On Harrow Hill

It took ten minutes of playing the critical-need-for-information card to extract even the minimal facts that two female patients who had been admitted during the night were in the ICU and unable to receive phone calls or visitors. No, there was no exemption for police officers. No, it didn’t matter that police officers had accompanied the ambulance that delivered the patients. No, it didn’t matter that the patients were victims of a violent crime. HIPAA was the ultimate authority. Period.

As upsetting as the attack was, he realized there was no immediate way forward on that front—not until Barstow’s people came up with an evidentiary link to one of the perps or until one of them got drunk enough on a Bastenburg barstool to brag about his daring assault on a coven of witches.

However, it wasn’t in Gurney’s nature to sit and wait. There were other ways he could make progress—if not on the Cursen attack, then on the larger case. He could, for example, dig deeper into what sort of person Billy Tate really was.

He checked his phone for Greg Mason’s number and placed the call.

He was surprised how quickly Mason picked up and how sharp his voice sounded.

“Have you found him?”

“Not yet, sir. But we’re doing everything we can. That’s why I’m calling.”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time we spoke, I asked you if you recalled anyone from Tate’s high school years who he was close to or hung out with or had any kind of relationship with at all. You told me that everyone was afraid of him, with the exception of Lori Strane.”

“Yes, so?”

“I want you to think again about that. Any sidekick, anyone with any relationship with him at all—I don’t want to ignore any link that could lead us to Tate.”

Mason was silent for so long, Gurney wondered if he was still there.

“Sir?”

“I’m trying to remember. But . . . he really had no friends.”

Gurney detected a hint of uncertainty in Mason’s voice.

“Okay. No friends. But maybe some other kind of relationship?”

Mason let out an impatient sigh. “Look, I wouldn’t call it a relationship, but he may have had a connection with a local drug dealer.”

“Do you recall his name?”

“Jocko.”

“Was that his first or last name?”

“I have no idea. I don’t even know if it was a real name. I only remember it because he spray-painted it on all the benches in the village square before he was arrested and sent away.”

“Do you have any idea where Jocko is now?”

“He’s probably not even alive. No great loss. One less piece of human garbage in the world.”

Gurney thanked Mason and ended the call. After pondering how he might be able to track down a drug dealer who might not be alive, he decided that his arrest was the best starting point. He placed a call to Morgan.

“Jocko? Everyone in the department knows about Jocko—except now he goes by his real name, John Smith. Big turnaround. Why on earth are you asking about him?”

“Greg Mason told me there was a connection back in his drug-dealing days between him and Billy Tate.”

“No surprise there.”

“Do I gather Mr. Smith is living a different life now?”

“Last I heard, he was managing a sober house in Albany.”

“Can you get me the name of it?”

“Hold on. I’ll see.”

Gurney held on for a good five minutes. He was about to end the call and try again when Morgan came back on the line.

“The place is called Free and Sober. It’s a reentry program for ex-cons with substance abuse problems.” He gave Gurney the address and phone number. “You think this guy is going to know something useful?”

“Probably not. But I hate ignoring possibilities.”

Free and Sober occupied a neat row house, surrounded by a bleak neighborhood of semi-abandoned buildings, payday-loan outlets, liquor stores, and storefront churches. Across the street there was a pharmacy with bars on the windows. Two cars were parked in front of it, jacked up, with the wheels missing. Gurney parked his Outback down the block from them and put an OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS sign in his windshield. It was close to noon, but there was no one on the street.

The front door of Free and Sober was steel, painted brown. It had what looked like a reinforced peephole, but Gurney realized on closer inspection it was a shielded camera and speaker. There was a push-button bell on the brick wall next to the door. He pressed the button and heard the sound of a harsh buzzer somewhere inside the building.

The man who opened the door had the marks of a certain type of ex-con—the hard-muscled prison physique, obvious even under a loose polo shirt; the crude tattoos on his face, neck, arms, and hands; the watchful eyes that revealed nothing.

Gurney introduced himself and explained that he’d spoken with John Smith an hour earlier to arrange a meeting.

The man’s expression relaxed into something just shy of welcoming. “Follow me.”