On Harrow Hill

Morgan turned to Gurney. “You agree that he must have come on foot?”

“It’s possible. It’s also possible that he came in the Jeep, but not along Waterview Drive. He could have driven down from Harrow Hill and come out at the intersection across from the cottage.”

It was an obvious possibility, but it was also obvious from the expression on Slovak’s face that he’d already dismissed it. “Nobody lives up there, except Lorinda Russell and Mayor Aspern.”

“True,” said Gurney, “but Greg Mason told me that Harrow Hill is crisscrossed by a network of trails that he keeps mowed and usable. In fact, one of the access points is in back of his house. So it’s possible that Tate could have driven to the cottage that way—without passing any of the cameras on Waterview Drive.”

Slovak rubbed the back of his neck. “But the night he killed Kane and Russell he came along Waterview Drive. Why not this time?”

“The night he killed them, no one was on the lookout for him. But at this point he’d want to minimize the chance of a patrol team spotting him.”

“Sir?” Kyra Barstow was in the office doorway. “I have news from the lab. A DNA match indicates the blood used for the message on Mary Kane’s wall came from Linda Mason. They also found that the blood on the wall contained microscopic traces of the polyurethane used in those little foam paint brushes.”

“Fast results,” said Morgan.

Slovak shifted in his seat. “What about that tire track in front of Kane’s cottage? You have anything on that?”

“Soon,” said Barstow.

Morgan thanked her.

She shot a quick smile at Gurney, stepped back out of the doorway, and disappeared down the hall.

Slovak shrugged. “That blood stuff was pretty much as expected.”

Morgan looked at Gurney. “Any thoughts?”

“Just the obvious one. If Tate did approach the cottage via the Harrow Hill trail system, he must have gone back the same way to wherever he’s hiding out. It would be a good idea to check for security cameras beyond Waterview Drive—on any other roads that might provide access to that trail network. Also, since Tate and his Jeep may be holed up somewhere in the sprawling woods of Harrow Hill itself, a feet-on-the-ground search needs to be organized.”

“Wouldn’t a helicopter be easier?” asked Slovak.

“For some areas, yes. But my impression of Harrow Hill is that most of it lies under a pretty thick cover of pines and hemlocks, with the exception of the area around the Russell mansion. You can check a satellite view to see if I’m right. If I am, the shoe-leather way will be the only way. You might want to download a topographic map and start designing a search grid.”

Slovak glanced at Morgan, and Morgan nodded his agreement.

After Slovak left the office, Gurney suggested to Morgan that he talk to the chief over in Bastenburg, see how many men he could contribute to the effort.

“You really think we’re going to need that kind of manpower?”

“Yes. Unless Tate turns himself in.”

Morgan sighed, then looked at the time on his phone. “Jesus. Six thirty.” He glanced uncertainly at Gurney. “Shall we get something to eat?”

Gurney’s introversion would normally result in a negative response. But he was just hungry enough to say yes. He hadn’t eaten anything all day—with the exception of the two anisette cookies Marika had given him that morning at Abelard’s.

Morgan produced a Chinese restaurant menu from a drawer in his desk. After they made their selections and Morgan phoned them in, they sat across from each other at the table off to the side of Morgan’s desk.

“Important to take time out to eat,” Morgan said after an awkward silence. “We missed quite a few meals back in the day, didn’t we?”

It wasn’t really a question, and Gurney made no effort to reply.

“Strange,” Morgan said after another silence, “how memories seem to come out of nowhere. Happens to me in the morning, when I’m still half-asleep. Vivid memories of things I hadn’t thought about in years.” He uttered an abrupt little laugh. “Jesus, remember Fat Frank?”

“That’s who you woke up thinking about today?” Gurney’s aversion to reminiscing gave his response a less-than-pleasant tone.

“No, no, I just happened to think of him now. This morning I woke up thinking about the first homicide case we worked on together. Remember that one?”

“Not immediately.”

“The guy who imported jockstraps from Vietnam. George Hockenberry.”

Gurney nodded. His lack of enthusiasm did nothing to dampen Morgan’s.

“And the guy who supposedly shot him—the guy with all the rug stores, Kip Kleiburn. The Carpet King. Open-and-shut case against Kleiburn. Until you got hold of it.” He nodded with a distant smile. “Those were the days, eh?”

Nostalgia was Gurney’s least favorite state of mind. He pointedly changed the subject.

“What time tonight is that Silas Gant gathering?”

“Eight thirty. When it’s starting to get dark. He likes fireworks.”

“Fireworks?”

“You’ll see.”

32