The Viper

Gurney was cutting a piece of turkey on his plate, which he continued doing as he replied. “And from a different starting point. Investigative reporting—correct me if I’m wrong, Kim—generally begins with a whiff of smoke, then tries to locate the fire, if there is one, with the goal of exposing it in the media. A homicide investigation, instead of a whiff of smoke, starts with a dead victim, and the goal is to gather enough evidence to arrest the person responsible.”

Smiling, Kim laid her fork down. “Aren’t we both pursuing the truth?”

“Yes, but for very different reasons.”

“I think what matters is the truth. Why we pursue it seems like a secondary issue.”

Gurney realized that further debate could only dampen the Thanksgiving spirit and would be best abandoned. “Good point, Kim. Could you reach that salt shaker for me?”

“Speaking of investigations,” said Kyle, leaning toward Gurney, “the way those RAM idiots were talking about you was frigging awful. They were pushing right up against the edge of slander. I wish they’d step over the line, so we could sue.” He looked over at Gerry Mirkle. “Did you see that Controversial Perspectives segment about the shooting?”

“Madeleine told me about it, and I watched it on the RAM website.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Apart from it being a trash can of poisonous nonsense?”

Kyle flashed a grim smile. “And what about that guy at the end, that Maldon Albright character?”

She shrugged. “I got the impression he was trying to give a sophisticated-sounding gloss to RAM’s garbage. Dave, can you pass the gravy?”

The conversation turned to the dinner—the moistness of the turkey, the sweetness of the yams. Everyone seemed happy to retreat into these pleasant observations except Kim, who was toying with her food, seemingly eager to find a way back to a more serious subject. She finally just laid down her fork and turned to Gurney.

“I have to ask. Do you have your own theory of what the Blackmore shooting was all about?”

Everyone stopped eating. Madeleine gave Kim a cold stare. Kyle’s eyes widened. Gerry Mirkle’s expression revealed nothing. Gurney felt annoyed, not so much by the question as by the coolly probing tone in which it was asked.

“It’s not really a theory—just a suspicion that a toxic relationship between a father and son is responsible for everything that’s happened.”

“You mean, a problem between Lenny and Sonny?”

“It sounds like you’ve been doing some research on the original Lerman murder case.”

“That’s my job.”

It was suddenly clear to Gurney that Kim wasn’t present at dinner because Kyle invited her. Kyle had no doubt mentioned his planned visit, and she’d invited herself. Which meant there was a possibility that whatever he said would appear, sooner or later, in the media.

He chose his words carefully. “I believe there was something poisonous in the relationship between Lenny and Sonny Lerman that ended up causing both their deaths.”

Her eyes widened. “So, you don’t believe Ziko Slade killed Lenny because Lenny tried to blackmail him?”

“It sounded good in court, but it doesn’t account for the peculiarity of the murder.”

“You mean, the . . . decapitation?” She articulated the word with something like awe.

Madeleine broke in with the shy little smile she often used to lighten the tone of a serious request. “While we’re having our turkey, maybe we could talk about something other than severed body parts?”

“Good idea,” Gurney said.

Kyle launched into a change of subject so complete Gurney nearly burst out laughing.

“Madeleine, I love the way you made the yams.”

She blinked in surprise. “The yams? They’re just mashed up with some butter and salt and a dash of cinnamon.”

Gerry Mirkle said, “Yams were a point of dispute in the house I grew up in. My mother served one of her yam concoctions at every holiday dinner. My father hated yams. ‘I’ve never made them this way before, you should try them,’ she’d say. He’d reply, ‘This way, that way, makes no damn difference. They’re godawful, no matter how you make them!’ Then she’d start talking to the cat, telling it how nice yams are and how some people couldn’t appreciate good things. At that point my father would slam down his fork and stomp out of the room. They say opposites attract, but attraction can turn into a collision. And the collision either blows the relationship apart, or freezes it in a state of perpetual frustration, with each partner wishing the other would change.”

“What sort of man was your father?” asked Kim.

“He was a college professor. An authority on macroeconomics. I doubt he ever thought of himself as a husband or a father.” Gerry paused. “He liked to swim and went off every Saturday in the summer to a nearby beach. One Saturday, he took me along. I’m sure it wasn’t his idea, just something my mother pressured him into doing. He forgot I was with him, and he drove home without me.”

Around the table there were sounds of dismay.