Let the Devil Sleep (31 page)

“Did you know there’s an access panel that leads to the apartment upstairs?”

“No. But I’m not surprised. Where is it?”

“In the laundry alcove off the kitchen.”

Gurney recalled the kitchen and the laundry area as both having a ceiling pattern of large squares formed by intersecting strips of decorative molding—ideal for concealing a movable panel.

“What on earth prompted you to—”

“Check the ceilings? Kim told me sometimes she hears noises at night, creaking, other creepy little sounds. And she told me about all that other odd shit—things being moved, things missing and reappearing, the bloodstains—even though she’d had her locks changed. Plus the fact that the apartment upstairs is supposed to be vacant. So when you put all that together …”

“Very good,” said Gurney, impressed. “You figured the most likely access to her apartment would be through the ceiling?”

“And the most likely ceiling would be the one with the panel moldings.”

“Then what?”

“Then I got a ladder from the basement and started pressing on each square until I found one that felt a little different, had a different kind of give. I got a knife and loosened the molding around it, enough to see that there were cut lines underneath. I didn’t go any further. If you didn’t want me to move the bugs, I didn’t think you’d want me to move the panel. Besides, it was secured from the other side, and I’d have to break it to get through it, which I didn’t want to do, not knowing what might be up there.”

Gurney noted the eagerness of the chase in his son’s voice, tempered with barely enough caution. “You’ve had a busy afternoon.”

“Got to catch the bad guys. What’s the next step?”

“
Your
next step should be to get the hell out of there and come back here—both of you.
My
next step is to let these new facts sink in for a while. Sometimes when I go to bed with questions, I wake up with answers.”

“Is that true?”

“No, but it sounds good.”

Kyle laughed. “What questions are you going to bed with tonight?”

“Let me ask you the same thing. After all, you’re the one who made the discoveries. Being on-site creates a better perspective. What do
you
think the big questions are?”

Even in Kyle’s hesitation, Gurney could sense a palpable excitement. “As far as I can see, there’s one really big one.”

“Namely?”

“Are we dealing with an obsessed stalker or with something a whole lot nastier?” He paused. “What do you think?”

“I’m thinking that we might be dealing with both.”

G
urney stayed up that night until Kim and Kyle arrived from Syracuse—Kyle on his BSA and Kim in her Miata.

After they’d reviewed everything they’d discussed on the phone, Gurney had two more questions. The first was for Kyle, and he got only half of it out before it was answered. “When you took off the covers of the smoke alarms—”

“I took them off very quietly, very slowly. All the while Kim and I kept talking about something completely different—about one of her courses at school—so no one listening would realize what I was doing.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I saw it in a spy movie.”

Gurney’s second question was for Kim. “Did you see anything in the apartment that wasn’t familiar—any kind of small appliance, clock radio, iPod, stuffed animal, anything at all you hadn’t seen before?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondering if Schiff ever got around to bringing in the promised video-surveillance equipment. In situations where the apartment renter is aware of the plan, it’s easier to bring in a video transmitter that’s prewired inside its cover object rather than concealing it in a ceiling fixture or something else on site.”

“There wasn’t anything like that.”

T
he next morning at the breakfast table, Gurney noticed that Madeleine had skipped her usual bowl of oatmeal and had hardly
touched her coffee. Her gaze out through the glass doors seemed focused on dark thoughts rather than on the sunny landscape.

“You thinking about the fire?”

It took her so long to answer that he began to think she hadn’t heard him. “Yes, I suppose you could say I’m thinking about the fire. When I woke up this morning, you know what came into my mind, for maybe three seconds? I had the idea of enjoying this lovely morning by taking a ride on my bicycle along the back road by the river. But then, of course, I realized I don’t have a bicycle. That charred, twisted thing on the barn floor isn’t really a bicycle anymore, is it?”

Gurney didn’t know what to say.

She sat silently for a while, her eyes narrowed in anger. Then she said, more to her coffee cup than to him, “This person who’s been bugging Kim’s apartment—how much do you think he’s learned about us?”

“Us?”

“You, then. How much do you think he’s found out about you?”

Gurney took a deep breath. “Good question.” It was, in fact, a question that had been gnawing at him since his phone conversation with Kyle the previous evening. “Presumably the bugs are transmitting to a voice-activated recording device—giving him access to the conversations I had with Kim on my visits there, plus her side of all her cell-phone conversations.”

“Conversations she had with you, with her mother, with Rudy Getz …”

“Yes.”

Madeleine’s eyes narrowed. “So he knows a lot.”

“He knows a lot.”

“Should we be afraid?”

“We need to be vigilant. And I need to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Ah. I see. I keep my eyes open for a potential maniac while you play with the puzzle pieces? Is that the plan?”

“Am I interrupting something?” Kim was standing at the kitchen door.

Madeleine looked like she was about to say, Yes, you are definitely interrupting something.

Instead Gurney asked, “You want some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I … I just wanted to remind you … we need to leave in about an hour for our first appointment. It’s with Eric Stone in Barkham Dell. He still lives in his mother’s house. You’ll love meeting this one. Eric is … unique.”

B
efore they left, Gurney made his planned call to Detective James Schiff at Syracuse PD to ask about the surveillance equipment for Kim’s apartment. Schiff was out on a call, and Gurney was transferred to Schiff’s partner, Elwood Gates, who seemed familiar with the situation. Gates was, however, neither very interested in the problem nor apologetic for the delay in installing the promised cameras.

“If Schiff said we’ll get to it, then we’ll get to it.”

“Any idea when?”

“Maybe when we’re done with a few higher-priority things, okay?”

“Higher priority than a dangerous nutcase making repeated intrusions into a young woman’s apartment, with the intention of inflicting serious bodily harm?”

“You talking about the broken step?”

“I’m talking about a booby-trapped staircase over a concrete floor, designed to create a potentially fatal injury.”

“Well, Mr. Gurney, let me tell you something. Right now there’s nothing ‘potential’ about the fatal injuries we’re dealing with. I guess you didn’t hear about the little crack-dealer turf war that erupted here yesterday? No, I didn’t think so. But your giant trespassing problem is right up there at the top of our list—just as soon as we shut down about a dozen crazy scumbags with AK-47s. Okay? We’ll be sure to keep you informed. You have a nice day.”

Kim was watching Gurney’s face as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “What did he say?”

“He said maybe the day after tomorrow.”

A
t Gurney’s insistence they took separate cars on their trip to Barkham Dell. In the event something unexpected arose, he wanted the flexibility to separate himself from Kim’s series of interviews.

She drove faster than he did, and they were out of sight of each other before they reached the interstate. It was a beautiful day—the only one so far that captured the concept of the season. The sky was a piercing blue. The widely scattered little clouds were radiant puffy things. Patches of tiny snowdrop flowers were blossoming in shaded areas along the highway. When the time-to-destination on his GPS told him he was halfway there, Gurney stopped for gas. After he filled his tank, he went into the station’s convenience store for a container of coffee. Minutes later, sitting in the car with the windows open, sipping his French roast, he decided to call Jack Hardwick and ask for two more favors. He was concerned that the quid pro quo, whenever it might come, would be substantial. But he wanted information, and this was the most efficient way to get it. He placed the call, half hoping for voice mail. Instead he got the sarcastic sandpaper voice of the man himself.

“Davey boy! Bloodhound on the trail of evil incarnate! What the fuck do you want from me now?”

“Actually, quite a lot.”

“You don’t say! What a goddamn shock!”

“I’ll be seriously indebted to you.”

“You already are, ace.”

“True.”

“Just so long as you know it. Speak.”

“First, I’d like to know everything there is to know about a Syracuse University student by the name of Robert Meese, aka Robert Montague. Second, I’d like to know everything there is to know about Emilio Corazon, father of Kim Corazon, former husband of New York City journalist Connie Clarke. Emilio dropped out of sight and out of communication ten years ago this week. Family efforts to locate him have failed.”

“When you say ‘everything there is to know,’ what exactly—”

“What I mean is, everything that can be dug up within the next two or three days.”

“That’s it?”

“You’ll do it?”

“Just don’t forget all that indebtedness.”

“I won’t. Jack, I really appreciate—” Gurney began. Then he noticed that the connection had already been broken.

After he resumed his journey, he followed the instructions of his GPS off the interstate and onto a series of increasingly rural byways until he came to the turn for Foxledge Lane. There, parked at the side of the road, he saw the red Miata. Kim waved, pulled out onto the pavement in front of him, and drove slowly up the lane.

They didn’t have far to go. The first driveway, flanked by impressive drystone walls, belonged to something called the Whittingham Hunt Club. The second driveway, a few hundred yards farther on, bore no identification or visible address, but Kim turned in and Gurney followed her.

Eric Stone’s home was at the end of a quarter-mile driveway. It was a very large New England Colonial. Everywhere bits of paint were beginning to peel. The gutters needed tightening and straightening. There were frost-heave cracks in the driveway. Debris from the recent winter littered the lawn areas and flower beds.

There was an uneven brick walk connecting the driveway with the three steps leading up to the front door. The walk and the steps were covered with rotting leaves and twigs. When Gurney and Kim were halfway along this path, the door opened and a man emerged onto the broad top step. It occurred to Gurney that the man was shaped like an egg. His narrow-shouldered, large-bellied physique was wrapped from neck to knees in a spotless white apron.

“Do be careful. Please. It’s a veritable jungle out there.” His theatrical delivery was accompanied by a toothy smile and anxious eyes that fastened on Gurney. His short hair, prematurely gray, was neatly parted. His small pink face was freshly shaved.

“Gingersnaps!” he announced cheerily as he moved aside to let them into the big house.

As Gurney stepped past him, the scent of talcum powder gave way to the distinctive, spicy-sweet aroma of the only kind of cookie he thoroughly disliked.

“Just follow the hall all the way to the back. The kitchen is the coziest spot in the house.”

In addition to the staircase to the second floor, the wide traditional center hall included several doors, but the patina of dust on the knobs suggested that they were rarely opened.

The kitchen at the back of the house was cozy only in the sense of
being warm and full of oven aromas. It was huge and high-ceilinged and contained all the professional-commercial appliances that a decade or two earlier had become de rigueur in the homes of the well-to-do. The stove’s ten-foot-tall exhaust hood brought to Gurney’s mind a sacrificial altar in an Indiana Jones movie.

“My mother was a devotee of quality,” said the egg-shaped man. Then he added, with a startling echo of Gurney’s passing thought, “She was an acolyte at the altar of perfection.”

“How long have you lived here?” asked Kim.

Instead of answering the question, he turned to Gurney. “I definitely know who you are, and I suspect you know who I am, but I still think it would be appropriate to be introduced.”

“Oh, stupid me!” said Kim. “I’m so sorry. Dave Gurney, Eric Stone.”

“Delighted,” said Stone, extending his hand with an ingratiating smile. His large, even teeth were nearly as white as his apron. “Your very impressive reputation precedes you.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Gurney. Stone’s hand was warm, soft, and unpleasantly moist.

“I told Eric about the article my mother wrote about you,” said Kim.

After an awkward silence, Stone pointed to a fashionably distressed pine table at the end of the kitchen farthest from the grand stove. “Shall we?”

When Gurney and Kim had taken their seats, Stone asked if either one wanted anything to drink. “I have various coffees in various strengths, as well as teas in countless herbal varieties. I also have some peculiar pomegranate soda. Any takers?”

They both declined, and Stone, making an exaggerated show of disappointment, sat down in the third chair at the table. Kim took three small cameras and two mini-tripods out of her shoulder bag. She set up two of the cameras on the tripods, one facing Stone, one facing herself.

She then explained the production philosophy at length—how “the folks at RAM” were intent on ensuring that the look and feeling of the interview was as simple and low-tech as possible, keeping it within the same visual and audio framework that was familiar to all those viewers who were accustomed to recording family moments
on their iPhones. The goal was to keep it real. Keep it simple. An unpredictable conversation, not a scripted scene. With room lighting, not stage lighting. Nonprofessional. Human beings being human. Et cetera.