Gurney broke in. “That doesn’t surprise me. I mean, the way that corporation was set up by their father, Carl’s share of Spalter Realty would go directly to Jonah—entirely separate from the rest of his assets, which were covered by his will. So Jonah would have come into some big real estate holdings that he’d be free to sell or mortgage. So he wouldn’t need to raise venture capital to finance whatever expansion he had in mind.”
“You didn’t let me get to the really interesting part.”
“Oh? Sorry. Tell me.”
“Jonah Spalter showed up for lunch half drunk, then got really drunk. And he quoted that saying ‘God works in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.’ And according to this guy, Spalter kept saying it and laughing, like he found it really funny. Kind of weirded the guy out.”
Gurney was silent for a while, imagining the scene. “You said the Cathedral expansion was going to cost plenty. Any idea how much?”
“The capital search had to be for at least fifty million. The guy Jonah was dealing with wouldn’t touch any deal for an amount less than that.”
“Meaning,” said Gurney, mostly to himself, “that the assets of Spalter Realty must be worth at least that much, if Jonah was willing to cancel the search.”
“So what are you thinking, Dad?” said Kyle conspiratorially. “That fifty million could be a pretty compelling motive for murder?”
“More compelling than most. Did your contact have anything else to say about Spalter?”
“Just that he was super smart, super ambitious—but that’s nothing special, just the nature of the beast.”
“Okay, thanks. That was very helpful.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. More I know, the better my brain works. And there’s no other way I could have come upon that revealing little anecdote. So thank you again.”
“Glad I could help. By the way, you planning to go to the Summer Mountain Fair?”
“Me? No. But Madeleine will be there. She’s helping some friends of hers who have a farm over in Buck Ridge. They bring their alpacas to the fair every year and enter them in … I don’t know … alpaca events, I guess.”
“You don’t sound too revved up about it.”
“You could say that.”
“You mean to say you’re not impressed by the biggest agricultural fair in the Northeast? Tractor pulls, demolition derbies, butter sculptures, cotton candy, hog judging, sheep shearing, cheese making, country music, carnival rides, blue ribbons for biggest zucchini—how could you not be impressed by all that?”
“It’s tough, but somehow I manage to control my enthusiasm.”
After ending the call with Kyle, Gurney stayed at his desk for some time, letting the economic facts of the Spalter case sink in, and pondering the significance of those famous lines God moves in a mysterious way / His wonders to perform.
He took the thick case file out of his desk drawer and riffled through it until he came to an index of key names and addresses. There were two email addresses for “J. Spalter”—one a Google gmail account, the other connected to the Cyberspace Cathedral website domain. There was also a physical address in Florida, with a notation indicating that it existed to serve legal and tax purposes, that it was the location where Jonah’s motor home was registered and where CyberCath was incorporated, but that the man did not actually live there. A further marginal note read, “Postal forwarding instructions redirect mail to changing series of P.O. boxes.” Apparently Jonah was on the road most of the time, maybe all the time.
Gurney sent a message to both email addresses—a message saying that Kay’s conviction was likely to be overturned and that he urgently needed Jonah’s help in evaluating some new evidence.
Chapter 36. An Unusual Killer
Getting to sleep that night was more difficult than usual.
It was a persistent source of frustration—this business of trying to pursue an investigation without the investigatory apparatus that had been available to him in the NYPD. And the problem had been compounded by Hardwick’s loss of access to NYSP files, information systems, and channels of inquiry. Being outsiders created a heavy reliance on insiders who might be willing to take a risk. Hardwick’s recent experience was proof that the risk was substantial.
In the current situation, much depended not only on Esti, whose commitment seemed positive and unequivocal, but also on the willingness of her contacts to be both helpful and discreet. Similarly, much depended on Hardwick’s contacts and how they might be feeling about the man and his motives. It would be impolitic to put pressure on any of these helpers since none of them had to provide any help at all.
It was a position Gurney hated being in—relying on the unpredictable generosity of others, hoping for some breakthrough piece of information to arrive from sources beyond his control.
The call came just before five a.m.—barely two hours after his churning thoughts had loosened their grip and let him drift into an exhausted half-sleep. Fumbling in the dark, knocking over an empty water glass, provoking a murmur of protest from Madeleine, he finally located his phone on the night table. When he saw Hardwick’s name on the screen, he took the phone into the den.
“Yes?”
“You might be thinking it’s a little on the early side for a call, but it’s seven hours later in Turkey. Noon over there, as a matter of fact. Must be hot as a steaming turd.”
“Great news, Jack. Thanks for letting me know.”
“My contact in Ankara woke me up. So I figured I’d wake you up. Time for Farmer Dave to scatter some cracked corn for the chickens. In fact, you probably should’ve been out there an hour ago, you lazy son of a bitch.”
Gurney was accustomed to Hardwick’s unusual approach to business conversations, and generally ignored the ritual abuse. “Your Ankara guy is with Interpol?”
“So he says.”
“What did he have for you?”
“A few tidbits. We get what we get. Goodness of his heart.”
“What did his good heart have for you?”
“You got time for this? You sure you don’t need to go do something for those chickens?”
“Chickens are a lovely addition to the rural life, Jack. You ought to get yourself a few.”
Embracing Hardwick’s tangent had the odd effect of getting him back on point.
“Tidbit number one. About ten years ago, the forces of good had one of the top bad guys in Corsica by the short hairs—had him looking at a hard twenty in a shithole prison—and they managed to turn him. Deal was, if he put the finger on some business colleagues the forces of good would put him in witness protection instead of the shithole prison. This plan did not work out well. About a week into the deal, the head of the witness protection operation received a box in the mail. What to take a stab at what was in the box?”
“Depends on how big a box we’re talking about.”
“Yeah, well, let’s say it was a lot bigger than would be needed if they were mailing his dick. So what do you think it was?”
“Just a wild guess, Jack, but I’d say if the box was big enough to hold a head, then it was probably his head in there. Am I right?”
The silence on the other end was answer enough.
Gurney went on. “And this is just another wild guess, but I’d say there were some nails hammered into his—”
“Yeah, yeah, all right, Sherlock. One for you. Let’s go on to story number two. You ready? You don’t need to piss or anything?”
“Ready.”
“Eight years ago, a member of the Russian Duma, a very connected multimillionaire, former KGB, made a trip to Paris. For his mother’s funeral. The mother lived in Paris because her third husband was French, she loved it there, she wanted to be buried there. And guess what happened?”