On Harrow Hill

Clarice was nodding. “It was way too fast. Everyone was in a hurry. I told the big guy with the beard, the one who said he was his cousin, I told him that Bullock was a month behind in his rent. He asked me how much he owed, took out his wallet, and gave me the money in cash. Didn’t even ask for a receipt. I wasn’t worried about it at the time. I’m being totally honest here, it doesn’t sound nice, but I just wanted the damn body out of that apartment. But I got to thinking about it ­afterward—what the heck was the big rush?”

“Interesting. So, there were three people involved in the removal—the guy with the beard, the doctor, and the hearse driver. I know it was a long time ago, but I’d like you to try to picture them. As best you can. Any details you can remember—anything at all, no matter how trivial it might seem.”

They looked at each other. Clarice spoke first. “The big guy was like six three, six four, black leather jacket, big beard, dull eyes. The hearse driver . . .” She hesitated. “I think he was kinda thin, balding. In his forties, I’d guess. Maybe around the same age as Mr. Bullock. Anything come to your mind, George?”

He shook his head.

“What about the doctor?” asked Gurney.

She closed her eyes tightly, as if straining again to visualize something. “My own height, I think, because I sort of recall being even with him, not looking up or down. I remember him being neatly dressed, maybe in a dark suit? And sunglasses. He was wearing sunglasses, so I didn’t see his eyes. I don’t remember anything else, except his hair.”

“What about his hair?”

“It was perfect,” said Clarice.

“Too perfect,” said George.

“What color was it?”

“Gray,” said George.

“Silver,” said Clarice.

45

At 6:07 p.m. by his dashboard clock, about halfway home, Gurney pulled over on the weedy shoulder of the road to make some calls. The first, to Madeleine, which went to voicemail, was to apologize for not being there to get dinner ready and to let her know that he’d be arriving around 6:45.

His next call, to Hardwick, also went to voicemail. He left a message.

“I’m hoping we can get together tomorrow. The Larchfield situation may be wrapped up. But it feels a little off-center. I just discovered something that could be an unexploded bomb. I can be at Abelard’s by eleven. If you can’t make it, call me. Otherwise, I’ll see you there.”

His third call was to Slovak, who picked up on the first ring.

“Yes, sir?”

“Hi, Brad. I was wondering if you had any luck yet with your search for Aspern’s phone.”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“I mean, we didn’t find it, but we weren’t looking very long. The chief pulled everyone off the case. He said it’s done and over with, and he reassigned everyone to normal duties.” He paused. “You think that’s a problem?”

“I have no idea.” Gurney was thinking it might very well turn out to be a problem, but there was no point in putting Slovak between a rock and a hard place.

“I was wondering . . . are you still interested in knowing about stuff related to the case?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well . . . an odd thing happened about an hour ago. I got a call from Harold Storm, who owns the liquor store in town. He’d heard about Aspern committing the murders that had been blamed on Tate and then getting shot at the Russell estate.”

“And?”

“He said Aspern had been in the store earlier that evening, and that he’d bought a bottle of wine.”

“So?”

“It was a three-hundred-dollar bottle.”

“What was his point in telling you this?”

“He said since it was Aspern, and since he was in the store just a few hours before he got shot, he thought he should let us know. You think it means anything?”

“Hard to say,” said Gurney. “But you sound like you’ve been giving it some thought.”

“Actually, I have. And I figured maybe the wine was to celebrate—you know, later that night.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Getting rid of Lorinda.”

“You figure he was planning to cut her throat, pop the cork, and celebrate his victory?”

“Can’t you just see it?”

Not really, thought Gurney, but he didn’t say so.

For the rest of his drive to Walnut Crossing, his mind was leaping from case to case, from Aspern back to Bullock, from ten years ago to the present. He was trying not to give too much weight to what the Flaccos told him. Ten years after the events, the “facts” in their memories were simply not reliable. He reminded himself of the lessons he taught at the academy regarding the fallibility of eyewitnesses and the overeagerness of investigators to believe them.

When he finally got home, it was nearly seven. The dishes in the sink revealed that Madeleine had already eaten, as did the sound of her cello coming from the upstairs room where she practiced after dinner. He went to the wok on the stove and found a still-warm mixture of rice, scallops, and bok choy. He went to the foot of the stairs and called up to Madeleine.

“I’m home.”

“Good,” she called back without interrupting her melodic bowing. “Dinner’s in the wok.”

“Sorry I’m so late. Something came up.”

There was no answer but the music.