On Harrow Hill

“Clever as hell,” said Hardwick. “Almost too fucking clever. But it’s conceivable. Not goddamn likely, but more conceivable than the first part of the story—where Tate supposedly goes to Lorinda with an unsolicited offer to kill her husband, and she immediately calls in her friendly neighborhood hit man, who grabs a handful of scalpels and starts slicing throats. That strikes me as fucking nuts.”

“The logistics of that do seem tangled, but I think the basic thrust is valid.”

“The thrust being what exactly?”

“Originally, we thought Tate was the killer. Then we thought Aspern was the killer, trying to make it look like it was Tate. Now I’m pretty sure it was a third individual, trying to make it look like it was Aspern.”

“This third guy being Lorinda’s hit-man accomplice?”

“Yes.”

“And the winner’s name is . . . ?

“My guess is Silas Gant.”

“Based on what? A ten-year-old story about Hanley Bullock dying while being visited by a neat guy with gray hair and a rough guy with ‘OTIS’ tattooed on his knuckles?”

“That, and the fact that Gant’s church was getting major donations from Angus Russell—more likely for services rendered than from the goodness of his heart.”

“Fucking hell, Gurney, you’re not just doing a dance out at the end of a fragile branch, there’s no goddamn branch at all!” Hardwick picked up his coffee mug and took a large swallow.

Gurney shrugged. “I may have the logistics wrong. The truth may be simpler than I’m making it out to be. But I’m convinced there’s an evil relationship at the heart of what’s been happening in Larchfield. And I’d like to prove it.”

“Laudable goal, Sherlock. Any clue on how to make it happen?”

Gurney finished his double espresso before answering in a lowered voice. “Blackmail might be an interesting approach.”

Hardwick leaned back in his creaky chair, apparently giving the suggestion serious thought. “Could be a profitable approach, considering the resources at the disposal of the wealthy widow.”

Gurney sometimes found it difficult to know when Hardwick was joking. “Putting aside the major felony of actual blackmail, I think a pretense of blackmail could provide an interesting window into Lorinda’s guilt or innocence.”

“Sounds to me like you’re putting aside a pot-of-gold opportunity that the good Lord has placed before us. But so be it. Tell me more.”

“I’m thinking we could send a text message to Lorinda from an anonymous prepaid phone. A message that sounds like it’s coming from someone who’s secretly been keeping an eye on her—and who not only saw what happened to Chandler Aspern in the greenhouse, but has photographs of it. The message could conclude with a request for a personal meeting at the Russell house—say tomorrow evening at eight o’clock—along with a demand for ten thousand dollars.”

Hardwick smiled. “Nasty. How do you think she’ll react?”

“If she’s telling the truth about the Aspern shooting, her natural reaction would be to call the police and report receiving a baseless extortion threat. If she’s lying about the shooting, I suspect she’ll bring in some private muscle to deal with her greedy pen pal.”

“You’re imagining the private muscle will be Silas Gant?”

“Or Cousin Otis.”

Hardwick sucked at his teeth. “So, who gets to stand under the portico with his dick in his hand, pretending to be the blackmailer, while Reverend Silas and Cousin Otis lock and load?”

“Nobody. That’s the beauty of it. There’s no actual confrontation involved. A confrontation would be a disaster. The goal is just to discover which option Lorinda chooses—police or private muscle. And if she chooses the latter, it’ll be interesting to see who shows up to help solve her problem.”

“So we’re just observing?”

“Right.”

“From where? The top of a fucking tree?”

“We’re in the twenty-first century, Jack. Ever hear of a device called a drone?”

“Shit, Gurney, the kind of drone you need for serious remote surveillance is no goddamn toy. It’s got to be silent, super-stable, GPS-guidable, with hi-res video transmission, and at least a half hour to an hour flight time. You happen to have one of those in your glove compartment?”

“I don’t, but I’m thinking you could arrange an emergency overnight loan from your friends at the NYSP.”

“Fuck.”

“I knew I could rely on you.”

Hardwick gulped down the rest of his coffee.

50

On his way to Walnut Crossing, Gurney stopped at a mom-and-pop electronics shop in a roadside mall and made a cash purchase of a prepaid phone with a bundle of minutes.

As soon as he got home, he got a pad from the den and wrote out a rough draft of the message, along the lines of what he’d described at Abelard’s. Then he put the draft aside, intending to come back to it later with fresh eyes and make final adjustments to the wording before texting it to Lorinda’s cell number.