“Okay,” said Slovak with lingering reluctance.
When he stepped away, Barstow gave Gurney a quizzical look. “You really think a dog can track Tate down at this point?”
“Not unless he’s still in these woods. But I’d like to know what direction he took out of here. I’m also thinking about your opinion that the Jeep came here, left, and came back. I’m wondering how that pattern might fit with the other facts we have. What are you smiling at?”
“You. I can see your brain working like a 3D design program—tilting and turning the shapes to see how they join up. So, tell me how you’re seeing it right now.”
“Okay. Tate, after leaving Peale’s mortuary, went to his parked Jeep and headed out along Waterview Drive, where he had a harmless encounter with Ruby-June Hooper and, a few minutes later, a deadly encounter with Mary Kane. He then proceeded up the Harrow Hill road to the Russell estate, broke in through the conservatory, and cut Angus’s throat—after which he got back in the Jeep and drove through the trail maze to this spot. He may have stayed here himself until two evenings later—recuperating, nursing the damage to his body—at which point he could have used part of the trail system to access the back road that leads to the Mason house—the road where he was seen by a couple of local stoners.”
Barstow pursed her lips. “Why didn’t he just take the trail all the way down to Mason’s back lawn?”
“Maybe the road was faster and safer—with all the switchbacks on the bottom half of the trail. Maybe timing was important. And there are no other houses or traffic on that final stretch, so he probably underestimated the risk of being noticed.”
“Okay, what then?”
“When he arrived at the Mason house, he scratched his hellfire symbol on the front door with one of the scalpels he took from the mortuary, then waited for Linda Mason to come home. He knocked her unconscious, dragged her out to the barn, and lifted her with the loading bucket of the tractor—to simplify draining her blood. He then went back to her house, left the Dark Angel message with her blood on the upstairs wall, and drove the Jeep back here. How does that sound?”
“It’s consistent with the Jeep coming, leaving, and coming back. But then what?”
“Ah, that’s the question. Or maybe it isn’t.”
“You just lost me.”
“The scenario I gave you is entirely reasonable, but it may have nothing to do with what actually happened.”
“Are you always this unsure in the middle of a case?”
“Frequently.”
“But you usually get to the truth, right? I mean, that award you got for clearing more homicide cases—”
Before she could finish, an irate voice interrupted.
“What the hell is all this?”
Chandler Aspern had ignored the police tape and was striding toward them, his compact frame a picture of compressed aggression.
Gurney stuck out his palm. “Hold it right there, sir. You’re in a restricted area.”
“Like hell I am! This is my property. No damn piece of yellow tape changes that.”
“I’m afraid it does, sir. Please return to the area outside the tape, and I’ll be happy to explain the situation.”
“I hadn’t figured you for this sort of bureaucratic nonsense.” He turned and strode back the way he came, Gurney following him. They soon came to the perimeter tape, where Aspern had parked a golf cart.
“So,” he demanded, “explain.”
Gurney spoke with an easy calmness. “Evidence found in the vehicle back there on your trail connects it to three murders.”
“Slovak left a message for me saying something like that, rather incoherently. Are you telling me that orange thing is Tate’s Jeep?”
“We believe that to be the case.”
“How long has it been on my property?”
“We’re trying to determine that.”
“When do you plan on removing it?”
“As soon as that’s feasible.”
“That’s a meaningless answer.”
“It’s the only answer I can give you at this time.”
“Fine.” It was clear from Aspern’s tone that it wasn’t fine at all. He got into his golf cart, turned it around sharply on the narrow trail, and was soon out of sight.
On Gurney’s way back to the Jeep, he met Slovak coming toward him, looking a little less worried.
“I got in touch with the regional barracks. They’ll have a dog and handler here by ten tomorrow morning. There’s going to be some paperwork, but it doesn’t seem to be a big deal.”
“Good. Do you know if Kyra plans to impound the Jeep?”
“Don’t ask me. The woman runs her own show.” His tone conveyed that the show was unpleasantly unpredictable.
Gurney was getting tired of the static in the Slovak-Barstow relationship, but that wasn’t something he wanted to address—not right then, anyway. Instead, he thanked Slovak for arranging for the K9 team and continued along the trail to the Jeep.
Barstow explained she’d be completing her forensic examination of the Jeep within the hour and, yes, she intended to have it transported to the impound lot—but that wouldn’t be happening until the following day, because there was a snag in getting it there. There was no key, and without one the anti-theft system would make starting the engine close to impossible, and there was no way to negotiate the trails with a tow vehicle. The nearest dealer able to provide a substitute key would have it ready for pickup in the morning. So, perhaps by tomorrow noon the Jeep would be on its way to the garage.
With little else at the moment keeping him on Harrow Hill, or anywhere else in Larchfield, Gurney’s thoughts turned to Walnut Crossing and the planned dinner with the Winklers. That, in turn, reminded him of the tulips Madeleine had asked him to pick up.
An hour later, he pulled into the busy parking lot of Snook’s Green World Nursery. Some customers were perusing the flower and vegetable seedlings on the outdoor tables, while others were making their way through the greenhouses. After a brief search, he located a potted tulip display, chose three pots with brightly colored varieties, paid for them, and secured them on the floor behind the front seat of the Outback.
He chose a route to Walnut Crossing that meandered through a succession of hills and valleys and wildflower meadows, but it wasn’t because of the views that he chose it. It was because it was less direct and would add time to the drive. He’d accepted the need to be present at the Winkler dinner, but he had no desire to arrive early.
What he hadn’t anticipated was the road-maintenance delay just outside Walnut Crossing. A pair of backhoes were deepening the drainage ditch alongside the road, and the final downhill stretch into the village that would normally take a minute to drive through took nearly twenty. It made him wonder how often lateness was a by-product of the fear of being early.
At Gerry Mirkle’s driveway, he pulled in behind an eco-looking vehicle, no doubt belonging to the Winklers. He glanced at his dashboard time display and noted with relief that it was just 7:15. Arriving a quarter of an hour late could hardly be viewed as a problem.
As he was getting out of the car, Gerry opened a screen door to the driveway. She had a drink in her hand and a grin on her face.
“Welcome, traveler, we’re just getting ready to eat.”
He followed her through the door into a brightly lit kitchen with pictures of roosters on three of the walls. The aroma of Indian spices filled the air.
The Winklers—vegan-pale and wearing matching undyed-wool sweaters—were standing in the middle of the room, each holding a small bottled water.
Madeleine was carrying a covered casserole from the oven to a counter that separated the working part of the kitchen from a homey dining area with a pine table and captain’s chairs. She set the casserole on a black-iron trivet and gestured toward the Winklers.