It was as simple as that.
He hoped his lack of candor in getting what he needed wouldn’t create problems for her. There could be repercussions arising from his having presented credentials that were arguably no longer valid, but he figured that any blowback from that would be directed at him, not her.
His plan was to head home and review the list she’d given him. Not that he thought it would produce any sudden insights, but it couldn’t hurt to gain a familiarity with the names in the event that one popped up later in a related context. And there was a fair chance that someone on that list had been sufficiently afraid of Loomis’s possible recovery, afraid of what he might reveal, to make sure it wouldn’t happen.
The sequence of letters and numbers on the index card flashed through Gurney’s mind. If those obscure characters did in fact represent the information that Loomis had been shot and then fatally stabbed with an ice pick to prevent him from divulging, it was now more vital than ever to decipher their meaning.
As he was passing the Larvaton exit on the interstate on his way back to Walnut Crossing, wondering if the digits in the message, 13111, might be a postal box number, his phone rang.
It was Whittaker Coolidge.
His voice was tight. Gurney couldn’t tell whether from excitement or fear.
“I was able to get in touch with the individual you were asking about. I think some communication can be arranged.”
“Good. Is there a next step?”
“Are you still here in town?”
“I can be back there in twenty minutes.”
“Come to my office. I’ll know then how to proceed.”
Gurney exited at the next cloverleaf and headed back to White River. He parked in the same space by the graveyard, and went into the church building by the back door.
Coolidge was in his office, seated at his desk. He was in his clerical uniform—black suit, dark-gray shirt, white collar. His sandy hair was combed and parted.
“Have a seat.” He pointed to a wooden chair by his desk.
Gurney remained standing. The room felt chillier than it had earlier. Perhaps because the fire in the grate had gone out. Coolidge interlaced his fingers. The gesture looked half prayerful, half anxious.
“I spoke to Cory Payne.”
“And . . .”
“I think he wants to talk to you as much as you want to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“Because of the murder charge. He sounds furious and frightened.”
“When do we meet?”
“There’s an intermediate step. I’m supposed to call a number he gave me and put the phone on speaker. He wants to ask some questions before you get together. Is that okay?”
Gurney nodded.
Coolidge picked up his landline handset, tapped in a number, and held it to his ear. A few seconds later he said, “Yes . . . all set . . . I’m putting you on speaker.” He pressed a button and returned the handset to its base. “Go ahead.”
A sharp, edgy voice from the speaker said, “This is Cory Payne. David Gurney? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I have questions for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you agree with what Dell Beckert has been saying about the shootings and the Black Defense Alliance?”
“I don’t have enough facts to agree or disagree.”
“Do you agree with his accusation against me?”
“Same answer.”
“Have you ever shot anyone?”
“Yes. A couple of psychotic murderers who were pointing guns at me.”
“How about shootings that weren’t so easily justifiable?”
“There were no others. And ‘justifiable’ has never meant much to me.”
“You don’t care if a killing is justifiable?”
“To kill or not to kill is a question of necessity, not justification.”
“Really? When is killing another human being necessary?”
“When it will save a life that there’s no other way of saving.”
“Including your own?”
“Including my own.”
“And you’re the sole judge of that necessity?”
“In most cases there’s no opportunity for a broader discussion.”
“Have you ever framed an innocent person?”
“No.”
“Have you ever framed a guilty person—someone you were sure was guilty but you didn’t have enough legitimate evidence to prove it in court?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
“Many times.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I hate liars, and I don’t want to hate myself.”
There was a silence, lasting long enough that Gurney thought the connection might have been broken.
Eventually Coolidge intervened. “Cory? You still there?”
“I’m thinking about Mr. Gurney’s answers.”
There was another silence, not quite so long.
“Okay,” said the voice on the speaker. “We can go ahead with this.”
“As planned?” asked Coolidge.
“As planned.”
Coolidge pressed a button on the handset to end the call. He looked relieved if not quite relaxed. “That went well.”
“Now what?”
“Now we talk.” The sharp, edgy voice came from behind Gurney.
33
Cory Payne’s lean body in the doorway appeared poised to spring—but whether toward or away from Gurney was unclear. There were traces of Dell Beckert in his athletic physique, chiseled face, and unblinking stare. But there was something else in his eyes as well, an acid in place of his father’s arrogance.
Payne and Gurney were facing each other. Coolidge was sitting behind his desk. He pushed his chair back, but remained seated—as if by some peculiar calculation he had decided that the available standing room was already occupied.
Gurney spoke first. “I appreciate your willingness to talk to me.”
“It’s not a favor. I need to know what the hell is going on.”
Coolidge eased his chair back a few more inches and gestured toward the armchairs by the fireplace. “Would you gentlemen like to sit down?”
Without taking his eyes off Gurney, Payne moved cautiously to the brown leather chair on the far side of the hearth. Gurney took the matching one facing it.
Gurney studied Payne’s face. “You resemble your father.”
His mouth twitched. “The man who’s calling me a murderer.”
Gurney paused, struck by the young man’s voice. The timbre was the same as his father’s, but the tone was tighter, angrier.
“When did you change your name from Beckert to Payne?”
“As soon as I could.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because that patriarchal thing is bullshit. I had a mother as well as a father. Her name was Payne. I preferred it. What difference does it make? I thought we were going to talk about these murders I’m being accused of.”
“We are.”
“Well?”
“Did you commit them?”
“No! That’s ridiculous! A stupid, disgusting idea.”
“Why is it ridiculous?”
“It just is. Steele and Loomis were good people. Not like the rest of that stinking department. What’s happening now scares the shit out of me.”
“Why?”
“Look at who’s dead. Look at who’s being blamed. Who do you think will be next?”
“I’m not following you.”
Payne counted the names off on his fingers with increasing agitation. “Steele . . . Loomis . . . Jordan . . . Tooker. All dead. And who’s being blamed? The Gort brothers. And me. You see the pattern?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Seven people with one thing in common! We’ve all created problems for the sainted police chief. He’d be much happier if none of us existed. And now he’s got four of us out of the way.”