The sheriff uttered an unpleasant little laugh. “Upside of an impending race war is we get attention.”
Beckert glanced at his watch. “Let’s keep this moving along, Mark. Where do we stand on tracking down the rental information?”
“Interesting news there, sir. This morning we finally got hold of the records for the locations used as the sniper sites. Both leases are in the name of Marcel Jordan.”
Beckert exhibited a rare fleeting smile. “That eliminates all doubt about BDA involvement.”
Something in Gurney’s expression caught his eye. “You don’t agree?”
“I agree that it provides support for a certain view of the case. As for eliminating all doubt, that’s a leap I wouldn’t make.”
Beckert held his gaze for a moment, then turned mildly to Torres. “Do you have anything else for us?”
“That’s it for now, sir, until we get the enhanced photo from Albany and the report on the Corolla from Garrett.”
“Speaking of Albany,” said Beckert, looking at Kline, “have the computer people gotten back to you regarding Steele’s phone?”
“Not with a full report, which is why I haven’t mentioned it. But I spoke to a tech yesterday, and he told me their initial analysis uncovered nothing of immediate interest. He emailed me a printout of numbers called and received during the past three months. Steele used that phone to call his wife, his sister in Hawaii, local movie theaters, his dentist, an electrician, restaurants around the area, a takeout pizza joint in Angina, a gym in Larvaton, Home Depot, a few other places like that. Apart from his sister, nothing really personal. And apart from that one strange text the night he was killed, no calls or texts from anonymous prepaids or even from blocked numbers. Really not much to follow up on. They’ll be sending us their final report in a day or two.”
Beckert’s fleeting smile made a second appearance. “So. Much ado about nothing.”
“Strange,” said Gurney.
Kline gave him a sharply inquisitive look.
“What’s strange about it?” asked Beckert.
“No mention of calls to or from Rick Loomis.”
“Why is that strange?”
“I got the impression they were in frequent contact.”
“Maybe they preferred email.”
“That must be the answer,” said Gurney, sure that it wasn’t the answer at all.
“Right,” said Beckert with the finality of a slammed door. “If no one else has anything to contribute at this time—”
“I do,” said the sheriff. “Having let certain guests at my facility know I was curious what arrangements Devalon Jones had made for his Corolla during his rehabilitation in Dannemora, I was told he had entrusted said vehicle to Blaze Lovely Jackson. Which makes her the keeper of the shooter’s car, which is a hell of a thing to consider.”
Kline cast an amazed look down the table. “Christ, Goodson, in our last meeting you suggested she might be responsible for the murders of Jordan and Tooker. Now you’re adding Steele and Loomis?”
“Ain’t addin’ nobody on my own wisdom, counselor. Just sayin’ what was said to me by a man with some knowledge of the street.”
Cloutz had gone back to lightly stroking his white cane, a gesture Gurney was finding increasingly repellent. He tried to keep his reaction out of his voice.
“What did he get in return for telling you this?”
“Not a damn thing. I told him we’d assess the value of his information to the investigation, and his reward would be contingent. I always say that with a smile—contingent—like it is a particularly good kind of reward. Works like a charm with the less educated. Worked so good this time, the man wanted to keep tellin’ me things. For instance, he volunteered that Ms. Jackson was fuckin’ someone in secret—which I thought was of considerable interest.”
Kline looked puzzled. “The relevance of her sexual activity is . . .”
“The relevance of her fuckin’ has got no relevance at all. What’s of interest is that she’s tryin’ to keep it a secret. Makes you wonder why.”
Beckert pondered this for a few seconds, then shook his head. “The point that matters here is the expanding evidence of BDA involvement. Making threatening antipolice speeches. Renting the sites from which the shots were fired. Providing the vehicle used by the shooter. Beyond that let’s not complicate things with extraneous details. Complication makes the public dizzy. Are we clear on this?”
“Simpler the better,” said Shucker.
“I prefer my simplicity with a twist,” said Cloutz, making his preference sound lascivious. “But I get your point,” he added. “A simple tale of the law versus the lawless.”
Beckert’s gaze moved on to Gurney.
Gurney said nothing.
In the silence there was a sense of imminent confrontation.
Whatever might have occurred was aborted by the surprisingly loud bing of an email arriving on Torres’s computer.
His eyes widened with excitement. “It’s from the Albany computer lab. There’s an attachment. I think it’s the enhanced Corolla shot we’ve been waiting for.” Two clicks later the screen of the wall monitor was filled by a medium close-up of a young man in the driver’s seat. The photo had been taken through the windshield, but whatever glare may have compromised the raw footage had been removed. The sharpness of the image was impressive. The facial details were clear.
The young man’s reddish-blond hair was pulled back from his forehead into a loose ponytail, emphasizing his deep-set eyes and angular features.
Shucker’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth with the last bit of his doughnut. “That boy looks mighty familiar.”
Kline nodded. “Yes. I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
Gurney had also seen the face before—on the giant screen at Marv and Trish Gelter’s house—but the name was eluding him. He remembered it just as Beckert announced it—in a voice as icy as the look in his eyes. “Cory Payne.”
“Cory Payne.” The sheriff articulated the name as though it had a foul taste. “Ain’t he the one behind White Morons Spoutin’ Black Bullshit?”
“White Men for Black Justice,” offered Torres mildly.
The sheriff let out a harsh one-syllable laugh.
“Cory Payne,” repeated Kline slowly. “I’ve seen him on those RAM debate shows.”
“Nazi storm troopers,” said Shucker.
Kline blinked. “How’s that, Dwayne?”
“That’s what he calls the police,” said Shucker. “Boy’s got a hair up his ass about law enforcement.”
“That strident tone of his always sounded to me like grandstanding,” said Kline. “Adolescent nonsense. That’s all I thought it was. Talk.”
“Have to admit I thought that myself,” said the sheriff. “That boy’s voice on the TV sounded like a little dog barkin’ at big dogs. I never would’ve thought he had the balls to be a shooter.”
“Goes to show you never know before you know,” said Shucker, eyeing the piece of doughnut in his hand. “Sometimes the evilest ones are the last ones you’d ever think to look at. Like that sweet little Doris at the Zippy-Mart that chopped up her husband and kept him in the freezer for ten years.”
“Twelve,” said the sheriff. “Goin’ by the dates of the newspapers the pieces was wrapped in.”
Beckert stood up abruptly, his voice like a tight fist. “Enough, gentlemen. The fact is we were all deceived by Payne’s sophomoric gibberish. The situation is critical and the time element is crucial. Detective Torres, put out an immediate APB on Cory Payne.”
“Suspicion of murder?”
“Yes, in the case of John Steele. Attempted murder in the Loomis case. I’ll have Baylor Puckett issue the warrant. Judd Turlock maintains a file of local agitators. He can give you Payne’s address. Get there ASAP, backed up by an assault team in the event that Payne resists. Seal off the apartment. Seize everything. Get Payne’s prints from his personal items and match them to whatever Garrett and Shelby were able to get from the car and the sniper sites. Any questions from the media, refer them to my office. Keep me informed on an hourly basis. Or immediately with any significant development. Questions?”