“David Gurney.”
“May I tell Dr. Kale the reason for your call?”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“You’re speaking to the person who answered the phone. And it is rather late. Now, would you please tell me why-” There was another voice in the background, a pause, the sound of the phone being handed over.
A prissy, authoritative voice announced, “This is Dr. Kale. Who is this?”
“David Gurney, Dr. Kale. Sorry to bother you so late in the evening, but there’s some urgency involved. I’m working as a consultant on the Jillian Perry murder case, and I’m trying to get some perspective on Mapleshade. You were suggested to me as a person who could be helpful.” There was no response. “Dr. Kale?”
“Consultant? What does that mean?”
“I’ve been retained by the Perry family to provide them with an independent view of the investigation.”
“Is that so?”
“I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me regarding Mapleshade’s clientele and general philosophy.”
“I would have thought Scott Ashton would be the perfect source for that sort of enlightenment.” There was acid in this comment, which he softened by adding in a more casual tone, “I’m no longer part of the Mapleshade staff.”
Gurney tried for a foothold in what sounded like a rift between the two men. “I thought your position might give you more objectivity than someone still involved with the school.”
“That’s not a subject I’d care to discuss on the phone.”
“I can understand that. The fact is, I live over in Walnut Crossing, and I’d be happy to come to Cooperstown, if you could spare me even half an hour.”
“I see. Unfortunately, I’ll be away on a one-month vacation starting the day after tomorrow.” The way he said it made it sound more like a legitimate impediment than a brush-off. Gurney got the feeling that Kale was not only intrigued but might have something interesting to say.
“It would be enormously helpful, Doctor, if I could see you before then. It just so happens that I have a meeting with the district attorney tomorrow afternoon. If I could spend some time with you, perhaps I could make a detour on my way?”
“You have a meeting with Sheridan Kline?”
“Yes, and it would be really helpful to get your input prior to that.”
“Well… I suppose… Still, I would need to know more about you before… before it would be appropriate to discuss anything. Your credentials and so forth.”
Gurney responded with his résumé highlights and the name of a deputy commissioner Kale could talk to at the NYPD. He even mentioned, half apologetically, the existence of the five-year-old New York magazine article that glorified his contributions to the solution of two infamous serial-murder cases. The article had made him sound like a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Dirty Harry, which he found embarrassing. But it had its uses.
Kale agreed to meet with him at 12:45 P.M. the next day, Friday.
When Gurney tried to organize his thoughts for that meeting, to make a mental list of the topics he wanted to cover, he discovered for the hundredth time that excitement and weariness formed a lousy foundation on which to organize anything. He concluded that sleep would be the most efficient use of his time. But no sooner had he taken off his clothes and slipped into bed next to Madeleine than the ring of his cell phone summoned him back to the kitchen counter where he’d absentmindedly left it.
The voice on the other end was born and bred in a Connecticut country club. “This is Dr. Withrow Perry. You called. I can give you precisely three minutes.”
It took Gurney a moment to focus. “Thank you for calling back. I’m investigating the murder of-”
Perry cut in sharply. “I know what you’re doing. I know who you are. What do you want?”
“I have some questions that might help me to-”
“Go ahead, ask them.”
Gurney suppressed an impulse to comment on the man’s attitude. “Do you have any idea why Hector Flores killed your daughter?”
“No, I don’t. And for the record, Jillian was my wife’s daughter, not mine.”
“Do you know of anyone besides Flores who might have had a grudge against her-a reason to hurt or kill her?”
“No.”
“No one at all?”
“No one and, I suppose, everyone.”
“Meaning?”
Perry laughed-a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Jillian was a lying, manipulative bitch. I doubt I’m the first to tell you that.”
“What’s the worst thing she ever did to you?”
“That’s not a subject I’m willing to discuss.”
“Why do you think Dr. Ashton wanted to marry her?”
“Ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Next question.”
“Did she ever talk about Flores?”
“Not to me, certainly. We had no relationship at all. Let me be clear, Detective. I’m speaking to you solely because my wife has decided to pursue this unofficial inquiry and asked that I return your call. I really don’t have anything to contribute, and to be honest with you, I personally consider her endeavor a waste of time and money.”
“How do you feel about Dr. Ashton?”
“Feel? What do you mean?”
“Do you like him? Admire him? Pity him? Despise him?”
“None of the above.”
“What then?”
There was a pause, a sigh. “I have no interest in him. I consider his life none of my business.”
“But there’s something about him that… what?”
“Just the obvious question. The question you already asked, in a way.”
“Which one?”
“Why would such a competent professional marry a train wreck like Jillian?”
“Did you hate her that much?”
“I didn’t hate her, Mr. Gurney, no more than I would hate a cobra.”
“Would you kill a cobra?”
“That’s a childish question.”
“Humor me.”
“I’d kill a cobra that threatened my life, just as you would.”
“Did you ever want to kill Jillian?”
He laughed humorlessly. “Is this some sort of sophomoric game?”
“Just a question.”
“You’re wasting my time.”
“Do you still own a Weatherby.257 rifle?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Are you aware that someone with a rifle like that took a shot at Scott Ashton a week after Jillian’s murder?”
“With a.257 Weatherby? For Godsake, you’re not suggesting… you’re not daring to suggest that somehow… What the hell are you suggesting?”
“I’m just asking you a question.”
“A question with offensive implications.”
“Shall I assume you still have the rifle in your possession?”
“Assume whatever you like. Next question.”
“Can you say for sure where that rifle was on May seventeenth?”
“Next question.”
“Did Jillian ever bring friends home?”
“No-thank God for small favors. I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Gurney.”
“Final question. Do you happen to know the name or address of Jillian’s biological father?”
For the first time in the conversation, Perry hesitated. “Some Spanish-sounding name.” There was a kind of revulsion in his voice. “My wife mentioned it once. I told her I never wanted to hear it again. Cruz, perhaps? Angel Cruz? I don’t know his address. He may not have one. Considering the life expectancy of the average methamphetamine addict, he’s probably been dead for quite a few years.”
He broke the connection without another word.
Getting to sleep proved difficult. If Gurney’s mind was engaged after midnight, turning it off wasn’t easy. It could take hours to loosen its obsessive grip on the problems of the day.
He’d been in bed, he guessed, for at least forty-five minutes without any respite from the kaleidoscope of images and questions embedded in the Perry case when he noted that the rhythm of Madeleine’s breathing had changed. He was convinced she’d been asleep when he came to bed, but now he had the distinct feeling that she was awake.