On Harrow Hill

“Mister Danforth Peale was the way he put it. Angry like.”

“Did he say what the problem was?”

“No, sir.”

Morgan’s tic reappeared. “Bring him in.”

Peale appeared at the conference room door as the cop was stepping away to get him. There was a disconnect between his cheery yellow Bermuda shorts and the fury in his eyes. He slammed the door behind him and strode over to the conference table.

“Fallow’s a bloody idiot!”

Morgan recoiled.

“That son of a bitch’s addled judgment is about to destroy three generations of family tradition! I want him arrested and prosecuted for criminal malpractice!”

“I’m not sure I—”

Peale cut him off. “The video. The software company told me how to access it. Tate wasn’t dead after all. I’m telling you, I want Fallow prosecuted! I want the bastard in prison!”

“For mistakenly pronouncing Tate dead?”

“For recklessly doing so while under the influence.”

“You’re suggesting he was drunk?”

“Damn right he was drunk!”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“Do you realize the seriousness of what he’s done to me? What people will say when it gets around that Danforth Peale put a living human being inside a closed casket? My professional life will be destroyed—as a direct result of Fallow’s gross incompetence!”

Peale’s rage left Morgan at a loss for words.

Gurney asked mildly, “Did your observation of the body give you any reason to doubt that Tate was dead?”

“Absolutely not. But I certainly didn’t perform a rigorous examination. It’s not the responsibility of a funeral director to second-guess a medical examiner.”

“How do you know that the doctor had been drinking when he examined Tate?”

“He smelled of alcohol. I assume he’d been drinking it, not spraying it on his clothes.”

“Was anyone else aware of the odor?”

“How the hell should I know? I wasn’t conducting a goddamn survey.”

“Did you mention your observation to anyone at the time?”

Peale shook his head. “I didn’t want to create any problems for him, given his sketchy history. It didn’t occur to me that he might be creating a worse problem for me.” He turned toward Morgan. “What do you plan to do about this mess?”

Morgan’s arms were crossed in a near-parody of defensiveness. “Everything is already being done that can be done. I understand your frustration. I share it. The damage. The potential damage. All the unknowns. Believe me, I know. Our number-­one priority is getting this under control.”

Peale was nodding in a way that looked more like impatience than agreement.

Morgan’s phone rang. He looked at it, then at Peale. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

Peale waved his hand in the air, as if to signify that he had no more to say. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

From Morgan’s half of the phone conversation, Gurney gathered that the call was from a reporter by the name of Carly who wanted an update on the Russell investigation, and that Morgan was trying to put her off by promising significant news later that day.

As soon as he put his phone down, it rang again. This time Gurney could tell little from Morgan’s responses, other than the fact that the news was good.

When he ended the call, he sounded excited. “Looks like we have an ID on the homicide victim in the drainage ditch. Plus, a woman told one of Brad’s guys that she saw someone out on Waterview Drive, not far from Harrow Hill, around 2:00 a.m. the night Angus was killed. Feel like taking a ride?”

16

Once they were underway in the Tahoe, Gurney raised a question about Peale’s rant. “That comment he made about Fallow having a ‘sketchy history’—do you know what he was referring to?”

“Three years ago Fallow came close to losing his medical license—in connection with a DUI conviction.”

“Any difficulties since then?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any history of conflict between him and Peale?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Peale’s level of anger seemed . . . extreme.”

“I guess there could be some bad blood between them, but nothing that’s ever come out publicly.”

They fell silent. Soon they were on Waterview Drive, passing the manicured grounds of one mansion after another. Through occasional breaks in the lush greenery, Gurney caught glimpses of the azure lake. Then, directly ahead, he saw a pair of police vehicles parked on the side of the road—a black Dodge Charger and a Larchfield patrol car. Brad Slovak and a uniformed cop were standing on the grass verge as Morgan pulled in behind the patrol car. Gurney noted that they’d stopped at the only overgrown property by the lake.

Slovak approached Morgan as he and Gurney got out of the Tahoe. “Woman’s name is Ruby-June Hooper. Sound familiar?”

Morgan looked blank. “Should it?”

“She pops up in the news every couple of years, whenever she’s offered another million for these four acres of hers. Always says the same thing—she was born here and she’s gonna die here. She wouldn’t tell me or Dwayne who she saw out here the other night. Insisted on talking to you.”

“Where is she?”

“In her house. Behind them trees.” Slovak pointed at a path that led into a thicket.