On Harrow Hill

“On RAM News just now there was a video of your barn, showing that damn Dark Angel thing. They refused to give us the video files, so Gossett is getting a court order. You still think it’s Tate making the videos and sending them to RAM? No chance it could be one of our own people? God, I hope not. That Rory Kronck idiot was going on about it being the Larchfield Slasher’s direct challenge to you. The son of a bitch is turning you and Tate into comic-book characters! I hope to God the dragnet moving over Harrow Hill comes up with something. Tate, if we’re lucky. Give me a call.”

After making a mental note to check the RAM archive for the Kronck segment, Gurney listened to the third message, the one from Hardwick.

“Last time we talked, you said you might want to enlist my services. We getting any closer to that? My hardware is cleaned, oiled, and ready for deployment. Been almost a year since I shot anybody. Speaking of which, I looked a little deeper into the Silas Gant situation. Word is that the Patriarchs are the protection and possible extortion arm of his operation, a source of fear to his enemies, and backup for business and political allies who need to show strength. Odd little factoid: the top Patriarch’s name is Otis Strane, which I’m told was Lorinda Russell’s maiden name. The plot thickens, Sherlock. Give me a call when you decide who needs to catch a bullet in the balls. One last thing. Check out Gant’s Twitter account. He’s stirring the shit like crazy.”

Gurney was tempted to see what new poison Gant might be selling to his followers, but that quiet BMW Jake and Chloe saw at four thirty in the morning was occupying a more urgent spot in his mind. He decided to try Barstow again.

This time, she picked up the call on the first ring.

“David, great, I was just reaching for the phone to call you.”

“Good news?”

“I got the tread and axle-matching results. They narrow the vehicle down to a single make and model group.”

“BMW?”

“Yes.” She sounded surprised.

“A 5 Series?”

“Yes. Any of the 5 Series sedans, starting with the 2018 model year. How come you knew that before I did?”

“Intuition.”

“Like hell.”

“Once in a while, we get lucky. A couple from the city happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“This means . . . what? That Tate traded in his orange Jeep for a seventy-grand Beemer?”

“Unlikely.”

“So what on earth is going on?”

“Good question.”

“Those sneaker impressions in the soft soil by your barn? They matched the impressions we found in the floor dust in the mortuary. And the blood on your barn door matched Linda Mason’s DNA, as expected.”

“So, some things are what they seem.”

“Some,” she said.

After hanging up, he placed a call to the central number for Larchfield police headquarters, expecting to reach the desk sergeant. Instead, Morgan answered.

“Dave? You got my message? Did you see that Rory Kronck thing?”

“I’ll take a look at it. But first, do you happen to know the model and year of Aspern’s BMW?”

“Why would you want to know that?” There was an instant edge on his voice.

“Just curious.”

“It’s a 530e, 2019.”

“Does that ‘e’ have a particular meaning?”

“The ‘e’ models are hybrids.” Morgan hesitated, his concern coming across loud and clear. “You sound like this is more than casual curiosity. What’s going on?”

“Just one of those little echoes that seem meaningful at first, but usually end up being nothing. The thing is, there’s tire-track and eyewitness evidence that the person who left the bloody message on my barn this morning was driving a BMW 5 Series hybrid.”

“Jesus, don’t tell me you suspect Chandler Aspern of being involved in that!”

“I realize it doesn’t make much sense.”

“It makes no sense at all! Chandler Aspern driving around in the middle of the night with a bucket of blood and a paintbrush?”

“Well, someone drove up to my barn in a 5 Series hybrid, got out in Billy Tate’s sneakers, left that charming message, photographed it, and sent the video files to RAM News. I agree that it doesn’t make sense for that person to be Chandler Aspern, nor does it make sense for Billy Tate to be driving that kind of car, unless he stole it. So, you might want to send out a theft-report inquiry for BMW sedans gone missing within the past couple of days.”

“Yeah . . . okay, sure.”

From the man’s tone, Gurney could picture the worry lines deepening on his face.

“In the meantime,” Morgan continued, “tread lightly.”

“You mean, don’t stomp on Aspern’s toes?”

“Don’t even say that! The fact that there may have been a BMW on your property and the fact that Aspern owns a BMW . . . hell, that adds up to nothing. Less than nothing. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I do.” What Gurney heard was a man so focused on keeping his job that he was incapable of doing anything that might put it at risk—especially upsetting someone of importance.