“You could say that.”
“You mean to say you’re not impressed by the biggest agricultural fair in the Northeast? Tractor pulls, demolition derbies, butter sculptures, cotton candy, hog judging, sheep shearing, cheese making, country music, carnival rides, blue ribbons for biggest zucchini—how could you not be impressed by all that?”
“It’s tough, but somehow I manage to control my enthusiasm.”
After ending the call with Kyle, Gurney stayed at his desk for some time, letting the economic facts of the Spalter case sink in, and pondering the significance of those famous lines God moves in a mysterious way / His wonders to perform.
He took the thick case file out of his desk drawer and riffled through it until he came to an index of key names and addresses. There were two email addresses for “J. Spalter”—one a Google gmail account, the other connected to the Cyberspace Cathedral website domain. There was also a physical address in Florida, with a notation indicating that it existed to serve legal and tax purposes, that it was the location where Jonah’s motor home was registered and where CyberCath was incorporated, but that the man did not actually live there. A further marginal note read, “Postal forwarding instructions redirect mail to changing series of P.O. boxes.” Apparently Jonah was on the road most of the time, maybe all the time.
Gurney sent a message to both email addresses—a message saying that Kay’s conviction was likely to be overturned and that he urgently needed Jonah’s help in evaluating some new evidence.
Chapter 36
An Unusual Killer
Getting to sleep that night was more difficult than usual.
It was a persistent source of frustration—this business of trying to pursue an investigation without the investigatory apparatus that had been available to him in the NYPD. And the problem had been compounded by Hardwick’s loss of access to NYSP files, information systems, and channels of inquiry. Being outsiders created a heavy reliance on insiders who might be willing to take a risk. Hardwick’s recent experience was proof that the risk was substantial.
In the current situation, much depended not only on Esti, whose commitment seemed positive and unequivocal, but also on the willingness of her contacts to be both helpful and discreet. Similarly, much depended on Hardwick’s contacts and how they might be feeling about the man and his motives. It would be impolitic to put pressure on any of these helpers since none of them had to provide any help at all.
It was a position Gurney hated being in—relying on the unpredictable generosity of others, hoping for some breakthrough piece of information to arrive from sources beyond his control.
The call came just before five a.m.—barely two hours after his churning thoughts had loosened their grip and let him drift into an exhausted half-sleep. Fumbling in the dark, knocking over an empty water glass, provoking a murmur of protest from Madeleine, he finally located his phone on the night table. When he saw Hardwick’s name on the screen, he took the phone into the den.
“Yes?”
“You might be thinking it’s a little on the early side for a call, but it’s seven hours later in Turkey. Noon over there, as a matter of fact. Must be hot as a steaming turd.”
“Great news, Jack. Thanks for letting me know.”
“My contact in Ankara woke me up. So I figured I’d wake you up. Time for Farmer Dave to scatter some cracked corn for the chickens. In fact, you probably should’ve been out there an hour ago, you lazy son of a bitch.”
Gurney was accustomed to Hardwick’s unusual approach to business conversations, and generally ignored the ritual abuse. “Your Ankara guy is with Interpol?”
“So he says.”
“What did he have for you?”
“A few tidbits. We get what we get. Goodness of his heart.”
“What did his good heart have for you?”
“You got time for this? You sure you don’t need to go do something for those chickens?”
“Chickens are a lovely addition to the rural life, Jack. You ought to get yourself a few.”
Embracing Hardwick’s tangent had the odd effect of getting him back on point.
“Tidbit number one. About ten years ago, the forces of good had one of the top bad guys in Corsica by the short hairs—had him looking at a hard twenty in a shithole prison—and they managed to turn him. Deal was, if he put the finger on some business colleagues the forces of good would put him in witness protection instead of the shithole prison. This plan did not work out well. About a week into the deal, the head of the witness protection operation received a box in the mail. What to take a stab at what was in the box?”
“Depends on how big a box we’re talking about.”
“Yeah, well, let’s say it was a lot bigger than would be needed if they were mailing his dick. So what do you think it was?”
“Just a wild guess, Jack, but I’d say if the box was big enough to hold a head, then it was probably his head in there. Am I right?”
The silence on the other end was answer enough.
Gurney went on. “And this is just another wild guess, but I’d say there were some nails hammered into his—”
“Yeah, yeah, all right, Sherlock. One for you. Let’s go on to story number two. You ready? You don’t need to piss or anything?”
“Ready.”
“Eight years ago, a member of the Russian Duma, a very connected multimillionaire, former KGB, made a trip to Paris. For his mother’s funeral. The mother lived in Paris because her third husband was French, she loved it there, she wanted to be buried there. And guess what happened?”
“The Duma guy got popped in the cemetery?”
“On his way out the door of the Russian Orthodox church next to the cemetery. Dead-on head shot—eye shot to be precise.”
“Hmm.”
“And there were a couple of other interesting details. Wanna guess?”
“Tell me.”
“Cartridge was a .220 Swift.”
“And?”
“And no one heard what direction the shot came from.”
“A suppressor?”
“Probably.”
Gurney smiled. “And firecrackers?”
“You got it, ace.”
“But … how did Interpol put these two cases together? What link did they see?”
“They didn’t see any link, and they never did put them together.”
“Then what—?”
“Your questions—your search terms from the Gurikos and Spalter cases—those terms brought up the Corsican mob case and the Paris—”
“But the nails-in-the-head detail would’ve only brought up the file on the Corsican murder, and the cemetery/firecrackers details would’ve only brought up the Duma guy. So what are we talking about? Just based on those two facts, it could’ve been two different hit men, no?”
“It might’ve looked that way—except for one little thing. Both Interpol files contained lists of possibilities—likely professional hitters the local cops or the national agencies thought would be worth looking at. Four names for the Corsican case, five for the Russian-in-Paris case. Far as I can see, the Corsican and French police never got to any of those guys, not even to talk to them. But that’s not the point. The point is, there’s one name that pops up on both lists.”
Gurney didn’t say anything. A link that loose might be meaningless.
As if responding to this doubt, Hardwick added, “I know it doesn’t prove anything. But it’s sure as hell worth a closer look.”
“I agree. So who is this guy who likes firecrackers and hammering nails into people’s eyes?”
“The one name that appears on both lists is Petros Panikos.”
“So we may be looking for a Greek hit man?”
“Hit man for sure. With a Greek name for sure. But a name is only a name. Interpol says there’s no passport issued by any member country to anyone by that name. So it looks like he has other names. But they do have an interesting file on him under the name Panikos, for what
it’s worth.”
“What is it worth? How much do they really know about him?”
“Good question. My contact told me there’s a lot in the file, but that it’s a mix—some facts, some secondhand stuff, some wild underworld stories that might be true or might be pure horseshit.”
“You have this fascinating mix in your hands right now?”
“What I have is bare bones—what my man could remember without pulling up the full document, which he said he would do as soon as he could. By the way, you may not have to take a piss, Sherlock, but I sure as hell do. Hold on.”
Judging from the sound effects, Hardwick had not only taken his phone into the bathroom with him but also managed to amplify the transmission volume. Sometimes Gurney was amazed that the man had survived as long as he had in the stiff culture of the NYSP. He presented such a prickly amalgam of characteristics. A sharp mind and sound investigative instincts were concealed behind a relentless eagerness to offend. His troubled NYSP career had foundered, like many a marriage, on irreconcilable differences and a mutual lack of respect. He had been a feisty iconoclast in an organization that revered conformity and respect for rank. Now this formidable but abrasive character was hell-bent on embarrassing the organization that had divorced him.
Wandering through these thoughts, Gurney found himself staring out the east window of the den as the first gray wash of dawn outlined the crest of the far ridge. The latest sound effects coming from the phone suggested that Hardwick had left the bathroom and was shuffling through a pile of papers.
Gurney pressed the speakerphone button on his own phone, laid it on his desk, and leaned back in his chair. His eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep, and he let them drift pleasantly shut. His brain went into free fall and for a few moments he felt blessedly relaxed, almost anesthetized. The brief intermission was ended by Hardwick’s voice, made harsher by the phone’s cheap speaker. “I’m back! Nothing like a good leak to clear the mind and free the soul. Hey, ace, you still among the living?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, here’s what he gave me. Petros Panikos. Also known as Peter Pan. Also known as the Magician. Also known by other names we don’t know about. He must have at least one passport in a name other than Panikos. He gets around. Never arrested, never detained—at least not under the Panikos name. Bottom line, he’s a free agent, and an odd one. Has gun, will travel, for a price—upwards of a hundred grand per pop, plus expenses. Reachable only through a small handful of people who know how to reach him.”
“Hundred grand minimum definitely puts him at the high end of the hit world.”
“Well, the little man is kind of a celebrity in his world. He also—”
Gurney interrupted. “The little man? How little?”
“He’s supposedly like four-foot-ten. Maybe five-two at the most.”
“Like the Flowers by Florence delivery guy in the Emmerling Oaks video?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“Favors .22 caliber rounds in all cartridge shapes and sizes. But he’ll use anything that’s right for the job, anything from a knife to a bomb. Actually, he’s very fond of bombs. Might have connections with Russian arms and explosives dealers. Might have connections with the Russian mob down in Brooklyn. Might have been involved in a series of car explosions that wiped out a prosecutor and his staff in Serbia. Lot of mights. By the way, those slugs in the side of my house? They were .35 caliber—a much better choice for wire cutting than a .22—so I guess he really is flexible, assuming we’re dealing with one guy. Problem with flexibility is that there’s no consistent MO across all his hits. Interpol thinks Panikos, or whatever his name is, could have been involved in over fifty murders in the past ten or fifteen years. But that’s based on underworld rumors, prison talk, shit like that.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m waiting on that. There seems to be some weird stuff in his background, might originally have come from some kind of traveling freak show circus family, then some ugly Eastern European orphanage stuff, all hearsay, but … we’ll see. My guy had to get off the phone, had some urgent shit on his plate. Supposed to be getting back to me as soon as he can. Meantime, I’m heading for Bincher’s house in Cooperstown. Probably a complete waste of time, but the fucker isn’t answering my calls or Abby’s calls, and he’s got to be somewhere. I’ll get back to you when the Ankara data arrives—if it ever does.”
“One last question, Jack. ‘The Magician’—what’s that all about?”
“Simple. The little fucker likes to show off—prove that he can do the impossible. Probably made up the name himself. Just the kind of psycho opponent you live for, right, Sherlock?” Hardwick didn’t say goodbye—no surprise in that—just broke the connection.
More information, in Gurney’s opinion, was always a good thing—objectively. But it was also possible to lose one’s bearings in it. Right then he had the feeling that the more he was discovering, the deeper the puzzle was becoming.
Carl Spalter apparently had been the victim not only of a professional gun-for-hire but also of an unusual one—and an unusual investment had been made to secure the outcome. However, considering what was at stake for the three people closest to him—his wife, his daughter, his brother—the high hit fee would have been a reasonable investment for any of them. At first glance, Jonah would seem to be the one with easiest access to that kind of cash, but Kay and Alyssa could have their own hidden sources, or allies willing to invest in a major payday. Then another possibility occurred to him—the possibility that more than one of them was involved. Why not all three? Or all three, plus Mick Klemper?
The sound of Madeleine’s slippered feet padding toward the den door brought Gurney back from his speculations to his immediate surroundings.
“Good morning,” she said sleepily. “How long have you been up?”
“Since five.”
She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “You want some coffee?”
“Sure. How come you’re up?”
“Early clinic shift. Seems unnecessary, really. Early mornings are dead there.”
“Jesus, it’s barely dawn. How early do they open?”
“Not until eight. I’m not going there right away. I want time to let the chickens out for a while before I leave. I love watching them. Have you noticed they do everything together?”
“Like what?”
“Everything. If one goes a few feet away to peck at something in the grass, as soon as the others notice, they all scurry over and join her. And Horace keeps an eye on them. If one walks a little too far away, he starts crowing. Or he’ll run over and try to bring her back. Horace is the guard. Always on the alert. While the hens all have their heads down pecking, he keeps looking around. That’s his job.”
Gurney thought about this for a minute.
“Interesting how evolution arrives at a variety of survival strategies. Apparently the gene that supports high vigilance in the rooster produces behavior that results in a higher rate of hen survival, which in turn results in the rooster with that gene mating with more hens, which in turn propagates the vigilance gene more broadly into successive generations.”
“I suppose,” said Madeleine, yawning again and heading for the kitchen.
Chapter 37
Death Wish
Half believing that he would eventually get around to canceling with Malcolm Claret, Gurney kept deferring the call, until the time came—8:15 a.m.—when he was forced to make a decision: either set out on the long drive to his eleven o’clock appointment or pick up the phone and let the man know he wasn’t coming.
For reasons not entirely clear to him, he decided at the final moment to keep the appointment after all.
The day was starting to warm up, with a promise of typical August heat and humidity to come. He took off the long-sleeved work shirt he’d been wearing around the house in the coolness of the mountain morning, put on a light polo shirt and a pair of chinos, shave
d, combed his hair, picked up his car keys and wallet, and, barely ten minutes after making his decision, he was on his way.
Claret’s office was in his home on City Island, a small appendage of the Bronx in Long Island Sound. The drive from Walnut Crossing to the Bronx, the northernmost borough of New York City, took about two and a half hours. Once there, getting to City Island meant traversing the width of the borough, west to east—a journey Gurney had never been able to complete without feeling the negative emotional residues of his childhood there.
The Bronx was fixed in his mind as a place where the essential grunginess had little redeeming charm or character. The faded urban topography was universally uninspiring. In his old neighborhood, the most constricted paycheck-to-paycheck lives and the most prosperous ones were not far apart. The spectrum of achievement was narrow.
The neighborhood of his childhood was by no means a slum, but that absence of a negative was as positive as it got. Whatever civic pride existed arose from successfully keeping undesirable minorities at bay. The shabby but safe status quo was tenaciously maintained.
In the mix of small apartment buildings, two-family houses, and modest private homes—crowded together with little sense of order or provision for open spaces—there were only two homes he remembered as standing out among the drab multitude, only two that seemed pleasant or inviting. The owner of one was a Catholic doctor. The owner of the other was a Catholic funeral director. Both were successful. It was a predominantly Catholic neighborhood, a place where religion still mattered—as an emblem of respectability, a structure of allegiance, and a criterion for choosing providers of professional services.
That constricted way of thinking, of feeling, of making decisions, seemed to grow out of the tense, cramped, colorless environment itself—and it had created in him a powerful urge to escape. It was an urge he’d felt as soon as he was old enough to realize that the Bronx and the world were not synonymous.
Escape. The word brought back an image, a sensation, an emotion from his early teens. The rare joy he would feel, pedaling as fast as he could on his ten-speed English racer, the wind in his face, the soft hiss of the tires on the asphalt—the subtle sense of freedom.