“Fuck are you doing?” the man asked, taking a short step closer.
“Shhh,” said Gurney softly. Finger by finger, he slowly opened his fist, examined the stone closely, grinned, and tossed it over his shoulder.
“What the fuck…?”
“Sorry, Calvin, didn’t mean to ignore you. But that’s the way I make my decisions, and it takes a lot of concentration.”
The man’s eyes widened. “How’d you know my name?”
“Everybody knows you, Calvin. Or do you prefer being called Mr. Hard-On?”
“What?”
“Calvin, then. Simpler. Nicer.”
“The fuck are you? What do you want?”
“I want to know where I can find Hector Flores.”
“Hec… What?”
“I’m looking for him, Calvin. I’m going to find him. Thought maybe you could help me.”
“How the hell…? Who…? You ain’t no cop, right?”
Gurney said nothing, just let his expression fade into his best imitation of a dead-eyed killer. The ice-man look seemed to rivet Harlen, widen his eyes a little more.
“Flores the spic, that’s who you’re after?”
“Can you help me, Calvin?”
“I don’t know. How?”
“Maybe you just could tell me everything you know-about our mutual friend.” Gurney inflected the last three words with such ironic menace that he was afraid for a second he’d overdone it. But Harlen’s inane grin removed the fear that anything with this guy could be overdone.
“Yeah, sure, why not? Like what do you want to know?”
“To start with, do you know where he came from?”
“Bus stop in the village where these spic workers come, hang around. They loiter,” he said, making it sound like a legal term for masturbating in public.
“How about before that? You know where he came from originally?”
“Some Mexican dump, wherever the fuck they all come from.”
“He never told you?”
Harlen shook his head.
“Did he ever tell you anything?”
“Like what?”
“Anything at all. Did you ever actually speak to him?”
“Once. On the phone. Which is another reason I know he’s full of shit. Last-I don’t know-October, November? I called Dr. Ashton about the snowplowing, but the spic answered the phone, wanted to know what I wanted. Told him I wanted to talk to the doctor, why the fuck should I talk to him? Tells me I got to tell him what it’s about and he’ll tell the doctor. I tell him I didn’t call to talk to him-go fuck himself! Who the fuck’s he think he is? These fucking Mexican scumbags, they come up here, bring their fucking swine-flu AIDS leprosy shit, go on fucking welfare, steal fucking jobs, don’t pay taxes, nothing, fucking stupid diseased bastards. I ever see the slimy little fuck again, I’ll shoot him in the fucking head. First I’ll shoot his fucking balls off.”
In the middle of Harlen’s rant, one of the dogs in the house started barking again. Harlen turned to the side, spit on the ground, shook his head, shouted, “Shut the fuck up!” The barking stopped.
“You said that was another reason you knew he was full of shit?”
“What?”
“You said that speaking to Flores on the phone was another reason you knew he was full of shit.”
“Right.”
“Full of shit how?”
“Fuckhead came here, couldn’t speak a fucking word of English. Year later he’s talking like a fucking-I don’t know, a fucking… like he knows everything.”
“Right, so you figure… what, Calvin?”
“I figure maybe it was all bullshit, you know what I mean?”
“Tell me.”
“Nobody learns English that fucking fast.”
“You’re thinking he wasn’t really a Mexican?”
“I’m saying he was full of shit, pulling some kind of deal.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s obvious, man. He’s that fucking smart, why the fuck did he show up at the doctor’s house asking if he could rake leaves? He had a fucking agenda, man.”
“Interesting, Calvin. You’re a bright guy. I like the way you think.”
Harlen nodded, then spit on the ground again as if to emphasize his agreement with the compliment. “And there’s another thing.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Guilty spic would never let you see his face. Always had one of them rodeo hats on, brim pulled down in front, sunglasses. You know what I think? I think he was afraid to be seen, always hiding in the big house or in that fucking dollhouse. Just like the cunt.”
“Which cunt would that be?”
“The cunt that got whacked. Drive past you on the road, she’d look away like you was some kind of dirt. Like you was roadkill, fucking stupid cunt. So I’m thinking maybe they had something on the side, right, her and Mr. Fucking Greaseball? Both too fucking guilty to look anybody in the eye. Then I’m thinking, hey, wait a minute, maybe it’s more than that. Maybe the spic is afraid of being identified. You ever think of that?”
When Gurney finally concluded the interview, thanking Harlen and telling him he’d be in touch, he wasn’t sure how much he’d learned or what it might be worth. If Ashton had started using Flores instead of Harlen for jobs around the property, Harlen would no doubt have a huge resentment, and all the rest, all the bile that Harlen had been spewing, might have arisen directly from the blow to his wallet and his pride. Or maybe there was more to it. Maybe, as Hardwick had claimed, the whole situation had hidden layers, wasn’t what it seemed to be at all.
Gurney returned to his car on the shoulder of Higgles Road and wrote three short notes to himself in a little spiral pad.
Flores not who he said he was? Not Mexican?
Flores afraid of Harlen recognizing him from past? Or afraid of Harlen being able to ID him in the future? Why, if Ashton could ID him?
Any evidence of an affair between Flores and Jillian? Any prior connection between them? Any pre-Tambury motive for the murder?
He looked skeptically at his own questions, doubtful that any of them would lead to a useful discovery. Calvin Harlen, angry and seemingly paranoid, was hardly a reliable source.
He checked the clock on the dashboard: 1:00 P.M. If he skipped lunch, he’d have time for one more interview before his appointment with Ashton.
The Muller property was next to the last at the high end of Badger Lane, the last being Ashton’s manicured paradise. It was a world apart from Harlen’s dump at the corner of Higgles Road.
Gurney pulled over just past a mailbox bearing the address listed for Carl Muller on his interview master sheet. The house was a very large white Colonial with classic black trim and shutters, set well back from the road. Unlike the meticulously tended houses preceding it, it had a subtle aura of neglect-a shutter a little askew, a broken-off branch lying on the front lawn, grass shaggy, fallen leaves matted on the driveway, a blown-over lawn chair upside down on a brick path by the side door.
Standing at the paneled front door, Gurney could hear music playing faintly somewhere inside. There was no doorbell, just an antique brass knocker, which he used several times with increasing impact before the door was finally opened.
The man facing him did not look well. Gurney figured that his age could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty, depending on how much of his appearance was attributable to sickness. His limp hair matched the grayish beige of his drooping cardigan.
“Hello,” he said, with no hint of greeting or curiosity.
It struck Gurney as an odd way for the man to speak to a stranger at his door. “Mr. Muller?”
The man blinked, looked like he was listening to a taped replay of the question. “I’m Carl Muller.” His voice had the pallid, toneless quality of his skin.
“My name is Dave Gurney, sir. I’m involved in the search for Hector Flores. I was wondering if I might have a minute or two of your time.”
The taped replay took longer this time. “Now?”