On Harrow Hill

“Good news and bad news. The guy I spoke to was the service manager, not the agent who rented the car. They were just closing, and the agent was gone for the day. So I called back this morning. Got the agent. Totally different story. Very vague. And get this. He claims there was a glitch in the system, and the information on the renter was accidentally deleted. And naturally the agent’s description of him is useless. Normal height, normal weight, ordinary voice, wore a hat, wore sunglasses. Could even have been a woman.”

“Interesting.”

“So, the bad news is we don’t know who rented the car. The good news is the slimebag agent was apparently motivated to fuck up the record system, which suggests that the renter bribed him to hide his identity, which suggests you may be right about the car being used for a shady purpose.”

“Nice to discover I’m moving in the right direction.”

“So the evidence would suggest. But be careful where you step, Davey boy. Pride goeth before the fall. And I’d hate to see you trip into a pile of shit.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as he ended the call he placed one to Slovak.

“Brad, I need a favor. Remember those three churches over in Bastenburg that had the Dark Angel message scrawled on their doors?”

“Absolutely. We had the uniforms out canvassing for anyone who might’ve seen Tate’s orange Jeep in the neighborhood.”

“We need to go back and ask about a dark blue BMW—and whether anyone can recall anything about the driver. I know these things get hazy fast, but it’s worth a try.”

“This is ringing a bell. Hold on a second, let me bring up the interview reports on the computer.”

A minute or two later, Slovak was back. “I knew it sounded familiar. The manager of an all-night laundromat down the block from one of the churches said there was, quote, ‘one of them fancy BMWs’ in his parking lot the night in question. He noticed it because, ‘Ain’t nobody in Bastenburg got the spare cash for a ride like that.’ We didn’t follow up because we were just looking for people who saw Tate’s Jeep.”

“I need you to pay him a visit and find out if he saw the driver. But keep that between you and me for now.”

“Will do.”

Gurney gave his next call some thought before placing it. He was reluctant to disturb Morgan, but even more reluctant to withhold information that could upend the case conclusion presented to the public.

Morgan picked up on the fourth ring.

“Yeah?” His voice sounded dull as lead.

“Mike? This is Dave Gurney.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry to be bothering you, Mike, but there are some developments in the Russell case that you need to be aware of.”

Morgan didn’t reply.

“Would it be all right if I came to see you?”

“Yeah.”

He asked Morgan for his home address, entered it in his GPS, and set out.

The splendid May morning was largely wasted on him, preoccupied as he was by Morgan’s emotional state, which sounded darker than normal grief.

He’d once told Gurney that his home was in the wilderness outside Larchfield—an apt description, Gurney discovered, as his GPS led him off the county route onto a rutted road that wound its way through several miles of boggy woodland before arriving at a log home in the middle of a small clearing. The lawn needed mowing. Beds of wilted pansies and daffodils separated the lawn from the house.

Gurney pulled up next to Morgan’s Tahoe in front of a covered porch and got out. There were four Adirondack chairs on the porch. Morgan was sitting in one of them. His hair was uncombed, he needed a shave, and his shirt had the wrinkled look of having been slept in.

Gurney sat in the chair nearest him. “How are you doing, Mike?”

Morgan smiled in a way that conveyed only depression. “The case is messed up, right? That what you came to tell me?”

“There’s evidence that suggests it may be more complicated than we thought.”

“More complicated?”

“There are problems with the version given to Cam Stryker.”

“Problems?”

“Serious doubts.”

“Christ.” He shook his head slowly. “It never ends. It just gets worse. Worse and worse.”

Gurney noted a half-empty bottle of bourbon by the leg of Morgan’s chair. He wondered if the man were drunk as well as depressed and grieving.

Morgan coughed weakly, his body shaking. “You heard about Peale suing Fallow? Alleging gross incompetence. Failure to conduct appropriate tests to justify the pronouncement of death. Causing irreparable harm to his funeral home and personal reputation.”

He picked up the bourbon bottle, looked at it, moistened his lips, then put it back. He turned to Gurney. “You suggesting that Aspern isn’t our perp after all?”

“All we know at the moment is that someone seems to have gone to considerable trouble to incriminate him.”

“What about that bloody mess at Lorinda’s? Wasn’t he trying to kill her?”

“The situation may not be what it seems to be.”

Morgan’s eyes widened slowly. “I don’t understand.”