On Harrow Hill

“Is there something in the water up there in Larchfield? From what I hear, it sounds like goddamn mass psychosis.”

“You’ve been exposed to the fanciful news reports?”

“Fanciful? More like fucking insane. Some Satan-loving loon got struck by lightning, then rose from the dead and murdered three people—including Angus the Scottish Scumbag? Never heard anything like it.”

“The case does have peculiar aspects.”

Hardwick laughed—a sound that could have been mistaken for the barking of a large dog. One of the slim bearded men glanced over in alarm.

“I saw your police chief’s press conference. He looks like a nervous wreck I ran into at an interagency clusterfuck on the Piggert case. This the same guy?”

“Yes.”

“That lip-biter is Larchfield’s top cop?”

“Yes.”

“The fuck did that happen?”

“Long story. I don’t know all of it.”

“How’d he rope you into this shit?”

“Another long story.”

“That one I want to hear.”

“First, I need some coffee.” He caught Marika’s eye on her way back from delivering what looked like cappuccinos to the bearded men.

She smiled her gorgeous smile. “Double espresso?”

“Good memory. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.” She went to the machine, put in some beans, and turned on the grinder.

Hardwick flashed his ice-glitter grin at Gurney. “So, talk. What the fuck are you doing in Larchfield?”

“I got a call from Morgan. Hadn’t heard from him since he got pushed out of the department.”

“For what?”

“Wrong women, wrong circumstances, wrong everything.”

“No surprise. I remember at the Piggert clusterfuck he had that injured-­little-boy look. Some women love it.”

“Thing is, when he got pushed out, he landed on his feet. Somebody connected him to Angus Russell, and Russell picked him for the top security job at a college in Larchfield, then moved him a year later into the police chief job. Nice spot, quiet village, no real crime—until all hell broke loose a few days ago.”

“That’s when the vulnerable little boy called you?”

“Right. Sensational murder, turmoil in paradise, his major protector dead and gone, job on the line, self-esteem in the toilet—please help me, please help me.”

“Why didn’t you tell him to go fuck himself?”

“That could be awkward with a former partner who once saved my life.”

Hardwick’s expression didn’t exactly warm up. Warmth was not a thing with him. But he did take a slow breath and nod. “A factor to be considered. So, what do you want from me?”

“Information, mainly. Larchfield being in the same state police district where you were stationed, I thought you might know something about it.”

“I do. Horrible fucking place. Angus Russell was the lord, Larchfield was his manor. The local snobs ate it up. The fantasy of gentility.”

“Did he have enemies?”

“Of course he did. Which is why he came to the attention of BCI to begin with. But the investigation went nowhere.”

“What investigation?”

“Five, six years ago Russell got into a nasty bidding war for a prime piece of property over on Lake Champlain. Then the other bidder disappeared, and Russell got the property.”

“Disappeared? Just like that?”

“Just like that. The investigation went nowhere. No proof of foul play. No law against disappearing. But the missing guy’s wife hired a private detective to look into Russell’s past, and he came up with something that looked interesting. A few years earlier, a developer up near Rochester was suing Russell for multimillions over a deal gone bad. He also disappeared without a trace.”

“That must have gotten BCI’s attention.”

“Briefly. Thing is, the guy who disappeared had his own legal problems—­people suing him like he was suing Russell—and there was the fact that his mistress disappeared at the same time. No evidence of forced abduction. The possibility that he decided to start a new life in a different part of the world seemed a reasonable explanation. Case closed.”

“The echo of the first disappearance wasn’t enough to keep the case going?”

“Against one of the state’s biggest political contributors? You kidding?”

“Russell spread his money around?”

“Wherever it would buy leverage.”

“Did he have any local adversaries?”

“The most visible one was Larchfield’s little prick of a mayor.”

“Chandler Aspern?”

“Bingo. Eyes like little round deer turds.”

“Any idea what their conflict was about?”

“Bad chemistry? Type A jerks banging heads?”

“How about Billy Tate? You know anything about him?”

“Nada. Never made it onto the state police radar screen while I was there. Any problems must have been dealt with at the local or county level. But RAM News claims he’s your murder suspect, so it must be true, right? Any leads?”

Gurney shook his head. “Possible sightings. An eccentric girlfriend we’re staking out. But nothing that’s moving the needle.”

“Loners are a bitch to track down.”

Marika arrived with Gurney’s double espresso and a couple of her home-baked anisette cookies. “Free gift,” she said. “So you remember to come by more often.”

Hardwick watched as she walked away. “That woman could make a man question the wisdom of being in an exclusive relationship.”