“Not to its owner, but to its nearest cell tower when it received the alarm call. That could be helpful. In fact, you ought to get the receiving locations of the other two as well. Be interesting to know if Beckert was still in the area that morning when Turlock was killed.”
“No problem. I’ll get in touch with the phone company right now.”
After Gurney ended the call, Hardwick asked, “Where do you think he is?”
“I have no idea, just a hope that he’s still in the area.”
“Kline’s got an APB out on him?”
“Yes, but that’s about it.” Gurney paused. “I’ve been thinking about something you told me last week. About Beckert’s family problems. You mentioned that the boot-camp school he sent Cory to was down South. Do you know where in the South? Or what the name of the school was?”
“I could find out. I know the state police guy who recommended it to Beckert.”
“I was wondering if it might be in Virginia. Like Beckert’s own prep school. And his wife’s family. It’s a state he might know well and head for if he wanted to disappear for a while.”
Hardwick eyed Gurney over the top of his Grolsch bottle. “What are you suggesting?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Horseshit. You’re asking me to explore this Virginia possibility, start checking out all the places Beckert could be. Which would be an enormous pain in the ass.”
Gurney shrugged. “Just a thought. While Torres is checking tax rolls in the towns around here, I’ll be looking into rentals. There are no public records arranged by tenants’ names, but Acme Realty might have a searchable database of renters in the White River area. I’ll drop in on Laura Conway tomorrow morning.”
“What’s the matter with the phone?”
“Face-to-face is always better.”
Gurney was the first one up the following day. He’d had his initial cup of coffee and put out the bird feeders before Madeleine appeared for breakfast. She had her cello with her, which reminded him that her string group was booked for a morning concert at a local nursing home.
While she was preparing a bowl of her homemade granola, he scrambled three eggs for himself. They sat down together at the breakfast table.
“Have you spoken to Thrasher?” she asked.
“No. I wasn’t sure what to say. I guess we need to discuss it.”
She laid down her spoon. “Discuss it?”
“Discuss whether or not to let him go ahead with his exploration of the site.”
“You really think that needs to be discussed?”
He sighed, laying down his fork. “Okay. I’ll tell him the answer is no.”
She gave him a long look. “We live here, David. This is our home.”
He waited for her to go on. But that’s all she said.
The interstate portion of the drive was, as usual, relatively traffic-free. He pulled over just before the White River exit and entered Acme Realty’s address in his GPS. Six minutes later it delivered him to a storefront on Bridge Street, less than a block from the first sniper location.
He found that fact interesting, then dismissed it as one of those coincidences that usually end up meaning nothing. He’d learned over the years that one of the few investigatorial mistakes worse than failing to connect crucial dots was connecting irrelevant ones.
He got out in front of the office and began to examine the listings that filled the windows. Most of them were properties for sale, but there were rentals as well—both single-family homes and apartments. The area covered by the listings extended beyond White River into neighboring townships.
The front door opened. A rotund man with a chocolate-brown toupee and a salesman’s smile stepped out. “Beautiful day!”
Gurney nodded pleasantly.
The man raised a chubby hand toward the listings. “You have something in mind?”
“Hard to say.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. We can make it easy. That’s what we’re here for. You interested primarily in buying or renting?”
“Actually, I’ve already spoken to Ms. Conway. Is she in?”
“She is. If you’re already dealing with her, I’ll leave you to it. She’s one of our finest agents.” He opened the door. “After you, sir.”
Gurney walked into a carpeted area with an empty reception desk, a water cooler, a bulletin board with notes tacked to it, and two big tropical plants. Along the back of this area was a row of four glass-fronted cubicles with a name on each.
He’d been imagining someone young and blond. Laura Conway was middle-aged and dark-haired. She was wearing colorful rings on all ten fingers. A bright-green necklace drew attention to her already eye-catching cleavage. When she looked up from her desk, her earrings, gold disks the size of silver dollars, were set swinging. She greeted him with appraising eyes and a lipsticked smile.
“What can I do for you on this gorgeous day?”
“Hello, Laura. I’m Dave Gurney.”
It took a moment for the name to register. The wattage of the smile dropped noticeably. “Oh. Yes. The detective. Is there a problem?”
“May I?” He gestured toward one of the two spare chairs in the cubicle.
“Sure.” She placed her hands in front of her on the desk, interlocking her fingers.
He smiled. “I love the rings.”
