“You memorized that just for me?”
“Learned it in school. Always stayed with me.”
“Never heard you mention it before.”
“The right situation never came up before.”
“But now …?”
A tic yanked at the corner of Hardwick’s mouth. “Now the right moment has arrived.”
“A tide in your affairs—?”
“In our affairs.”
“Yours and mine?”
“Exactly.”
Gurney said nothing for a while, just gazed at the excited, anxious face across from him. He found himself far more uncomfortable with this suddenly raw and earnest version of Jack Hardwick than he’d ever been with the perennial cynic.
For a few moments the only sound in the house was the sharp-edged melody of an early-twentieth-century cello piece that Madeleine had been struggling with for the past week.
Almost imperceptibly, Hardwick’s mouth twitched again.
Seeing this a second time, and waiting for it to happen a third time, was getting to Gurney. Because, to him, it suggested that the payment about to be demanded for the debt incurred months earlier was going to be substantial.
“You plan on telling me what you’re talking about?”
“What I’m talking about is the Spalter murder case.” Hardwick enunciated those last three words with a peculiar combination of importance and contempt. His eyes were fixed on Gurney’s, as if searching for the appropriate reaction.
Gurney frowned. “The woman who shot her rich politician husband up in Long Falls?” It had been a sensational news item earlier in the year.
“That’s the one.”
“As I recall, that was a slam-dunk conviction. The lady was buried under an avalanche of evidence and prosecution witnesses. Not to mention that special little extra—her husband, Carl, dying during the trial.”
“That’s the one.”
The details began coming back to him. “She shot him in the cemetery as he was standing at his mother’s grave, right? The bullet paralyzed him, turned him into a vegetable.”
Hardwick nodded. “A vegetable in a wheelchair. The vegetable the prosecution wheeled into court every day. God-awful sight. Constant reminder for the jury while his wife was being tried for doing it to him. Until, of course, he died halfway through the trial and they had to stop wheeling him in. They went on with the trial—just switched the charge from attempted murder to murder.”
“Spalter was a wealthy real estate guy, right? Had just announced a third-party run for governor?”
“Yep.”
“Anticrime. Anti-mob. Ballsy slogan. ‘Time to get rid of the scum of the earth.’ Or something like that.”
Hardwick leaned forward. “Those were the precise words, Davey boy. In every speech he managed to talk about ‘the scum of the earth.’ Every goddamn time. ‘The scum of the earth have risen to the top of our nation’s cesspool of political corruption.’ The scum of the earth this, the scum of the earth that. Carl liked to stay on message.”
Gurney nodded. “I seem to recall that the wife was having an affair, and that she was afraid he might divorce her, which would end up costing her millions, unless he should happen to die before he changed his will.”
“You got it.” Hardwick smiled.
“I got it?” Gurney looked incredulous. “This is the high-tide opportunity you were talking about? The Spalter case? In the event you hadn’t noticed, the Spalter case is done, closed, over. If memory serves, Kay Spalter is doing twenty-five to life in max security at Bedford Hills.”
“All true,” said Hardwick.
“So what the hell are we talking about?”
Hardwick indulged in a long, slow, humorless smile—the kind of dramatic pause he was fond of and Gurney hated. “We’re talking about the fact that … the lady was framed. The case against her was total bullshit, start to finish. Pure … unadulterated … bullshit.” Again, at the corner of the smile, the tic. “Bottom line, we’re talking about getting the lady’s conviction overturned.”
“How do you know the case was bullshit?”
“She got screwed by a dirty cop.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know things. Also, people tell me things. The dirty cop has enemies—with good reason. He’s not dirty, he’s filthy. The ultimate piece of shit.” Now there was a new fierceness in Hardwick’s eyes.
“Okay. Let’s say she was framed by a dirty cop. Let’s even go so far as to say she was innocent. What’s that got to do with you? Or me?”
“Besides the minor issue of justice?”
“That look in your eyes has nothing to do with justice.”
“Sure it does. It has everything to do with justice. The organization fucked me. So I’m going to fuck the organization. Honestly, legally, and totally on the side of justice. They forced me out because they always wanted to. I got a little sloppy about a few files on the Good Shepherd case that I passed along to you, bureaucratic bullshit, and that gave the scumbags their excuse.”
Gurney nodded. He’d been wondering if the debt would be mentioned—the benefit delivered to Gurney, the career-ending expense paid by Hardwick. Now he didn’t have to wonder anymore.
Hardwick went on. “So now I’m entering the PI business. Unemployed detective for hire. And my first client is going to be Kay Spalter, through the lawyer who’ll be handling her appeal. So my first victory’s gonna be a very big one.”
Gurney paused, thought about what he’d just heard. “And me?”
“What?”
“You said this was an opportunity for both of us.”
“And that’s exactly what it is. For you, it could be the case of a fucking lifetime. Get into it, and tear it to pieces, put it back together the right way. The Spalter case was the crime of the decade, followed by the frame of the century. You get to figure it out, set it straight, and kick some nasty bastards in the balls along the way.”
“You didn’t drive all the way over here today just to give me an opportunity to kick bad guys in the balls. Why do you want me involved in this?”
Hardwick shrugged, took a deep breath. “Plenty of reasons.”
“And the biggest would be …?”
For the first time it looked like he was having trouble getting the words out. “To help turn the key another quarter inch and lock up the deal.”
“There’s no deal yet? I thought you said Kay Spalter was your client.”
“I said she’s going to be my client. Some legal details need to be signed off on first.”
“Details?”
“Believe me, everything’s lined up. Just a matter of pushing the right buttons.”
Gurney saw the tic again and felt his own jaw muscles tightening.
Hardwick went on quickly. “Kay Spalter was represented by a court-appointed asshole who’s still technically her attorney, which weakens an otherwise powerful set of arguments for having the conviction reversed. One potential bullet in the appeal gun would be incompetent representation, but the current guy can’t really make that argument. You can’t say to the judge, ‘You have to free my client because I’m an asshole.’ Someone else has to call you an asshole. Law of the land. So, bottom line—”
Gurney broke in. “Wait a second. There’s got to be a ton of money in that family. How did she end up with a court-appointed—?”
“There is a ton of money. Problem is, it was all in Carl’s name. He controlled everything. Tells you something about the kind of guy he was. Kay lived like a very rich lady—without actually having a cent to her name. Technically, she’s indigent. And she got assigned the kind of attorney indigents usually get. Not to mention a tight budget for defense out-of-pockets. So, as I was saying: Bottom line, she needs new representation. And I have the perfect man all lined up, sharpening his fangs. Smart, vicious, unprincipled fucker—always hungry. She just needs to sign a couple of things to make the switch official.”
Gurney wondered if he
was hearing right. “You expect me to sell her that idea?”
“No. Absolutely not. No selling required. I’d just like you to be part of the equation.”
“What part?”
“Hotshot homicide detective from the big city. Successful murder investigations and decorations up the kazoo. Man who turned the Good Shepherd case inside out and embarrassed the shit out of all the fuckheads.”
“You’re saying you want me to play the role of a bright, shiny front man for you and this ‘vicious, unprincipled fucker’ of yours?”
“He’s not really unprincipled. Just … aggressive. Knows how to use his elbows. And no, you wouldn’t just be a ‘front man’ for anyone. You’d be a player. Part of the team. Part of the reason Kay Spalter should hire us to reinvestigate the case, engineer her appeal, and get her bullshit conviction reversed.”
Gurney shook his head. “I’m not following this at all. If there wasn’t any money for a hotshot attorney to begin with, how come there is now?”
“To begin with, looking at the surface strength of the prosecution’s case, there wasn’t much hope that Kay would prevail. And if she couldn’t prevail, there’d be no way for her to pay a significant legal bill.”
“But now—?”
“But now the situation is different. You, me, and Lex Bincher are going to make sure of that. Believe me, she will prevail, and the bad guys will bite the dust. And once she prevails, she will be entitled to inherit a huge chunk of cash as Carl’s primary beneficiary.”
“Meaning this Bincher guy is working on a contingency fee in a criminal case? Isn’t that semi-illegal, or at least unethical?”
“Don’t sweat it. There’s no actual contingency clause in the agreement she’ll sign. I guess you could say that Lex getting paid will sort of depend on the success of the appeal, but there’s nothing in writing that makes that connection. If the appeal fails, technically Kay will just owe him a lot of money. But forget about all that. That’s Lex’s problem. Besides, the appeal will succeed!”
Gurney sat back, stared out through the door at the asparagus patch at the far side of the old bluestone patio. The asparagus ferns had grown much taller than in either of the previous two summers. He reckoned a tall man could stand in their midst and not be seen. Normally a soft bluish green, now, under an unsettled gray sky, they appeared colorless.
He blinked, rubbed his face roughly with both hands, and tried to refocus his mind on reducing the tacky mess being placed before him to its essentials.
The way he saw it, he was being asked to launch Hardwick in his new PI business—by helping to ensure his first major client commitment. And this was to be the repayment for the regulation-skirting favors Hardwick had done for him in the past, at the cost of Hardwick’s career with the state police. That much was clear, as far as it went. But there was a lot more to consider.
One of Hardwick’s distinctive traits had been a bold independence, the kind of let-the-chips-fall-where-they-may independence that comes from not being too attached to anything or anybody or any predetermined goal. But the man sure as hell was attached to this new project and its intended outcome, and the change didn’t strike Gurney as all that positive. He wondered what it would be like working with Hardwick in this altered state—with all his abrasiveness intact, but now in the service of a resentful obsession.
He turned his attention from the asparagus ferns to Hardwick’s face. “So, what does that mean, Jack—‘part of the team’? What, specifically, would you want me to do, other than look smart and rattle my medals?”
“Whatever the hell you feel like doing. Look, I’m telling you—the prosecution’s case was rotten start to finish. If the chief investigating officer doesn’t end up in Attica at the end of this, I’ll … I’ll become a fucking vegan. I absolutely guarantee you that the underlying facts and narratives will be full of disconnects. Even the trial transcript is full of them. And, Davey boy, whether you admit it or not, you know damn well that no cop ever had a sharper eye and ear for disconnects than you do. So that’s the story. I want you on the team. Will you do this for me?”
Will you do this for me? The plea echoed in Gurney’s head. He didn’t feel capable of saying no. Not right at that moment, anyway. He took a deep breath. “You have the trial transcript?”
“I do.”
“With you?”
“In my car.”
“I’ll … take look at it. We’ll have to see where we go from there.”
Hardwick stood up from the table, his nervousness now looking more like excitement. “I’ll leave you a copy of the official case file, too. Lots of interesting shit. Could be helpful.”
“How’d you get the file?”
“I still have a few friends.”
Gurney smiled uncomfortably. “I’m not promising anything, Jack.”
“Fine. No problem. I’ll get the stuff from the car. You take your time with it. See what you think.” On the way out, he stopped and turned back. “You won’t be sorry, Davey. The Spalter case has everything—horror, gangsters, politics, big money, big lies, and maybe even a little bit of incest. You’re gonna fuckin’ love it!”
Chapter 3
Something in the Woods
Madeleine cooked a simple dinner and they ate with little conversation. Gurney kept expecting her to engage him in an exhaustive discussion of his meeting with Hardwick, but she asked only one question.
“What does he want from you?”
Gurney described the nature of the Kay Spalter case, Hardwick’s new PI status, his evidently huge emotional investment in getting Kay’s conviction overturned, his request for assistance.
Madeleine’s only reaction consisted of a small nod and a barely audible “Hmm.” She stood up, cleared the dishes and silverware from the table, and took them to the sink island, where she proceeded to wash them, rinse them, and stack them in the drainer. Then she got a pitcher from the cupboard and watered the plants that stood on the sideboard below the kitchen windows. Each minute that she failed to pursue the subject exerted a stronger tug on Gurney to add a few additional words of explanation, reassurance, justification. Just as he was about to do so, she suggested they take a stroll down to the pond.
“It’s too nice an evening to stay inside,” she said.
Nice was not a word he would have used to describe the uncertain sky with its scuttling clouds, but he resisted the urge to debate the point. He followed her to the mudroom off the kitchen, where she put on one of her tropically bright nylon jackets. He slipped into an olive-drab cardigan he’d had for nearly twenty years.
She squinted at it doubtfully. “Are you trying to look like someone’s grandfather?”
“You mean stable, trustworthy, and lovable?”
She raised an ironic eyebrow.
Nothing else was said until they’d made their way down through the low pasture and were seated on the weathered wooden bench beside the pond. She appeared, as she often did, in a static position, not quite relaxed. It was as if her slim, naturally athletic body craved movement in the way that some bodies crave sugar.
Except for a grassy opening between the bench and the water, the pond was ringed by tall bulrushes, where redwing blackbirds built nests and fended off intruders with aggressive swoops and screeches through late spring and into the summer.
“We have to start pulling out some of those giant reeds,” said Madeleine, “or they’ll take over completely.”
Each year the encircling band of bulrushes had grown thicker, inching farther out into the water. Pulling them out, Gurney had discovered the one time he’d tried it, was a muddy, tiresome, frustrating job. “Right,” he said vaguely.
The crows, settling in the tops of the trees up along the edge of the pasture, were in full voice now—a sharp, continuous chattering that each evening reached a peak at sunset, then diminished into silence as dusk fell.
“And we really have to do something with that thing.” She pointed at the warped and tilting trellis a forme
r owner had erected at the beginning of the path around the pond. “But it’ll have to wait until after we build the coop with a nice big fenced run. The chickens should be able to run around outside, not just sit in that dark little barn all the time.”
Gurney said nothing. The barn had windows—it wasn’t all that dark inside—but that was a line of argument guaranteed to go nowhere. It was smaller than the original building, which had been destroyed in a mysterious fire several months earlier, in the middle of the Good Shepherd case, but surely it was big enough for a rooster and three hens. To Madeleine, however, enclosed places were at best temporary resting areas and the open air was heaven. It was clear that she empathized with what she imagined to be the imprisonment of the chickens, and it would be as easy to convince her that the barn was a reasonable home for them as it would be to persuade her to live in it herself.
Besides, they hadn’t come down to the pond to debate the future of bulrushes or trellises or chickens. Gurney felt certain that she’d return to the matter of Jack Hardwick, and he began to prepare a line of argument defending his potential involvement in the case.
She’d ask if he was planning to take on yet another full-scale murder investigation in his so-called retirement, and if so, why had he bothered to retire?
He’d explain again that Hardwick had been forced out of the NYSP partly as a result of the assistance he’d provided at Gurney’s request on the Good Shepherd case, and providing assistance in return was a simple matter of justice. A debt incurred, a debt paid.
She’d point out that Hardwick had undermined himself—that it wasn’t the passing along of a few restricted files that got him fired; it was his long history of insubordination and disrespect, his adolescent relish in puncturing the egos of authority figures. That kind of behavior carried obvious risks, and the ax had finally fallen.
He’d counter with an argument about the fuzzier demands of friendship.
She’d claim that he and Hardwick had never really been friends, just uneasy colleagues with occasional common interests.
He’d remind her of the unique bond that was formed in their collaboration years earlier on the Peter Piggert case, when on the same day in jurisdictions a hundred miles apart they each found half of Mrs. Piggert’s body.