“I think it could create a problem. Actually, two problems. First problem, there’s no expiration date on my credentials, and I have a contract that requires written notice of termination, which I never received. Which means the impersonation charge is groundless. So right off the bat you’d be facing a false arrest charge. Second problem, I heard a rumor that somebody got to Rick Loomis in the ICU.” Turlock’s eyes seemed to widen just a little.
Gurney went on. “The security you provided was inadequate, and I told your skirt-chasing officer in front of witnesses that Loomis was in serious danger. That warning was ignored. Now here’s the thing, Judd. I have no desire to publicize your major screw-up, but when people get threatened with arrest they often do destructive things.”
“Who the hell told you somebody got to Loomis?”
“I have informants. Just like you and Chief Beckert. Except my informants actually know what they’re talking about.”
Something new entered Turlock’s eyes, something like the strange calm before a violent storm. Then his gaze fell on the phone in Gurney’s shirt pocket and the strange look was replaced by something more controlled if no less hostile.
“You fuck up this murder investigation, Gurney, there’s going to be a price to pay. In White River we consider obstruction of justice a serious crime.
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“I’m glad we understand each other,” said Turlock, staring at him for a long moment with an expression full of stone-cold hatred. He slowly raised his right hand in the shape of a gun, the forefinger pointing at Gurney’s face. He dropped the thumb like a hammer. Without another word, he returned to his big blue SUV and drove out of the rest area.
Gurney took his phone out of his pocket. “You hear all that, Jack?”
“Jesus, was that your idea of nuance? You’re lucky the crazy fucker didn’t kill you.”
“He’d love to. Maybe someday he’ll try to. But right now there are other things I need to talk to you about.” Gurney proceeded to bring Hardwick up to date on the events of the day, beginning with his conversations with Whittaker Coolidge and Cory Payne and ending with his discovery of the possible switching of the flush handles.
Hardwick grunted. “That toilet thing sounds like a stretch.”
“I agree.”
“But if it’s true, we’re dealing with a goddamn elaborate setup.”
“I agree.”
“Shitload of planning.”
“Yep.”
“Big risk would suggest a big payoff.”
“Right.”
“So the questions would be whodunit, and why.”
“There’s another interesting question. If Payne was framed, was that a tactic to divert blame, or was it the goal?”
“The hell does that mean?”
“Did the killer pick Payne as a convenient framing victim to misdirect the investigation into the cop killings, or were the cops killed for the explicit purpose of framing him?”
“Jesus, don’t you think that’s a little twisted? Why the hell would framing him be important enough to kill two cops?”
“I admit it’s pushing the possibilities a bit.”
“More than a fucking
“I’d still like to know for sure which end is the dog and which end is the tail. In the meantime, how’s your poking around in Beckert’s past going?”
“Couple of guys are supposed to be getting back to me. I should be able to tell you something later tonight. Or maybe not. Who knows how eager these cocksuckers are to return favors.”
At 5:00 PM Gurney was heading up the hillside road to his property, weary from his obsessive analysis of scenarios involving the framing of Cory Payne. From the moment he’d noticed the plier marks where the outside flush handle joined the flushing mechanism inside the tank, he’d been able to think of little else.
When he reached the end of the road, however, and came abreast of his barn, that subject was nudged aside by the presence of Walter Thrasher’s sleek black Audi.
Gurney remembered the phone call in which he’d agreed to let the man search for artifacts that might support whatever notion he’d gotten about the history of the place. He was tempted to go up to the excavation site to see if he’d found what he was looking for. But the prospect of trudging up the hill was discouraging, and he continued on to the house.
Madeleine, in her straw gardening hat, was kneeling at the edge of the asparagus bed, prying out weeds with a trowel. She looked up at him, tilting the brim of her hat to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You look worn out.”
“I feel worn out.”
“Any progress?”
“Mostly uncovering new questions. We’ll see where they lead.”
She shrugged and went back to her weeding. “I assume you know about that man down by the pond?”
“Dr. Walter Thrasher. He asked me if he could poke around in our excavation.”
“You mean
“Apparently he’s an expert on the Colonial history of this area.” He paused. “He’s also the county medical examiner.”
“Is that so?” She stabbed her trowel down around a dandelion root.
He watched for a while in silence before asking, “How’s Heather doing?”
