The knife paused on the cutting board, but she didn’t look as surprised as he’d expected. “In place of Dell Beckert?”
“Exactly.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess he wants a real law-and-order hero to replace the one that blew up in his face.”
“That’s pretty much what he said.”
“He didn’t waste any time.”
“No.”
“Clever, cold, and calculating.”
“All of that.”
“And it goes without saying that he has the connections to get you in the race?”
“Not just that. He told me I’d win.”
“What did you say to that?”
“That I’d sleep on it.”
“What were you thinking when you said it?”
“I was thinking that after two minutes of feeling flattered, I’d ponder the unknowns, imagine the problems, talk to you about it, then turn it down.”
She laughed. “Interesting process. What does the attorney general do, anyway?”
“I’m sure there’s a description of responsibilities on the state website, but what a real live person might choose to spend his time on is another matter. The last occupant of the office is rumored to have fucked himself to death with a Las Vegas hooker.”
“So you’re really not interested?”
“In jumping into a political shark tank? With the backing of a man I don’t even like being in the same room with?”
Madeleine raised a curious eyebrow. “You did agree to have lunch with him.”
“To find out why he wanted to have lunch with me.”
“And now you know.”
“Now I know—unless his agenda is more twisted than I realize.”
She gave him one of her searching looks, and a silence fell between them.
“Oh, by the way,” he said as he was finishing his coffee, “I crossed paths with Walter Thrasher at the crime scene in White River last night. He said he’d drop by around five today to talk about our archaeology project.”
“What is there to talk about?”
Gurney realized he hadn’t shared Thrasher’s phone message with her. “He’s done some research on the objects I found. His comments have been rather strange. I’m hoping he’ll clarify the situation this afternoon.”
Madeleine’s silence eloquently conveyed her hostility to the project.
Thinking of Thrasher reminded him of the Jackson-Creel apartment. Madeleine reacted to the look on his face.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Just . . . a little jolt from last night. I’m fine.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
He didn’t want to, but he’d learned over the years that describing something that was disturbing him loosened its grip on his mind. So he told her the story, beginning with his discovery on the hospital personnel list that Blaze Jackson and Chalise Creel shared an address and ending with the scene in the apartment—the decomposing bodies, the propofol hypodermics, the money, and the fingerprint link to Dell Beckert.
She smiled. “You must feel good about that.”
“About what?” There was sourness in his voice.
“Being right about Beckert. You were uncomfortable with him from the beginning. And now you’ve amassed all this evidence of his involvement in . . . how many murders?”
“At least four. Six, if he killed those two women. Seven, if he set up Judd Turlock.”
“If it wasn’t for you, that Payne boy would probably be in jail.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. A good defense lawyer would have seen that the evidence against him was a setup. As for the evidence against Beckert, we got lucky out at the gun club.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You’re the one who decided to go there and check it out. You’re the one who turned the whole case around. You’re the one who’s gotten to the truth.”
“We’ve had some luck. Recoverable bullets. Clean ballistics. Clear evidence that—”
She interrupted him. “You don’t sound very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“And you sound like you’re talking to one of your clients at the clinic.”
She sighed. “I’m just wondering why you don’t feel better about the progress you’ve made.”
“I’ll feel better when it’s all over.”
Thrasher arrived at five twenty, negotiating the uneven lane up through the pasture with obvious care in his pristine Audi. After getting out of the car he stood for a few moments surveying the surrounding landscape, then came over to the open French doors.
“Damned construction workers on the interstate, busily doing nothing except impeding traffic,” he said as Gurney let him in.
From his position in the breakfast nook he looked around the big farmhouse kitchen with an appraising eye. His gaze lingered on the fireplace at the far end. “Nice old mantel. Chestnut. Unique color. Style of the hearth appears to be early eighteen hundreds. You research the provenance of the house when you bought it?”
“No. Do you think there’s some connection between this house and—”
“The remains of the house down by the pond? Lord, no. That predates this by more than a hundred years.” He put his briefcase down on the dining table.
Madeleine, who’d been upstairs practicing a Bach piece on her cello, came in from the hallway.
Gurney introduced her.
“Asparagus,” said Thrasher. “Wise choice.”
“Excuse me?”
