Hardwick’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck did he want?”
“He wanted me to understand that Kay is an evil, lying, murdering bitch; that Bincher is an evil, lying Jew bastard; and that he, Mick Klemper, is a crusader in the epic struggle of Good against Evil. He admitted that he might have made an error or two, but nothing that changes the fact that Kay is guilty as sin and deserves to die in prison—preferably soon.”
Esti looked excited. “He must have been in a panic to show up at your house, raving like that.”
Hardwick looked suspicious. “You sure that’s all he wanted? To tell you that Kay was guilty?”
“He seemed desperate to convince me that everything he’d done was legitimate in some larger context. He may also have been trying, in his bull-in-the-china-shop way, to get me to reveal how much I knew. As I see it, the unresolved question about Klemper is how sick is he—versus how corrupt.”
Esti added, “Or how dangerous.”
Hardwick changed the subject. “So I’m going to take the locate-the-three-witnesses assignment, which may turn into three mis-per traces, which may turn into God knows what. And I’m going to beg my buddy at Interpol for another favor. Esti’s going to call in some favors at OCTF and get someone to run NCIC and ViCAP searches. What’s on your plate, Sherlock?”
“First I’m going to talk to Alyssa Spalter. Then to Jonah Spalter.”
“Great. But how’re you going to get them to talk to you?”
“Charm. Threats. Promises. Whatever works.”
Esti let out a cynical little one-syllable laugh. “Offer Alyssa an ounce of good shit, she’ll follow you to the moon. Jonah you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”
“You know where I can get ahold of Alyssa?”
“Last time I heard, the family mansion on Venus Lake. With Carl and Kay out of the way, she has it all to herself. But watch out for Klemper. My impression is that he still sees her. He’s still got a soft spot for his little monster.”
Hardwick smirked. “Don’t you mean a hard spot?”
“You’re disgusting!” She turned back to Gurney. “I’ll text you the address. Or, actually, I can give it to you right now. I have it in my notebook.” She stood up from the table and left the room.
Gurney sat back in his chair and gave Hardwick a speculative look. “Maybe it’s my imagination, but you seem to be getting an inch or two closer to my way of thinking about this case.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“Your interest in it seems to be expanding a bit beyond the technical appeal issues.”
At first Hardwick looked like he wanted to argue the point. Then he just shook his head slowly. “Those fucking nails …” He stared down at the floor. “I don’t know … makes you wonder just how God-awful a human being can be. How. Downright. Completely. Evil.” He paused, still shaking his head, like someone with a kind of slow-motion palsy. “You ever come upon something that just … just made you wonder … what the fuck … I mean … if there are any limits on what a human being can do?”
Gurney didn’t have to think very long about it. Images of severed heads, torn throats, bodies chopped apart. Children burned alive by their parents. The “Satanic Santa” case that involved a serial killer gift-wrapping pieces of his victims’ bodies and mailing them to the local cops’ homes at Christmas.
“Lots of images come to mind, Jack, but the new one that keeps disturbing my sleep is Carl Spalter’s face—the photo taken of him while he was still barely alive at Kay’s trial. There’s something terrible about it. Maybe the look of despair in Carl’s eyes affects me the way those nails in Gus’s eyes affect you.”
Neither of them said anything more until Esti came back with a small sheet of notepaper and handed it to Gurney. “You probably don’t even need this address,” she said. “I could’ve just told you to look for the biggest house on Lakeshore Drive.”
“It’ll be easier with this. Thanks.”
She sat in her chair, looked back and forth curiously at the two men. “What’s up? You’re both looking very … down.”
Hardwick uttered a sharp, humorless bark of a laugh.
Gurney shrugged. “Every once in a while, we get a glimpse of the reality we’re dealing with. You know what I’m talking about?”
Her voice changed. “Yes, of course I do.”
There was a silence.
Gurney said, “We need to focus on the fact that we’re making progress. We’re taking the appropriate actions. Accurate data and solid logic will—”
His comment was cut short by the sound of a sudden, sharp impact against the clapboard siding of the house.
Esti tensed, looked alarmed.
Hardwick blinked. “The fuck was that?”
The sound was repeated—like the crack of the hard tip of a whip against the house—and all the lights went out.
Chapter 29. Game Changers
Reflexively, Gurney dropped from his chair to the floor. Hardwick and Esti followed immediately, in a flurry of expletives.
“I’m not carrying,” said Gurney quickly. “What do you have in the house?”
“Glock nine in the bedroom closet,” said Hardwick. “SIG .38 in the night table.”
“Kel-Tec .38 in my shoulder bag,” said Esti. “Bag’s behind you, Jack, on the floor. Can you push it over to me?”
Gurney heard Hardwick moving on the other side of the table, then something sliding toward Esti on the floor.
“Got it,” she said.
“Back in a sec,” said Hardwick.
Gurney heard him scuttling out of the room, cursing, then the sound of an interior door squeaking open, then a drawer opening and closing. A flashlight went on, went off. He could also hear Esti’s breathing, very close to him.
“There’s no moon tonight, is there?” She was half whispering.
For an insane moment, in the grip of a primitive fear and the rush of adrenaline, he found her lowered voice and closeness so intensely erotic, he forgot to answer the question.
“Dave?”
“Right. Yes. No moon.”
She leaned closer, her arm touching his. “What do you think is happening?”
“I’m not sure. Nothing good.”
“You think we’re overreacting?”
“I hope so.”
“I can’t see a damn thing. Can you?”
He strained his eyes in the general direction of the window by the table. “No. Nothing.”
“Shit.” The magnetism of her anxious, whispering voice in the darkness was becoming surreal. “You think those sounds were bullets hitting the house?”
“Could be.” In fact, he was sure of it. He’d been under fire more than once in his career.
“I didn’t hear any gunshots.”
“Could be using a suppressor.”
“Oh, shit. You really think it’s sniper-boy out there?”
Gurney was pretty sure that it was, but before he could answer, Hardwick returned.
“Got the Glock and SIG. I like the Glock. How about you, ace? You okay with the SIG?”
“No problem.”
Hardwick touched Gurney’s elbow, found his hand, put the pistol in it. “Full clip, one in the chamber, safety on.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“Maybe it’s time to call in the cavalry,” said Esti.
“Fuck that!” said Hardwick.
“So what do we do? Sit here all night?”
“We figure out how to get the son of a bitch.”
“Get him? That’s what SWAT does. We make the call. They come. They get him.”
“Fuck them. I’ll get him myself. Nobody shoots at my fucking house. Fuck!”