The Viper

“But if you’re innocent, that evidence must have been planted by someone else. The questions are by whom and why. Any ideas?”

Slade shook his head. “I don’t even know whether I was the target or the scapegoat. Was the objective to kill Lerman and, as matter of convenience, deflect the blame on me? Or was killing Lerman simply a way to frame me for murder?”

Gurney had arrived at that same fork in the road. That Slade shared his thinking was a point in his favor.

“How about a list of your enemies—do you think you could put one together?”

“For the two or three years leading up to my wife stabbing me, I was out of my mind.” He paused, a smile revealing his movie-star teeth. “You should talk to my ex-wife. She was high all the time, but she didn’t have memory blackouts like I did. If you want to know about the enemies I made, she’s the one to ask. Tell her you’re working on my case and you want some insights into my character. She’ll be delighted to tell you the worst.”

“Did she do any prison time for stabbing you?”

“She claimed self-defense, and I declined to testify against her. It was the least I could do to make up for my behavior. I’ll give you her contact information. She’s living in my Dutchess County house—the result of a divorce provision. You have something to write on?”

“I have a good memory.”

Slade spelled out his ex-wife’s name—Simone Delorean—along with her phone number. Gurney closed his eyes and pictured the number, repeating it to himself. When he opened them, the bull-necked guard was once again walking slowly past their table.

24

ON THE HOMEWARD DRIVE, GURNEY DIVIDED HIS ATTENTION between his rearview mirror and puzzling out a case hypothesis that would combine Lerman’s extortion plan, his murder at Slade’s lodge, and a murderer other than Slade himself. The few possibilities that occurred to him all contained significant logical obstacles.

He stopped for coffee and gas at the same convenience store where he had gotten a bottle of water on his previous trip. After refilling the tank, he placed a call to Adrienne Lerman.

“Mr. Gurney?” Her earnest, obliging tone reminded him of her desire to find homes for the kittens she was fostering. Kittens that were meowing in the background. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to share some thoughts I have regarding your father’s death.”

She didn’t reply.

“Do you have time now, or would you prefer that I call back later?”

“Now is probably best. There’s a hospice client I need to see at dinnertime. Have you discovered something?”

“It’s not so much a discovery as a feeling.”

“A feeling about his death?”

“About the way his death has been explained.”

Gurney got the impression that she’d stopped breathing.

He continued. “Based on what your father said about his plan, and where his body was later discovered, the natural assumption was that Ziko Slade killed him. That made perfect sense. But—”

Adrienne cut him off. “You put that in the past tense.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said the assumption that Slade killed him made perfect sense. But it doesn’t now?”

“I’m saying the case against Slade may not be as strong as it seemed.”

“But the trial . . . the evidence . . . how could he be innocent?”

“Sometimes when investigators pinpoint someone as the obvious perpetrator, their minds close, and they ignore facts that don’t support their conclusion. They see everything through the lens of what they’ve already decided is true.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

The meowing in the background grew louder.

“I think it’s possible. But I need your help. I’d like you to consider the possibility that someone else killed your father, and that—”

“What about the DNA, the axe . . . ?”

“Put that aside for the moment. What I want you to focus on right now is your father—on his behavior in the days and weeks leading up to his death—everything you can remember, even the smallest details. Can you do that?”

Gurney waited, relying on that deep vein of helpfulness that seemed to define her.

“I can try,” she said. “But you’re asking about things that happened a year ago.”

One of the cats sounded a lot closer. He pictured it standing in front of her, demanding attention.

“There’s no rush. Over the next few days, when you have time, try to picture the interactions you had with your father. Whatever comes to mind. Things he said. Things he did.”

He heard her taking a deep breath.

“I can try,” she said again.

“One last thing. Before the trial, had you ever heard the name Sally Bones?”

“Not that I remember. I think I’d remember a weird name like that.”

“No problem. Call me anytime with any thoughts, recollections, questions, anything at all. I really appreciate your help.”

After ending the call, he finished his coffee, crumpled up the container, and tossed it into the makeshift garbage bag hanging under his glove compartment.

He was tired, hungry, and eager to get home, but he decided to try reaching Simone Delorean first. Her number rang three times before switching to a recording that sounded both intoxicated and provocative.