The Viper

“You came all the way from Walnut Crossing to buy something in that store?”

“Right.”

“That’s a long drive.”

“Interesting store. Unusual merchandise.”

The cop nodded slowly, sucked at his teeth, and handed Gurney his documents. “Store’s not open today. You’re wasting your time.”

“Shame. I was hoping to meet Mr. Lanka.”

“Why is that?”

“A private matter. Do you know him?”

The cop’s artificial smile reappeared. “Like I said, you’re wasting your time. Be a good idea to move on. You have a nice day.” He returned to his cruiser and sat there, watching, as Gurney pulled out of his parking space.

At the end of the block, where Gurney was about to make a turn that would take him back to the main avenue, a black Cadillac SUV drove by in the oncoming lane. He caught only a brief glimpse of the driver, but he recognized him as the unpleasant character he encountered in his last visit and the subject of Tess Larson’s sketch. In his side mirror, he could see the receding license plate, as the SUV turned into the store’s parking lot. He made a note of it on his phone.

Once he was out of Garville and back on the interstate, he pulled into the first rest area and placed a call to Hardwick.

“Yeah?”

“The Garville situation just got more interesting. I had an odd little dance with a cop there, Gavin Horst, who’s probably on Lanka’s payroll.”

“The fuck were you doing there anyway?”

“Watching Lanka’s place of business. I was curious to see who might show up. And guess what. A black Escalade turned into the street as I was being chased away—driven by the same character we saw yesterday in the store.”

“Piece of dirt, in my humble opinion.”

“I agree. So, I’ll give you the Escalade’s plate number, and maybe your guy at BCI could run it though the system. Be nice to know who owns it—along with any other vehicles linked to the same name.”

“Any particular reason my guy would want to do that?”

Gurney gave that some thought before answering, as a convoy of ten-wheelers roared past the rest area.

“If one of those other vehicles turns out to be a Moto Guzzi trail bike, he could get credit for solving the Blackmore Mountain murder case. Plus, he might get to embarrass someone on the case he doesn’t like, maybe someone who zeroed in on the wrong suspect. Or he might just have a natural hunger for the truth.”

“Only natural hunger that fucker has is for women half his age. But the idea of sticking it to a fellow officer might appeal to him.”

“If he’s willing to check out the Escalade owner for other registered vehicles, maybe he could be encouraged to run a similar check on the tow truck owner, Charlene Vesco. Be nice to know how she might fit into the big picture.”

Hardwick let out a harsh one-syllable laugh. “The big picture being some yet-to-be-concocted grand theory that ties Sonny’s murder to Lenny’s murder to Bruno Lanka to the Escalade driver to Charlene Vesco to a shady Garville cop to Cam Stryker to the abominable fucking snowman?”

“Something like that.”

“So, everybody’s a suspect? Everybody except Ziko Slimebag Slade?”

OVER THE COURSE of several homicide investigations, Gurney had come to appreciate the unique nature of Hardwick’s contributions. In discussions, the man invariably raised aggressive objections to just about any proposed hypothesis, but when action was required, he was all in. Therefore, despite his ridiculing any theory that might explain the Lerman murders, Gurney knew that Hardwick would extract every fact he could from his contact at BCI, and if a dangerous confrontation should arise in the future, he would be there without reservation.

At the moment, Gurney’s own potential for action was limited. Short of returning to Garville to stir the pot again, there was little he could do. Any significant next step would depend on whatever information Hardwick could get hold of.

This enforced hiatus allowed Gurney’s mind to move from case-related speculations to concerns about Thanksgiving. As he pulled out from the rest area, those concerns centered on ensuring that the planned dinner would take place without fear of a hostile invasion.

The possibility of installing electronic monitoring devices came to mind, but he’d never put much stock in them. When he and Madeleine lived in the city, protection against intruders consisted of a lobby attendant in their building, a substantial deadbolt on their apartment door, and his NYPD sidearm. After they moved to the old farmhouse, the deadbolt and lobby attendant had been replaced by a shotgun, and by letting it be known that the place was occupied by a former detective.

Now, however, with three guests coming for dinner in the wake of the unsettling RAM coverage of the Blackmore shooting, he was looking at the situation from their perspective. He came to the conclusion that a visible array of surveillance cameras might help, not only to discourage an intrusion, but to foster peace of mind.