He sat at the far end of the bench, several feet from Gurney. He said nothing, just opened a small attaché case on his lap, angling the top to obstruct any view of the contents, and began fiddling with something.
Gurney assumed it was a scanner, probably the multi-function type that could indicate the presence of any transmitting or recording device.
After a minute or so, Klemper closed the case. He did a quick three-sixty visual check of the concourse, then spoke in a rough voice, half through his teeth, his gaze fixed on the floor. “So what the hell kind of game is this?” The man’s truculence seemed a shield for raw nerves, and his massive physique nothing more than excess baggage, a burden responsible for the sheen of sweat on his face. But it would be a mistake to go the extra yard and consider him harmless.
“You can do something for me, and I can do something for you,” said Gurney.
Klemper looked up from the floor with a little snort of a laugh, as if recognizing an interrogation trick.
The young woman in the doorway of Alpine Sports was still frowning at her phone.
“How’s Alyssa?” asked Gurney casually—knowing he was taking a chance playing that card so quickly.
Klemper shot him a sideways glance. “What?”
“The suspect you got tangled up with in a way you shouldn’t have.” He paused. “You still friends?”
“What kind of bullshit is this?” The man’s raw tone told him he’d hit a nerve.
“For you, very expensive bullshit.”
Klemper shook his head, as if trying to convey incomprehension.
Gurney went on. “It’s amazing what ends up getting recorded these days. Can be very embarrassing. But sometimes you get lucky and there’s a way to control the damage. That’s what I want to talk to you about—damage control.”
“I don’t get any of this.” His denial was loud and clear, seemingly for the benefit of a recording device his briefcase scanner might have missed.
“I just wanted to bring you up-to-date on the Kay Spalter appeal.” Gurney was speaking in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “First, we have enough evidence of … let’s call them flaws … in the original investigation to guarantee a reversal of her conviction. Second, we’re now at a fork in the road, meaning we have a choice in how those flaws are presented to the appellate court. For example, the trial witness who ID’d Kay as a person present at the shooting site could have been coerced into perjury … or he could have been innocently mistaken, as eyewitnesses often are. The con who claimed at the trial that Kay tried to hire him as a hit man could have been coerced … or he could have made up that story on his own, as men in his position often do. Kay’s lover could have been told that the only way to avoid being the prime suspect was to make sure Kay ended up in that position … or he could have arrived at that conclusion on his own. The CIO on the case could have concealed key video evidence and ignored other avenues of inquiry because of an improper relationship with the victim’s daughter … or he could simply have zeroed in on the wrong suspect too soon, as detectives often do.”
Klemper was again staring grimly at the floor. “This is all hypothetical nonsense.”
“The thing of it is, Mick, every flaw in the investigation could be described in either criminal or innocent terms—so long as no definitive proof of that improper relationship falls into the wrong hands.”
“Hypothetical bullshit.”
“Okay. Hypothetically, let’s say I have the definitive proof of that improper relationship—in a very persuasive digital form. And let’s say I wanted something in return for keeping it to myself?”
“Why ask me?”
“Because it’s your career, your pension, your freedom that are on the line.”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“I want the security video from the electronics store on Axton Avenue.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“If I were to receive that missing video from some anonymous sender, I would be willing to exclude a certain career-ending piece of evidence from the appeal process. I would also be willing to delay indefinitely my plan to provide that same item to the NYSP inspector general. That’s the hypothetical deal. A simple gentlemen’s agreement, based on mutual trust.”
Klemper laughed, or maybe he just grunted and shuddered involuntarily. “This is crazy crap. You sound like some fucking psycho.” He looked over in Gurney’s direction but made no eye contact. “Fantasy bullshit. All fantasy bullshit.” He stood up abruptly, unsteadily, and headed for the nearest exit.
He left in his wake an acrid odor of alcohol and sweat.
Chapter 35. A Mysterious Way
Gurney’s drive home was a journey into anxiety. He attributed it to the emotional free fall that often followed an intense encounter.
As he headed up the final stretch of road toward his barn, however, it struck him that there might be another cause: the ricketiness of his assumptions, not only about Klemper but also about the case as a whole. If Klemper’s failing had been wishful thinking about Kay’s guilt, might not his own failing be wishful thinking about her innocence? Might he and Klemper be equally blind to some more complex scenario that involved Kay in way that hadn’t occurred to either of them?
And what was the significance of Klemper’s drinking? Had he been drinking earlier in the day on the job? Or had he picked up a bottle for a few quick belts in the car on his way to Riverside? Either possibility suggested terrible judgment, great strain, or a serious drinking problem. Any of those issues had the potential to make the man an unpredictable, even explosive piece of the puzzle.
The first thing he noticed after rounding the barn was that Madeleine’s car was gone from its normal spot by the house, which jogged a half-formed memory that this was the evening for one of her board meetings, although he wasn’t sure which one.
Entering the kitchen, he found her absence momentarily comforting—relieving him of the need to immediately decide how much or how little to reveal about his Klemper meeting. It also meant he’d have some undisturbed time to himself to sort the jumbled pieces of a long day into some kind of order.
He was heading into the den for the organizing assistance of a pad and pen when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the ID. It was Kyle.
“Hey, Dad. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing that can’t wait. What’s up?”
“I made some calls, asking around about Jonah Spalter and/or the Cyberspace Cathedral. None of my own contacts knew anything, one thought maybe the name was familiar, thought something might be happening with it, but didn’t know anything specific. I was going to send you an e-mail saying, ‘Sorry, no grapes on the vine.’ But then one of the guys called me back. Told me he’d checked around and discovered a friend of his had handled a venture capital search for Jonah Spalter, the venture being a huge expansion of Spalter’s Cathedral.”
“What kind of expansion?”
“He didn’t get into that beyond the fact that it was going to cost plenty.”
“Interesting.”
“The really interesting part is that Spalter ended the capital search the day after his brother died. Called up the guy who’d been working on it, took him to lunch, cut off the whole process—”