On Harrow Hill

He was elated at finally grasping the simple truth at the root of it all, embarrassed by how easily he’d been deceived by the sequential narrative presented by Kyra Barstow and Greta Vickerz, and doubly embarrassed by having fallen into one of the classic traps he’d warned his academy class against. Worst of all, he’d ignored the investigation axiom tattooed on the arm of his crusty NYPD mentor:

Believe nothing. Trust no one. Question everything.

The excitement of clarity soon pushed his embarrassment aside. However, he realized that all his excitement had little practical value. He was sure of what had happened, but he had no proof. And acquiring that proof would not be easy, since almost everyone involved in the case was now dead.

With little time to waste, he decided to proceed immediately along one of the few still-open pathways. The first thing he did after hurrying into the house was call Slovak.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“The first day I came to Larchfield I saw Peale’s Lexus jacked up in back of the funeral home. He later told me he’d borrowed the jack from a neighbor. Do you know who that might be?”

“My bet would be Hugh Stanhope. Man owns five Ferraris. Richer than God, but likes to get his hands dirty. Once he offered to soup up our Dodge Chargers. Why?”

“Do you think you could get the brand and model number of that jack from him—the one he lent to Peale?”

“I guess so. Sure. But—”

“It’s a long story, Brad. But I’m in a time crunch. I’ll explain later.”

“I’ll give him a call and get right back to you.”

Next he called Barstow and got her voicemail.

“Hi, Kyra. I have a question for you to pass along to that tech in your computer forensics department, the one who found the sonic anomaly in the mortuary video. Ask him if it could have been caused by that segment of the audio having been recorded twice. I just want a simple answer, no technical explanation required. And, yes, of course it’s urgent. Thanks.”

Realizing he was hungry, he opened a loaf of whole wheat bread and made himself a sandwich of cheese and pickles. Then he turned on the coffee machine and washed one of the mugs in the sink. As he was drying it, his phone rang.

It was Slovak with the jack information he’d asked for.

Gurney thanked him and went immediately to his laptop and the manufacturer’s website. He found the information he was looking for deep in the device’s technical specs. Like some of his other discoveries, by itself it proved nothing, but it encouraged him to take the next step.

He called Slovak again.

“Brad, we need to talk to Peale ASAP. I want you to locate him and let him know that, without realizing it, he may have some critical, time-sensitive information related to the case. Do it face-to-face.”

“Should I have him come in to headquarters?”

“That would be ideal. But if there’s some reason he can’t or won’t do that, just stay with him and let him know I’m on my way. Then call me and tell me where you are.”

“Will do.” Slovak hesitated. “Should we let Stryker know?”

“Not yet. I want to nail down a few facts first.”

That was certainly the truth. He could have added that he wanted to handle the situation in his own way without the possibility of interference, but that would only have given Slovak something else to worry about.

Gurney spent the next twenty-five minutes on his sandwich, his coffee, and his thoughts on how best to approach Peale.

Those thoughts, along with his preparation of a second cup of coffee, ended abruptly when Slovak called back with panic in his voice.

“Dave?”

“Yes?”

“I’m at Peale’s house. It’s been broken into. I think he’s been murdered.”

56

The stately stone residence of W. Danforth Peale III was located at the end of a white gravel driveway bordered by neatly trimmed boxwood hedges. The drive widened into a spacious oval in front of the house, an area now occupied by Slovak’s Charger, three patrol cars, Barstow’s van, an unmarked black Explorer, and the photographer’s Camry. Gurney parked next to the Camry.

To the left of the oval was a three-car garage. Its open doors revealed one small off-road utility vehicle, one antique British sports car, and one empty bay. Yellow police tape had been strung up around the garage, the house, and a wide swath of the surrounding lawn. A Larchfield cop with a clipboard was manning an opening in the tape.

He recognized Gurney, made a notation on the site’s access log, and pointed to the open back of Barstow’s van. “Gloves and shoe covers over there. Crime scene’s at the rear of the house.”