Emerging onto the windy tarmac, he was struck by the bizarre changeability of spring weather in the mountains of upstate New York. In the first chilly hour after dawn there was a bleak overcast, which was replaced two hours later by a perfect blue sky and warming bath of sunlight, which had now given way to racing clouds and swirling gusts of snowflakes.
He zipped up his nylon windbreaker, lowered his head, and hurried to his car, an aging but still functional Outback. He switched on the ignition and the heater, then checked his phone for messages. There was one, from Madeleine.
“Hi. Just got in from the clinic. There’s a message on our landline from a Mike Morgan, I assume the same Mike Morgan who used to be your partner? He wants you to call him back as soon as you can. If I’m not here when you get home, I’ll be at Deirdre Winkler’s. They have two baby alpacas I’m dying to see. I’ll be home for dinner. If you can, pick up some milk.”
Mike Morgan. Among the memories the name brought up, most were less than positive. One was indelible. It involved an event that created a unique link between them and resulted in Morgan being viewed as an NYPD hero—until the halo of heroism was overshadowed by the discovery of less commendable behavior.
The one time Madeleine had met him, she was less than charmed. And she’d expressed no regrets when Morgan, after partnering with Gurney for less than a year, was quietly forced out of the department.
His recollections were raising an uncomfortable question: What might Morgan want? He wondered about it for much of the fifty-minute trip home to Walnut Crossing.
As he drove up the two-mile-long dirt road from the county route to the hilltop property where he and Madeleine had been living since they moved from the city, he noted that the wind had abated and the snowflakes were falling more slowly. They coated the branches of the old apple trees along the road, the forsythia bushes between the pond and the barn, and the overgrown pasture between the barn and their farmhouse.
He parked in his usual spot by the mudroom door. As he was getting out of the car, a flock of yellow finches burst out of a snow-laden lilac bush by the feeders and flew across the pasture to the cherry copse. He walked quickly into the house, hung his windbreaker in the mudroom, passed through the big kitchen, and headed straight for the landline in the den.
He played Morgan’s message, making a note of the number. The man’s tone was tense, perhaps even fearful.
With more curiosity than appetite, he returned the call.
Morgan answered on the first ring.
“Dave! Thanks so much for getting back to me. I appreciate it. God, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”
“No significant problems. How about you?”
“Right now things are a little crazy. Actually, more than a little. That’s why I need to talk to you. Are you aware of my situation here?”
“I don’t even know where here is.”
“Right. Of course not. Ages since we spoke. I’m up in Larchfield. In fact, I’m the village police chief. Hard to believe, right?”
Gurney silently agreed. “Where’s Larchfield?”
“Just an hour north of Walnut Crossing, but I’m not surprised you never heard of it. Quiet little place. Serious felony rate close to zero. In fact, we’ve never had a murder here. Not until last night.”
“I’m listening.”
“I was hoping I could sit down with you.”
“You can’t tell me about it on the phone?”
“It’s a bizarre situation. Too many angles. I can’t afford to screw it up. Can I come and explain it to you?”
Gurney hesitated. “When did you want to do this?”
“I could be at your house in an hour.”
Gurney checked the time on his phone—2:58 p.m. Although he had no desire for a reunion with the man, there was a piece of their history together that put the option of refusing out of reach.
“You have my address?”
The excitement in Morgan’s voice was palpable. “Of course. You’re famous. You know that, right? You were featured in all the upstate newscasts last year—‘Retired Cop from City Solves White River Murders.’ You weren’t hard to find, thank God!”
Gurney said nothing.
“Okay, then. See you in an hour.”
3
Although their partnership had lasted only ten months, Gurney knew more about the personal life of Mike Morgan than that of anyone else he’d worked with in his twenty-five years in the NYPD. From the day he was assigned to replace Gurney’s retiring partner in the homicide division, Morgan had treated him as a confidant—with the result that Gurney had learned more than he wanted to know about the man’s longing for approval from his revered cop father, his reckless relationships with women, his waves of paranoia.
He’d also witnessed Morgan’s obsession with superficial orderliness, especially punctuality. So it was no surprise when, at exactly 3:59 p.m., a black Chevy Tahoe began making its way up through the low pasture toward the house.
Gurney went out through the mudroom and opened the side door. The cool air carried the mixed scent of wet snow and spring grass. He watched as the big SUV with a circular LARCHFIELD POLICE DEPARTMENT emblem on the door pulled in beside his Outback.
Morgan got out, looking around anxiously at the fields and hills, then walked the path between the house and the raised asparagus bed. He was wearing neatly creased black pants and a gray dress shirt with a three-star chief’s insignia on the starched collar. Although the man still had the trim body of an athlete, his stride was stiffer than Gurney remembered, and the worry lines on his face seemed to have deepened.
As he reached Gurney, he extended his hand, smiling a little wildly. “David! Wow! So good to see you. Long time, eh?” His grip was unpleasantly tight, then suddenly looser, as if he’d caught himself in a bad habit.
“Hello, Mike.”
Morgan took a deep breath and blew it out gradually through puffed cheeks, stepping back and looking around again at the hills and fields. “You’re really out here, aren’t you? Not another house in sight. You okay with that?”
“Okay?”
“I mean, this is like the backwoods. Not a soul around. How much land do you have?”
“About fifty acres. It was a farm once. Mostly old pastures. Some small quarries. Cherry and maple thickets. Lots of trails.”
Morgan nodded, not really listening, looking around yet again. “You have any snakes?”
“Not really. Nothing poisonous.”
“I hate snakes. Always have. I read once about a guy putting a rattlesnake in his neighbor’s mailbox. Can you imagine?”
Gurney stepped back from the doorway with a half-hearted welcoming gesture. “You want to come in?”
“Thanks.”
Gurney led him past the mudroom into the kitchen and over to the round pine table by the French doors. He gathered up his notes for the academy lecture and put them aside.
“Have a seat. Coffee? Tea?”
Morgan shrugged. “Whatever you’re having.”
While Gurney busied himself with the coffee machine, Morgan remained standing, looking first around the room, then out through the glass doors.
“I appreciate this. Letting me come here on such short notice.”
When the coffee was ready, Gurney filled two mugs and brought them to the table. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Nothing. Thank you.”
Gurney sat in the chair he usually occupied for breakfast and Morgan sat opposite him. Gurney took a sip of his coffee and waited.