Before Hardwick could begin, the rosy-cheeked waitress reappeared. “Sorry, I got pulled away. What would you gentlemen like for breakfast?”
After a quick look at the menu, Hardwick ordered four fried eggs, a double portion of sausages, hash browns, and coffee. Gurney chose a western omelet, toast, and coffee. When the waitress hurried off toward the kitchen, Hardwick began.
“The source of this intel is my contact at BCI, and who the hell knows how objective he is. So bear that in mind. Best to start with Dale Magnussen, CIO on the Blackmore case. He wrote up the incident report—in which he interpreted the circumstances as a road-rage confrontation. Like most incident report writers, he’s more committed to his initial impressions than he ought to be. And your big-deal NYPD reputation rubbed him the wrong way. Bottom line, he’s dug in on his road-rage theory, making you the shooter.”
Gurney had gotten a hostile vibe from Magnussen, so this didn’t surprise him.
Hardwick continued. “Lucky for you, not everyone is on Magnussen’s wavelength. The BCI evidence tech found gunpowder residue on the side of the truck that she says is consistent with the gun being fired from about six feet away, while the truck was standing still, and probably from a position higher than that of a driver seated in another car. So it seems that for you to be the shooter, you would have to have gotten out of your car after it hit the stump, walked over to the truck, shot the victim, returned to your car, and passed out in the driver’s seat. An unlikely scenario.”
“Its unlikelihood didn’t change Magnussen’s mind?”
“Assholes do not have changeable minds. But it wasn’t just the tech who had doubts about the road-rage idea. Based on the angle of the bullet’s path through Lerman’s head, the ME agreed with the evidence tech’s opinion that the shooter was probably standing next to the truck. And finally, the doctor who examined you in the hospital claimed that the location of your head injury seemed inconsistent with a frontal collision. He didn’t say someone must have sandbagged you from the side after you hit the stump, but that would seem to follow from what he did say.”
Gurney was absorbing this with a cautious sense of relief. “That’s consistent with what I learned from two women who live near the scene.” He went on to relate what Nora Rumsten told him about the motorcycle and gunshot sounds and what Tess Larson told him about the visitor who left motorcycle tracks up to the shooting site after sending her off on a phony errand.
“So,” he concluded, “it seems that Stryker’s case against me isn’t all that strong.”
“Not in a logical sense, but that doesn’t mean shit, Sherlock. According to my BCI guy, Stryker’s a wild card—with enough brains and ambition to be dangerous. She’ll view any development in the Blackmore case that could raise questions about the Slade case an existential threat to her career. That conviction was a rare big-time success in a county where crime mostly consists of drunks pissing in public. If she sees you as any threat at all to her hot-shit new rep, she’ll be looking for ways to cut your dick off.”
Gurney’s sense of relief was fading.
Hardwick went on. “Before I forget, I did get answers to a couple of things you asked about. The tow truck that smashed into you was reported stolen that same day. It’s registered to an LLC called Top Star Auto Salvage, owned by a Charlene Vesco. And the call you got to set up the meeting in Harbane came from a prepaid phone—from which no other calls were made, before or since. Plus, there’s an interesting little geographical echo. The salvage company’s address and the phone call’s origination cell tower are both within a mile of a specialty food store owned by Bruno Lanka. And they’re all located in the grimy little town of Garville, just this side of Albany.” He paused. “You don’t look surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Because these details fit into a giant blueprint in your head?”
“More like each little piece is starting to form a picture.”
“Yeah, well, watch out how you arrange those little pieces. Or the big picture could be totally fucked up.”
Gurney said nothing. He was used to Hardwick’s cynicism. Besides, the man had a point. In the ensuing silence the rosy-cheeked waitress brought them their breakfast orders. She transferred the items quickly from her serving tray to the table and left.
Halfway through his omelet, Gurney’s appetite waned. He laid his fork down on his plate and pushed the plate an inch away.
Hardwick eyed him curiously. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Madeleine wants me to drop the case.”
“Could be a sign that it’s time to bail.”
Hardwick wasn’t often on the same page as Madeleine, and Gurney’s surprise showed.
“You serious?”
“What the hell are you chasing after, anyway? The real murderer of Lenny Lerman? The real murderer of Sonny Lerman? Vindication for that slimebag Ziko Slade? Suppose you get Slade out of the can—and it turns out he chopped off Lerman’s head after all?”
