for a while. What he intended to ‘sleep on’ was his relationship with Kline.

She gazed at him for a long moment. Then she gathered up their salad bowls and forks and carried them into the house.

He took out his phone and looked up the number Kim Steele had given him. The call went to her voicemail. He left a message saying it would be helpful for him to have her husband’s phone with whatever digital information might be stored in it. He avoided using language that sounded peremptory. He knew his best chance of getting her agreement lay in giving her the option of refusing.

Then he sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to put the jumble of the day behind him. But his mind kept going back to the unusual power dynamic of the White River meeting—Beckert clearly being the man in charge, despite being outranked by the three elected officials at the table—the mayor, the district attorney, and the blind sheriff.

He was still sitting there on the patio half an hour later, trying to relax in the sweetly scented spring breezes, when he heard Madeleine stepping back onto the patio. He opened his eyes and saw that she was fresh from a shower . . . hair still damp, barefoot, wearing only panties and a tee shirt.

She smiled. “I thought we should probably get to bed early.”

It proved to be a wonderful solution to his focus problem.

The next morning he awoke with a start. He’d been dreaming that he was lying in the bottom of his excavation, shackled by a black-iron chain to the foundation wall. A blind man in dark glasses was standing at the edge of the excavation, brandishing a long white cane. He slashed the cane viciously back and forth, each slash creating a high-pitched scream.

As Gurney came to his senses in the bed next to Madeleine, the screaming became the ringing of the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. He saw on the screen that the caller was Sheridan Kline.

He cleared his throat and pressed Talk.

“Gurney here.”

Kline’s voice was shrill. “About time you picked up.”

Gurney glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 7:34 AM. “Is there a problem?”

“An hour ago Dell Beckert got a call from the pastor of White River’s largest Episcopal church. He was concerned about Beckert’s statement on RAM News.”

“Meaning what?”

“It sounded to him like Beckert was saying that Jordan and Tooker were cop killers.”

“The pastor was upset by that?”

“Furious.”

“Because?”

“Because Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker just happened to have been meeting with him in the parish house at the time Steele was shot. Discussing ways to end the violence. Jesus! That’s why they left the demonstration early. Meaning they have what is known as a rock-solid alibi. They didn’t do it. Couldn’t have done it. Not unless we want to believe the most popular white pastor in White River is in the pocket of the BDA.”

“Okay. So they didn’t do it. They have an alibi. So what?”

“So what? So what? So they were just found. That’s so what.”

“Found?”

“Found. Dead.”

“What?”

“Stripped naked, tied to the jungle gym in the Willard Park playground, apparently beaten to death. In the goddamn playground!”