The driver returned to the Range Rover and spoke briefly to the woman. She nodded, crushed the second cigarette as she had the first, then made her way around the asparagus patch and flower bed to the patio. When they came face-to-face she looked at him with the same distaste with which she’d regarded the surrounding landscape, but with an added element of curiosity.
Neither offered to shake hands. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
She didn’t reply.
He waited.
“Who’s paying you, Mr. Gurney?” She had the syrupy voice and hard eyes of many a Southern politician.
He replied blandly, “I work for the district attorney.”
“Who else?”
“Nobody else.”
“So this story you’ve sold to Kline, this fantasy about the most respected police chief in America being a serial murderer—running around shooting people, beating people, God knows what else—all of that bilious nonsense is the product of an honest investigation?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“It’s the product of evidence.”
She uttered a bark of a laugh. “Evidence no doubt
“The evidence against Payne was questionable. The evidence that he was being framed was far more convincing.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Gurney. If anyone is being framed, it’s Dell Beckert. I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you. And you’ll regret your part in it.
He didn’t react, just held her gaze. “Do you know where your husband is?”
“If I did, you’d be the last person on earth I’d tell.”
“Doesn’t his running away strike you as peculiar?”
Her jaw muscles tightened. After regarding him venomously for a long moment she said, “I was told that a TV newsperson mentioned your name last night in connection with the election for attorney general. I don’t suppose your interest in that position would explain your attacks on my husband?”
“I have no interest in that position.”
“Because if that’s what this is all about, I will destroy you. There will nothing left of you or your so-called supercop reputation. Nothing!”
He saw no point in trying to explain his position to her.
She turned away and walked quickly to the big SUV. She got into the rear seat, and the driver closed the door. A few moments later the Range Rover was heading silently down the uneven path toward the barn and the town road beyond it.
Gurney stood for a while on the patio, replaying the scene in his mind—the strained expression, the rigid body language, the accusatory tone. Having conducted thousands of interviews over the years with the family members of fugitives and otherwise missing persons, he had gotten good at reading these situations. He was reasonably sure that the fury Haley Beckert expressed was the product of fear, and that her fear was the product of being blindsided by events she didn’t understand.
The cool, humid breezes, though still shifting direction, were growing stronger, creating the feeling of an impending thunderstorm. He went inside and closed the French doors.
Madeleine was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace reading a book. She’d started a small fire, which was flickering weakly. He was tempted to rearrange the logs but he knew his interference would not be appreciated. He sat in the armchair that faced hers.
“I assume you overheard all that?” he said.
Her eyes remained on her book. “Hard not to.”
“Any reaction?”
“She’s used to getting her way.”
He stared at the fire for a while, repressing the urge to fix it. “So. What do you think I should do?”
She looked up. “I guess that depends on whether you see the case as open or closed.”
“Technically, the case remains open until Beckert is located, prosecuted, and—”
She cut him off. “I don’t mean
“If you’re talking about a sense of completion, I’m not there yet.”
“What’s missing—other than Beckert himself?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like trying to scratch an itch that keeps moving.”
She closed her book. “You have doubts about Beckert’s guilt?”
He frowned. “The evidence against him is substantial.”
“The evidence against his son looked that way, too.”
“Not to me. I had concerns about all of it. From the beginning.”
“You have no similar concerns about the evidence against the father?”
“Not really. No.”
She cocked her head curiously.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Could that have anything to do with your ‘eureka’ theory?”
He didn’t reply. He knew not to answer too quickly when a question got under his skin.
