The Viper

He moved two books she was reading off the table—one on the history of the cello and the other on the lives of snails—to make room for the plates and silverware.

WHEN THEY WERE nearly done with their salads, Madeleine asked the question Gurney knew was coming: What did he think of the trial?

He laid his fork on the edge of his plate. “Impressive, on the prosecution’s side. The evidence against Slade was overwhelming. Apart from inflicting a few minor dings, the defense wasn’t able to dent it. In fact, no formal case for the defense was even presented.”

“Any chance of an appeal?”

Gurney shook his head. “I’m surprised this even came to trial. Cases with such a one-sided weight of evidence and no credible defense generally result in a guilty plea in exchange for a reduced charge. I’m tempted to call Slade’s lawyer and ask about it.”

Madeleine frowned and pierced a grape with her fork.

“If his lawyer had even a scrap of exculpatory evidence,” Gurney went on, “I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have introduced it.”

“Well,” Madeleine said with some tightness in her voice, “I suppose, if you’re that curious, you’ll eventually make the call.”

She stood up, cleared the table, then said she was tired and headed to bed.

After sitting alone for a few minutes, Gurney went into the den and called Marcus Thorne.

10

MARCUS THORNE LIVED IN THE LOW-PROFILE, HIGH-NETWORTH village of Claiborne. His driveway led through several acres of mountain laurels, rhododendrons, and ancient oaks to a gravel parking area in front of a large white colonial house. Planting beds bordered the parking area and curved around both sides of the house.

As he stepped from his Outback, Gurney was surprised to hear his name called. He turned and saw a man waving to him from the corner of a stone cottage. Marcus Thorne wore a British-looking field jacket, brown corduroy slacks, and a Harris Tweed pub cap. All that was needed to complete the picture, thought Gurney, was a pricey shotgun and a dead pheasant.

Gurney crossed the wide expanse of freshly mown lawn.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” Gurney said as he shook the shorter man’s hand.

“My office away from the office,” Thorne said, leading the way past a small pond. “I thought we’d be more comfortable chatting here than in the city.”

The exterior of the cottage reminded Gurney of houses built in the eighteenth century, but the only visible remnants of that period inside were the rough-hewn ceiling beams of smoke-blackened oak, a fieldstone fireplace, and a wide-board pine floor. Everything else in the single-room ground floor was starkly modern, minimalist in design, and dominated by a wall of glass on the pond side of the building. The ornamental grasses surrounding the pond were various autumn shades of brown, rust, and ocher.

Thorne tossed his jacket and cap on the back of a couch facing the fireplace. He wore a russet flannel shirt that fit him so perfectly it suggested custom tailoring. Gurney left his light windbreaker on.

“Had ducks out there till a month ago.” Thorne waved toward the pond. “Gone south now. But the damn geese stay. Wife feeds the filthy things. Have a seat.”

He dropped onto a geometric object of black leather and chrome that only faintly resembled a chair. Gurney sat on a similar one at the opposite end of a gleaming glass slab that appeared to function as a coffee table.

“So, Mr. Gurney, illustrious detective, what can I do for you?” Thorne leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers, the gesture of thoughtful attention at odds with the blasé look in his eyes.

On the two-hour drive from Walnut Crossing, Gurney considered several subtle ways of framing his questions, but Thorne’s breezy attitude prompted a franker tone. “To begin with, you can tell me why your defense of Slade was such a disaster.”

Thorne smiled a lawyer’s empty smile. “If you’re asking why the jury returned a guilty verdict, the answer is simple. They didn’t like Slade.”

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

Thorne’s gaze drifted up to the beamed ceiling. “You might say we faced a perfect storm of unfortunate circumstances.”

“Namely?”

“Born with a superabundance of talent, looks, and charm, nothing was difficult for the magical Ziko. Naturally, the jury hated him on sight. That fact alone assured his conviction. Hardly any need for—”

A soft musical tone interrupted him. He took a sleek phone out of his shirt pocket and peered at the screen. His expression became sharper, more attentive. He tapped out a short reply with an aggressive glint in his eye and slipped the phone back in his pocket, his expression reverting to its former nonchalance. “Where was I?”

“The jury hated Slade on sight.”