Kline’s voice on the phone was clipped and angry. “It was exactly what it seemed to be—a warning to watch his back, which turned out to be very good advice. He just didn’t get it in time.”
“Maybe he wasn’t meant to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The message was sent to his personal phone after he left for work—where he used the department-issued BlackBerry. So maybe the message wasn’t meant to be found until after he was killed.”
“
“To point us toward the WRPD, and ultimately Beckert. Of course that would mean that the sender knew in advance that Steele would be killed. The so-called warning could have been the first subtle piece in the plot to incriminate Beckert.”
“Very clever. That’s what you’re all about, Gurney, isn’t it? One damn clever theory after another. Too bad this one is obvious nonsense. Maybe you didn’t hear me. WE HAVE A CONFESSION! Do I need to keep repeating that?”
In the hope that he might be able to better communicate his concerns face-to-face, Gurney ended the call and made his way out of his concealed position in the woods—which was starting to feel a bit ridiculous—and made his way over to Kline, whose exasperated expression offered zero encouragement.
“Look, Sheridan, I appreciate your position,” Gurney began, trying to sound as accommodating as possible. “I just think—”
He was interrupted by the deep growl of a finely tuned twelve-cylinder engine. It was Marv Gelter arriving in his classic red Ferrari.
The instant Kline saw Gelter he gave Gurney a dismissive wave of his hand and strode over to the Ferrari. When Gelter got out of the car, they engaged in a brief frowning discussion, Kline gesturing in an explanatory way toward the house. Then Gelter spotted Gurney and came over to him, leaving Kline staring after him.
His smile was as hard-edged as the scraping timbre of his voice. “Time flies, my friend. You owe me an answer. I hope it’s the right one.”
Gurney responded to the man’s intensity with a bland shrug. “The truth is, I’m afraid I’d make a lousy candidate and an even worse attorney general.”
“Hah! That’s exactly the kind of statement that’ll get you elected. The reluctant hero. No pretenses. Like a humble fucking astronaut. What a gift! And you don’t even know you have it. That’s the magic of it.”
Before Gurney could articulate a more definitive refusal, a large satellite-transmission media van pulled into the clearing, followed by a big Chevy SUV, both bearing the same promotional identification in red-white-and-blue lettering:
RAM-TV—ON THE SPOT
WHERE NEWS IS BREAKING!
As Stacey Kilbrick stepped out of the SUV, Kline hurried over to greet her.
“Circus time,” said Gelter. With a wink at Gurney he went over to join Kline and Kilbrick.
A restless breeze was beginning to stir. Gurney looked up and saw that a bank of clouds was slowly moving in from the west. The darkening sky lent a chilling visual effect to a situation that was making him increasingly uneasy. The fact that no one seemed to share his apprehension was only making it worse.
What went on for the next fifteen or twenty minutes looked to Gurney a lot more like the choreography of a media event than the securing of a site for a police operation.
As Kline, Gelter, and Kilbrick were conferring, one of her assistants was fussing with her hair, and a member of the TV crew was affixing a microphone to the collar of her blazer. Another crew member was working with the camera operator to pick a spot for her to stand that would show the house and the array of flower baskets in the background.
Meanwhile Mayor Shucker and Sheriff Cloutz had emerged from the Escalade and were standing next to it. Cloutz was rocking his white cane back and forth like a metronome. Shucker was eating a doughnut. Captain Beltz was leaning on the open door of his Explorer, smoking a cigarette with fierce inhalations.
Kilbrick took her place in front of the camera, adopted a highly energized and concerned expression, cleared her throat, gave the camera operator a nod, and began speaking.
“This is Stacey Kilbrick on location with a special edition of
Kline straightened his large jacket and, following a crew member’s silent direction, took a position on Kilbrick’s right.
She turned toward him. “I understand the hunt for Dell Beckert may be over.”
Kline produced a grim smile. “It looks that way. We’ve been closing in on him, and I guess he saw the writing on the wall.”
