The Viper

The photo on the left appeared to have been taken at a boozy party. Ziko Slade sat on a couch, shirt open, hair tousled. He had one arm around a barely clad young woman on his left, while exchanging an intense kiss with a similar young woman on his right. A third was kneeling on the floor in front of him with her head in his lap. It was the kind of louche disco scene the tabloids loved.

The photo on the right was riveting in a different way. It was an enlarged mugshot. This version of him was strikingly ugly. The features of the former Greek god radiated a dull menace that Gurney had seen in the eyes of hitmen. Together the images told a story a moralist might have titled “The Price of Sin.”

Gurney wondered if that was the point Slade was trying to make. Was the display a reminder to himself of where his egomania had led him, or was it the phony confession of an unrepentant con man?

He completed his examination of the house without making any more discoveries. Concluding that his visit had served its main purpose of acquainting him with the lodge and its immediate environs, and feeling no need to wait for Valdez’s return, he decided to set out for home. The weather would make it slow going, at least until he was out of the Adirondacks. He switched off the lights in the house, zipped up his jacket, and stepped out onto the porch.

There was a scent of pine in the cold air. The darkness was as deep as the mountain silence. He took out his phone and activated the flashlight app. In the plummeting temperature, the fog condensed into tiny ice crystals. He felt their pinpricks on his face as he made his way to the Outback, his steps crackling through the glaze that covered the ground.

He opened the car door and was starting to get in when he was stopped by the sight of something on the front seat. His first impression was some sort of fur hat, or muff, or . . .

As he looked closer, a grimace tightened his lips.

He was looking at the body of a rabbit.

A rabbit whose head was missing.

19

AFTER RETREATING INTO THE LODGE, GURNEY CALLED the Rexton Police Department and described the situation. The duty sergeant considered it no more than someone’s prank and suggested calling back in the morning.

Gurney explained that it could be connected to the Lerman murder case and suggested getting Scott Derlick out to the Slade lodge ASAP.

The sergeant’s voice went up a notch. “You want me to disturb Lieutenant Derlick at home? So he can drive all the way out there in this weather? To look at a dead rabbit?”

“That’s right.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name is David Gurney, retired detective first grade, NYPD Homicide.” He hated identifying himself this way, but it occasionally served a purpose.

There was a noticeable pause. “So, how come you’re at the Slade place?”

“I’ll explain that to Derlick when he gets here.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, a large black SUV entered the clearing and came to a stop with its headlights on Gurney’s vehicle. The man who emerged wore a hooded parka and carried a steel-cased flashlight of the type that can do double duty as a truncheon.

The man approached the Outback and peered inside. He bent over with his head inches from the glass, aiming his flashlight at the front seat. He scrutinized the registration certificate at the base of the windshield, then swept his flashlight up to the porch and let it rest on Gurney.

“This your vehicle, sir?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“David Gurney.”

“NYPD?”

“Retired.”

“I assume you have appropriate identification?”

“I do.”

“Are you carrying a firearm?”

“I am.”

“If I asked, could you produce your carry permit?”

“I could.”

“Please come over to your vehicle.” The tone had no “please” in it.

Gurney stepped down from the porch and walked into the area illuminated by the SUV’s headlights. He recognized Scott Derlick from the trial video—although in person the man’s eyes were smaller, his nose more porcine.

He was studying Gurney as though he were a suspect in a break-in.

“This is not your residence, is it, sir?” He gestured vaguely toward the lodge.

“No.”

“So, what brings you here?”

“Curiosity.”

“You have permission to be here?”

“I do.”

“If I were to check, that would be confirmed, would it?”

Gurney smiled. “Lieutenant, I’m here because I’ve been asked to look into the Lerman murder case to determine if Ziko Slade’s conviction was a mistake. Until this evening, I was skeptical of that possibility. Now, I’m not so sure. The placement of that little cadaver in my car feels like an effort to scare me off, and I’d appreciate your reaction to that possibility.”

“You’d appreciate my reaction?”

“I would.”

Derlick stared at him in mock amazement. “You came here to determine if Slade’s conviction was a mistake? Did I hear you right?”

“You heard me right.”

“Well, that does make me wonder.”

Gurney said nothing.

“Do you know what it makes me wonder?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”