On Harrow Hill

“Technically, that’s true. This morning the DA sat through a presentation of a fairly convincing point-by-point scenario—complete with physical evidence, including Billy Tate’s chopped-off hand. The three murders originally attributed to Tate, as well as the murder of Tate himself, have now been attributed to Chandler Aspern. Aspern’s own homicide has been accepted as a noncriminal act of self-­defense. So we have five dead bodies, all neatly packaged with a narrative blessed by the DA herself. Case officially closed.”

“But?”

“I have an uncomfortable feeling about it all.”

44

After applying another coat of paint to the barn door and cutting back the fast-growing shoots of the forsythia next to it, Gurney spent the remainder of the afternoon on his riding mower. It had been a wetter-than-average early May, the grass was thriving, and the perimeter paths were blending into the fields they circled.

When Madeleine moved through an environment like that, it captivated her with the details of its beauty—the wildflowers dotted over the hillside, the songs of the meadow birds, the colors of the butterflies. For him, it was mainly a nonintrusive backdrop for his own thoughts. Those thoughts, as he rode the mower along the sunny border of the high pasture, were following shadowy paths through the unresolved issues of the case.

Most perplexing to him were Aspern’s motives, not only for defacing his barn, but for attacking Lorinda Russell. And there was the disappearance of Randall Fleck, with its echo of the disappearances of Angus Russell’s enemies. There was no apparent link between those old events and this new one. But what if there was? So his thoughts went, winding in circles, going nowhere.

That evening after dinner, he decided to give Mike Morgan a call and share his concerns.

Morgan’s reaction was angry and dismissive.

“Christ, Dave, I spent two hours with Carmody this afternoon polishing our closing statement to the media. Smooth, well-reasoned, coherent. We recorded it, and he sent it out to every media outlet that’s been covering the case. Now you come to me with doubts, poking holes in the logic? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“You had this same reaction when I questioned Tate’s role in the case, and again when I raised a concern about the BMW on my road. You didn’t want to hear it.”

“Fine. But what am I supposed to do? Issue a retraction?”

“I’m not suggesting you go public with anything at this point. All I’m doing is sharing the questions that are on my mind. Doesn’t it bother you that we don’t really know why Aspern tried to kill Lorinda, or why he chose to do it that particular night?”

“Life is full of questions I can’t answer. Can’t we just let this resolution alone? For God’s sake, Dave, let it rest in peace!”

With Morgan on the edge of panic, Gurney ended the call. As he stood on the patio in the gathering dusk, watching the evening breeze bend the tops of the asparagus ferns, a question that had occurred to him before was nagging at him again. Had Russell installed Morgan as police chief in spite of his weaknesses . . . or because of them?

He awoke the following morning in a more pragmatic frame of mind. With Morgan determined to drop the final curtain on the case, it was obvious that his own relationship with the Larchfield PD was about to end. He decided to prepare for that possibility.

As soon as he got dressed and switched on the coffee maker, he called Slovak.

“Morning, sir, what’s up?” There was a case-closed cheeriness in his voice.

“Morning, Brad. I need a copy of the Russell case file with up-to-date interview notes and verbatims, plus a USB drive with the security videos and crime-scene photos. I’ll be there at nine thirty. Can you have all that ready for me by then?”

“Absolutely.”

It wasn’t that he intended to continue a private investigation of an officially closed case. He just wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Without waking Madeleine, he set out immediately for Larchfield. The previous day’s sunny weather had been replaced by an unsettled atmosphere that carried the threat of thunderstorms.

He parked on Cotswold Lane in front of police headquarters. As soon as he entered, the desk sergeant held up a bulging manila envelope.

“For you, from Slovak.”

Gurney took the envelope and left immediately to minimize the chance of encountering Morgan. Back in his car, he opened the envelope to be sure it contained the requested USB drive. Then he made his way around the one-way streets bordering the village square, drove up and over the hill that separated Larchfield from Bastenburg, and headed for home.

By the time he got back to Walnut Crossing at 10:40 a.m., dark clouds were massing, and there were rumbles of thunder. As he was parking next to the asparagus patch, raindrops began splattering on the windshield. He hurried into the house and closed the French doors by the breakfast table, then brought his laptop out from the den.