“I’m trying. Keep talking.”
“So I called Blumberg, who sounds kinda geriatric on the phone. I told him we were investigating the recent death of one of his former campers and needed some information about the summer he spent at Brightwater. He told me a big fire there a long time ago destroyed the office and all their records—handwritten on index cards in shoeboxes. But when I mentioned the specific year—thirteen years ago—that Steve was there, I got a funny reaction from him, like I got from Stevie’s parents. Didn’t want to talk about anyone or anything connected with that summer—at least not on the phone. Had to be face-to-face. So I made an appointment for you. Eleven AM. Tomorrow morning. Man leaves at two sharp for JFK.”
“What did you tell him about me?”
“That you’re a New York detective working on the case.”
“A private New York detective?”
“I may not have emphasized that specific adjective.”
“You told him I’m NYPD?”
“I believe I mentioned that connection.”
“In the present or past tense?”
“That’s a tough one. Easy to get confused about tenses. Like Bill Clinton said, it all depends on what the meaning of ‘is’ is.”
“If he asks about it, I’m not going to lie to him.”
“Naturally. The truth is our friend.”
Gurney sighed. “You want to give me his address?”
“Twenty-seven ninety-nine Brightwater Lane, Otterville.” He paused, presumably to give Gurney time to write it down, before switching gears. “Let me ask you something. You pretty sure you’re speaking from a bug-free environment?”
“Pretty sure, apart from the position trackers. I’m in my car, and my phone is clean, far as I can tell. But Hammond’s chalet is another story.”
“What did you find?”
“Three audio transmitters.”
“No shit! I knew it!”
Taking out the scanner and retrieving the archived scan of the chalet, Gurney gave Hardwick the location, frequency, and signal-strength data that had been gathered. He then recounted Jane’s peculiar story regarding the consecutive November disappearances and reappearances of the bloodstone finial that contained one of the bugs.
“Holy fuck.” Hardwick whistled softly and zeroed in on the timing issue. “Someone was bugging Hammond at least a year before the shit hit the fan? Why?”
“That’s an interesting question. If we can answer it, we’ll be halfway home.”
Gurney ended the call, locked the car, and headed into the lodge.
He spotted Madeleine hunkered down by the fire in the Hearth Room.
Austen Steckle came out of his office. “Mr. Gurney, I need to talk to you.” He was glancing around, almost furtively, as if to emphasize the sensitivity of the subject matter. His shaved head was again glistening with sweat.
“Fenton came by looking for you. I gotta say, he didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked seriously pissed off. More pissed off than you’d want a man in his position to be. Just letting you know.”
“Did he say what his problem was?”
“He was throwing legal terms around. ‘Obstruction of justice’ was one of them. ‘Interfering in the investigation of a felony’ was another one. Boil it down, I got the feeling he expected you to be gone by now, and he’s pissed off at you still being here. All I’m doing is passing that along. Word to the wise. Man’s got the power to throw a hornet’s nest at you.”
Gurney blinked, almost laughed, at the image. “I appreciate the heads-up. By the way, did Peyton fill you in on our little get-together?”
“Yeah, little while ago. He said it was all cool. No problems. That true?”
Gurney shrugged. “I guess everything is relative. Do you happen to know who the naked woman with him might be?”
Steckle grinned. “Which naked woman? Peyton’s got a lot of naked women.”
“Then I guess it doesn’t matter much.”
It was Steckle’s turn to shrug. “So, basically, you’re saying your interview went okay?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“So, you got any idea when you folks are moving on? When Fenton comes back, I’d like to know what to tell him.”
“Soon. Tell him we’ll be moving on soon.”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Then Steckle nodded, turned away, and went back to his office.
Gurney went to join Madeleine in the Hearth Room.
He took the chair next to hers, facing the fire. He closed his eyes, searching for the right way to raise the issue that was gnawing at him—when she raised it herself.
“Do you really think it’s a bad idea for me to talk to Richard?”
“I certainly think it’s a questionable idea.”
“At the chalet you looked like you were about to explode.”
“To be honest, I was shocked. Your desire to share something intensely private with someone in his situation baffles me. Isn’t this the same guy you were furious at yesterday? The guy you told me was a liar because he claimed to have no insight into himself? The guy you told me was trying to manipulate us, make fools of us?”
Madeleine sighed. “I was angry because he hit a raw nerve. I was actually the one who had no insight. I was the one who thought the past had been dealt with. He wasn’t the dishonest one, I was.” She uttered an ironic little laugh. “Nothing leaves you more vulnerable to your past than the illusion that you’ve dealt with it.”
It struck him that there was a great deal of truth in that. But he still didn’t think that her plan to discuss her past with Hammond was a good idea.
As if in response to this silent objection, she looked pleadingly into his eyes. “I have to do something. Now. Coming here has brought up memories. I can’t get them out of my mind.”
He wanted to know exactly what memories she was talking about. But he was afraid to ask. He was afraid he might discover that the part of Madeleine he’d never known was the part that mattered the most.
She turned toward him, her hands gripping the padded leather arm of her chair. “If I don’t do something I’ll fall apart. I can feel it. Please understand. I have no other options. At least seeing Hammond tomorrow morning is something.”
CHAPTER 33
There was a ringing sound in his dream. The sound morphed into an image of something glittering. The glittering blue-green eyes of Richard Hammond. Glittering. Ringing.
“David, it’s your phone.” Madeleine was standing next to the bed in a white terry-cloth robe. Her hair was wet. She was extending the phone toward him.
He took it, blinked to focus his vision, saw that the ID had been blocked. The time on the phone was 6:46 AM. He pushed himself up into a sitting position on the side of the bed.
“Gurney here.”
“Sorry to wake you, David. It’s Robin Wigg.”
“No problem. I should have been up already.”
“Ever since I sent you that text, I’ve been debating the need for a follow-up call.”
“I gathered from the wording that it’s a sensitive area.”
“An understatement. By the way, I’m calling unofficially, from out of the office. I’ll get to the point. First, regarding that photo of an open phone. The transmitter inserted in the place of the normal microphone is a highly restricted device. I don’t mean restricted to the feds in general. I mean restricted to the inner sanctum of national security. Are you hearing what I’m telling you?”