Although he was aware that the largest part of detective work involved slogging along unproductive paths, Madeleine’s comment had left him with a feeling of restlessness, an itch to accelerate the process. After considering some actionable next steps, he decided to pursue an answer to a question that intrigued him.
If there was a reasonable doubt about the involvement of Cory Payne, then any possible aid provided to him by the Black Defense Alliance was equally questionable. But if the BDA was not involved in the planning or execution of the shootings, why had Marcel Jordan leased the two shooting sites? Or had he, in fact, even done so? The fact that his name appeared on the leases fell short of proving his involvement. The leasing brokers might be able to shed some light on the matter. Gurney placed a call to Torres to get the brokers’ names.
Torres responded without hesitation. “Laura Conway at Acme Realty.”
“She’s the broker for both locations?”
“For most of the rental properties in White River. There are other brokers in town, but Acme manages almost all the rentals. We have a good relationship. Is there some way I can help?”
“I want to find out about the lease agreements on the Bridge Street apartment and the Poulter Street house—specifically, whether anyone at the realty company had direct contact with Marcel Jordan.”
“If you want, I can ask about that for you. Or if you’d rather, I can have Laura Conway call you directly.”
“The second option would be best. Depending on what she says about Jordan, I may have follow-up questions.”
“I’ll see if I can reach her now. Sometimes she works late. Let me get back to you.”
Five minutes later Torres called back.
“Conway is on vacation up in the Maine woods, no cell phone, no internet, no email, but she should be back in the office in three or four days.”
“Do you know if anyone else in the office was involved with those contracts?”
“I asked. The answer was no. Laura handled both of them personally.”
“Okay, I appreciate the effort. You’ll try again when she’s due back?”
“Absolutely.” He hesitated. “You think there’s something wrong with the contracts?”
“I’d like to know whether Jordan himself personally leased those places. By the way, you mentioned the department has a good relationship with Acme. What sort of good relationship?”
“Just . . . good.”
“Mark, you’re not a particularly good liar.”
Torres hesitated. “I have to testify at a trial in Albany tomorrow morning. I need to be there by ten. I could stop off in Walnut Crossing around eight. Could we meet someplace and talk?”
“There’s a place for coffee in Dillweed. It’s called Abelard’s. On the county road in the center of the village. I can be there at eight.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Gurney knew if he gave in to the inclination to speculate, he’d waste a lot of time trying to arrive at an answer that would likely be handed to him the following morning. Instead he placed a call to Jack Hardwick.
It went to voicemail, and he left a message.
“Gurney here. I’m getting some ugly ideas about this case, and I need you to tell me what’s wrong with them. I’m going to be at Abelard’s tomorrow morning to meet with a young detective. He has to get to Albany for a trial, and he’ll need to be on his way by eight thirty. If you can come then, that would be ideal.”
36
When Gurney pulled into the tiny parking area in front of Abelard’s at 7:55 AM, the Crown Vic was already there.
He found Torres at one of the rickety antique tables in the back. Every time he saw the young detective, he looked a little younger and a little more lost. His shoulders were hunched, and he was holding his coffee mug in both hands as if he were trying to give them something to do.
Gurney sat opposite him.
“I remember this place when I was a little kid,” said Torres. His voice conveyed the special tension produced by trying to sound relaxed. “Back then it was a dusty old general store. Used to sell live bait. For fishing. Before it got all fixed up.”
“You grew up in Dillweed?”
“No. Out in Binghamton. But I had an aunt and uncle here. They immigrated from Puerto Rico about ten years before my parents and I came up. They had a small dairy farm. Compared to Binghamton, this was real country. The area hasn’t changed much. Mostly got poorer, more run-down. But this place sure got fixed up.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Have you heard about the latest problem in the search for the Gorts?”
“What now?”
“That second K9 dog they brought in—it got a crossbow arrow through its head, just like the first. And the state police helicopter had to make an emergency landing in one of the old quarries—some kind of mechanical problem. Just the kind of a mess the media loves—and Beckert hates.”
Gurney said nothing. He was waiting for Torres to get to the real point of their meeting. He ordered a double espresso from Marika, whose spiked hair that morning was only one color, a relatively conservative silver blond.
Torres took a deep breath. “Sorry about dragging you out here like this. We probably could have talked on the phone, but . . .” He shook his head. “I guess I’m getting kind of paranoid.”
“I know the feeling.”
Torres’s eyes widened. “You? You seem . . . unshakable.”
“Sometimes I am, sometimes I’m not.”
Torres bit his lower lip. He seemed to be steeling himself for a dive off the high board. “You asked about Acme Realty.”
“About Acme’s relationship with the department.”
“The way I understand it, it’s kind of a reciprocal arrangement.”
“Meaning what?’
“Rental management can be a tough business in some neighborhoods. Not just trying to collect rent from deadbeats, but nastier stuff. Dealers turning the property into a crack house. Illegal activity that can void the owner’s insurance. Tenants threatening to kill landlords. Gangbangers scaring decent tenants away. Apartments getting trashed. You’re a landlord in a tough area like Grinton, you’re going to be dealing with some dangerously crazy tenants.”
“So what’s the reciprocal arrangement?”
“Acme gets the support it needs from the department. Gangbangers, drug dealers, and crazies are persuaded to move on. People who don’t pay their rent are persuaded to do so.”
“What does the department get in return?”
“Access.”
“Access to what?”
“To any rental unit Acme manages.”
“The Poulter Street house?”
“Yes.”
“The Bridge Street apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Cory Payne’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
Marika arrived with his espresso. “God,” she said. “You boys look super serious. Whatever you do for a living, I’m glad I don’t do it. You want sugar with that?”
Gurney shook his head. When she was gone he said, “So, we’re talking about warrantless searches?”
Torres said nothing, just nodded.
“So let’s say you have a vague suspicion there might be some illegal activity in a particular apartment, but nothing concrete. And you know that no one is home during the day. So what then? You call up that Conway woman and ask her for a key?”
Torres looked around nervously. “No, you go to Turlock.”
“And he calls Conway?”
“I don’t know. I just know he’s the one you’d go to, and he’d supply the key.”
“So you take the key, you check out the premises, you see the evidence you guessed might be there. Then what?”