He arrived there in less than three minutes.
Bacon Street had that universal quality of run-down areas—the brighter the day, the worse it looked. But at least it had escaped the arson outbreaks that had made some Grinton streets uninhabitable. The building number he was looking for was in the middle of the block. He parked in a no-parking zone by a hydrant and got out. It was a convenience when one was on police business, with the downside that it announced that one was on police business.
A man with tattooed arms and a red bandanna on his head was working on one of the ground-floor windows. He commented as Gurney approached, “Nice goddamn surprise.” His voice was rough but not hostile.
“What’s the surprise?”
“You’re a cop, right?”
“Right. And who are you?”
“I’m superintendent for all the buildings on this block. Paul Parkman’s the name.”
“What surprised you, Paul?”
“In my memory, this is the first time they sent anyone the same morning we called.”
“You called the police? What for?”
He pointed to a pried-apart security grating on the window. “Bastards broke in during the night. Vacant apartment, nothing to steal. So they shit on the floor. Two of them. Two separate piles of shit. Maybe you can get some DNA?”
“Interesting idea, Paul. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” He uttered a sharp bark of a laugh. “Then what are you here for?”
“I need to check one of the apartments. Top floor, 4B. You know if it’s occupied?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning?”
“Yes, there’s officially a tenant. No, they’re never here.”
“Never?”
“Not to my knowledge. What is it you want to check? You think someone’s dead in there?”
“I doubt it. Any obstructions on the stairs?”
“Not to my knowledge. You want me to come up with you?”
“No need for that. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Gurney entered the building. The tiled foyer was reasonably clean, the staircase adequately lighted, and the all-too-common tenement odors of cabbage, urine, and vomit blessedly faint. The top-floor landing had been mopped in the not-too-distant past, and the two apartment doors on it were legibly marked—4A at one end, 4B at the other.
He pulled his Beretta out of its ankle holster, chambered a round, and clicked off the safety. He stood to the side of the 4B door and knocked on it. There was no response, no sound at all. He knocked harder, this time shouting, “Police! Open the door!”
Still nothing.
He inserted the key, turned the lock, and pushed the door open. He was struck immediately by the musty odor of a space whose windows hadn’t been opened for a very long time. He clicked the safety back on and slipped the Beretta into his jacket pocket. He switched on the ceiling light in the small entry hall and began making his way around the rather cramped apartment.
There was a small eat-in kitchen, a small living room, and a small bedroom and a closet-sized bathroom—all looking out over a weedy vacant lot. There was no furniture nor any other sign of habitation. And yet Blaze Jackson, supposedly acting for Jordan, had paid cash for a yearlong lease.
Had the place already served some purpose and been abandoned? Or was it intended for some future use? He stood at the living room window pondering the situation. The view from that window included some of Grinton, some of Bluestone, a narrow slice of Willard Park, and—he’d almost missed it through the hazy glass—the front of the police headquarters building. As he watched, a uniformed cop came out the main door, got into a squad car in the parking lot, and drove off.
His mind jumped to the obvious explanation that the apartment had been leased as a third potential sniper site. Why the other two had been used instead was a question that would need more thought. At the moment, however, it was outweighed by his desire to visit Rapture Hill. Perhaps when they were considered together the purpose of each location would become clearer.
57
Gurney by nature tended to go where his curiosity drew him without being overly concerned about backup. Oddities and discrepancies attracted his attention, arousing a desire to examine them more closely, even under conditions that might give others pause. In fact, it was his intention to proceed directly to the house at the end of Rapture Hill Road and no doubt that’s what he would have done, if Madeleine had not called while he was on his way.
She said she had no special reason for calling him, just a free moment and was wondering what he was doing. As he answered in some detail she was silent; he sensed the situation he was describing was making her uncomfortable.
Finally she said, “I don’t think you should go there alone. It’s too isolated. You don’t know what you could be walking into.”
She was right, of course. And while at another time he might have dismissed her concern, he was now inclined to be guided by it. At the next intersection he pulled over in front of an abandoned farm stand. The faded word “Pumpkins” appeared on a deteriorating sign.
He thought about the possibilities for backup. Any solution involving Kline, the WRPD, or the sheriff’s department would create its own set of problems. He decided to try Hardwick.
“Rapture Hill? The fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a house in the middle of nowhere, where Dell Beckert might possibly be holed up.”
“What makes this a possibility?”
“The house was leased by Blaze Jackson, who almost certainly had some sort of relationship with Beckert. She paid the eighteen-thousand-dollar annual rent in advance. I doubt she had access to that kind of money herself, but I’m sure Beckert did. And the house is just a few miles from the gas station where his Durango was sighted a day or so after he disappeared. So it’s worth a look.”
“If you don’t mind wasting your time, go look.”
“I intend to.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“A possible welcoming committee.”
Hardwick paused for a moment. “You want Uncle Jack to ride shotgun again to cover your cowardly ass.”
“Something like that.”
“If the son of a bitch is there, maybe I could find a reason to pop him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’re taking the joy out of this. The only upside of riding shotgun is getting to fire the fucking thing.”
“Well, there’s a chance we might run into the Gorts.”
“Okay. Where do I find you?”
The meeting place Gurney chose, after consulting Google Maps on his phone, was the intersection of a winding wilderness lane called Rockton Way and the starting point of Rapture Hill Road. When he got there he parked in a weedy space between the road surface and the evergreen woods.
According to his dashboard clock, a quarter of an hour had now passed since his call with Hardwick. He figured it would take Jack another half hour to make the trip from Dillweed. He fought an urge to proceed at least part of the way up Rapture Hill on his own. Not only would that defeat the purpose of having called Hardwick, it would increase the level of risk in return for no benefit other than learning thirty minutes sooner whatever there was to be learned.
He tilted his seat back and waited, occupying his mind with various permutations of who might have set up whom for each of the seven murders and why. He kept coming back to the question that had been haunting him for some time. Did the murders necessitate the apparent frame jobs, or were the frame jobs the goal that necessitated the murders? And did the same answer apply to each case?