Gurney shrugged. “Maybe someone else knows about it. Or she thinks someone knows about it. So she admits the fact, but lies about the reason. Common enough deception technique. Admit the external action but invent an exculpatory motive.”
“My ex was big on exculpatory motives,” said Esti to no one in particular. She checked her watch. “So what’s the next step?”
“Maybe a little blackmail of our own,” suggested Gurney. “Give Klemper a few shakes and see what comes loose.”
That put a smile on her face. “Sounds good. Anything that rattles that son of a bitch …”
“You want backup?” asked Hardwick.
“Not necessary. Klemper may be an asshole, but he’s not likely to pull a gun on me. Not in a public place, anyway. I just want to explain his situation to him, offer him an option or two.”
Hardwick stared down at the table intently, as if the possible results of such a conversation were listed there. “I need to give Bincher a heads-up on this, see what he thinks.”
“Go ahead,” said Gurney. “Just don’t make it sound like I’m asking for his permission.”
Hardwick took out his phone and entered a number. Apparently it went to voice mail. He made a disgusted face. “Fuck! Where the hell are you, Lex? This is my third attempt. Get back to me for Christ’s sake!”
He ended the call and made another.
“Abby, baby, where the hell is he? I left a message last night, another one first thing this morning, and another one thirty seconds ago.” He listened for a few moments, his frown shifting from frustration to puzzlement. “Well, as soon as he gets back, we need to talk. Things are happening.”
He listened again, longer this time, worry beginning to replace puzzlement. “You know anything more about that?… That was it, no explanation?… Nothing since?… I have no idea … The voice wasn’t familiar to you?… You think it was intentional?… Yeah, kinda strange … Right … Please, the minute he checks in … No, no, I’m sure he’s okay … Right … Yes … Good.”
He ended the call, laid his phone on the table, and looked at Gurney. “Lex got a call yesterday afternoon. Somebody who claimed to have major information on the Carl Spalter murder case. After the call, Lex left the office in a hurry. Abby hasn’t been able to reach him since. No answer on his cell, no answer at home. Fuck!”
“Abby is his assistant?”
“Yeah. Well, actually, his ex-wife. Don’t know how that works, but it does.”
“The caller was a man or woman?”
“That’s the thing—Abby said she couldn’t tell. At first she thought it was a kid, then a man, then a woman, some kind of foreign accent—didn’t know who the hell she was talking to. Then Lex took the call. Couple of minutes later he left the office. All he said was that it was about the Long Falls murder case, could be a breakthrough, he’d be back in a couple of hours. But he never did come back—at least not to the office.”
“Shit,” said Esti. “She can’t reach him anywhere?”
“She keeps getting his voice mail.”
She stared at Hardwick. “You getting the feeling too many people are going missing?”
Chapter 33. Major Appointments
Action being the best antidote for anxiety, and information the only remedy for uncertainty, when they parted that afternoon, each had an assignment—along with a sense of urgency arising from the growing hazards and peculiarities of the case.
Esti would press her various contacts for OCTF data on Gurikos, NCIC data on the key players in the case, and MO data from ViCAP that might match elements of the murder scenes.
Gurney would have a frank discussion with Mick Klemper about his diminishing options, then try to set up a meeting with Jonah Spalter.
Hardwick would pay a visit to Lex Bincher’s home in Cooperstown, track down the trial witnesses, and prod his pal at Interpol for anything on Gurikos and/or the Gurikos murder MO.
Like many cops, Mick Klemper had two cell phones, one personal and one job-related. Esti had both numbers from the time she’d worked closely, and miserably, with him. Before the meeting broke up, she gave both to Gurney.
Now, half an hour later, sitting at the desk in his den, he called the personal one.
Klemper picked up on the third ring, but evidently not before seeing Gurney’s ID.
“How the hell did you get this private number?”
Gurney smiled, pleased at getting the reaction he’d expected. “Hello, Mick.”
“I said, how the hell did you get this number?”
“It’s all over the billboards on the Thruway.”
“What?”
“There’s just no privacy anymore, Mick. You ought to know that. Numbers get around.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“There’s so much information floating around. Information overload. That’s what they call it, right?”
“What? What the fuck is this?”
“I’m just thinking out loud. Thinking what a treacherous world we live in. A man might think he’s engaging in a private activity, and next day on the Internet there’s a video of him taking a crap.”
“Yeah? You know what? That’s disgusting. Disgusting! What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“So talk.”
“Face-to-face would be better. No intervening technology. Technology can be a problem. A violator of privacy.”
Klemper hesitated—long enough to indicate a significant level of concern. “I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Gurney figured this was a cover-your-ass statement in the event the call was being taped, rather than pure thickheadedness. “What I’m talking about is that we should talk about some issues of mutual concern.”
“Fine. Whatever the fuck that means. Let’s get this bullshit over with. Where do you want to talk?”
“Up to you.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“How about Riverside Mall?”
Klemper hesitated again, longer this time. “Riverside? When?”
“Sooner the better. Things are happening.”
“Where in the mall?”
“Main concourse? Lots of benches there. Usually empty.”
Another hesitation. “When?”
Gurney knew from Esti that Klemper got off his shift at five. He checked the time on his cell screen—4:01 p.m. “How about five-thirty?”
“Today?”
“Definitely today. Tomorrow might be too late.”
A final pause. “All right. Riverside. Five-thirty, sharp. You better make more sense there than you’re making here. Because right now? Right now, this sounds like a pile of shit.” He disconnected the call.
Gurney found the man’s bravado encouraging. It sounded like fear.
Riverside Mall was a forty-minute drive from Walnut Crossing, giving Gurney about fifty minutes before he had to set out. It didn’t allow him much time to prepare for a meeting that had the potential to give the investigation a dramatic shove in the right direction, if it was handled right. He got a yellow lined pad out of his desk drawer to help organize his thoughts.
He found it surprisingly difficult. His mind was unsettled, moving from one unresolved issue to another. The unreachability of Lex Bincher. The similar unreachability of the three key witnesses. The shots in the night eliminating Hardwick’s lights and phone. The grotesque mutilation of Fat Gus—a warning that the killer’s secret must be kept. But what secret? Was it his or her identity? Or something else?
And, of course, there was the central conundrum of the case from the beginning, the puzzle piece that Gurney felt would eventually make sense of all the others—the contradictory site of the shooting. On the one hand, there was the apartment with the silenced, tripod-fitted rifle and the fresh gunpowder residue with a chemical profile that linked it to a .220 Swift cartridge and the bullet fragments extracted from Carl Spalter’s brain. On the other hand, there was the light pole that made the shot impossible.