Peter Pan Must Die (31 page)

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“If I were to receive that missing video from some anonymous sender, I would be willing to exclude a certain career-ending piece of evidence from the appeal process. I would also be willing to delay indefinitely my plan to provide that same item to the NYSP inspector general. That’s the hypothetical deal. A simple gentlemen’s agreement, based on mutual trust.”

Klemper laughed, or maybe he just grunted and shuddered involuntarily. “This is crazy crap. You sound like some fucking psycho.” He looked over in Gurney’s direction but made no eye contact. “Fantasy bullshit. All fantasy bullshit.” He stood up abruptly, unsteadily, and headed for the nearest exit.

He left in his wake an acrid odor of alcohol and sweat.

Gurney’s drive home was a journey into anxiety. He attributed it to the emotional free fall that often followed an intense encounter.

As he headed up the final stretch of road toward his barn, however, it struck him that there might be another cause: the ricketiness of his assumptions, not only about Klemper but also about the case as a whole. If Klemper’s failing had been wishful thinking about Kay’s guilt, might not his own failing be wishful thinking about her innocence? Might he and Klemper be equally blind to some more complex scenario that involved Kay in way that hadn’t occurred to either of them?

And what was the significance of Klemper’s drinking? Had he been drinking earlier in the day on the job? Or had he picked up a bottle for a few quick belts in the car on his way to Riverside? Either possibility suggested terrible judgment, great strain, or a serious drinking problem. Any of those issues had the potential to make the man an unpredictable, even explosive piece of the puzzle.

The first thing he noticed after rounding the barn was that Madeleine’s car was gone from its normal spot by the house, which jogged a half-formed memory that this was the evening for one of her board meetings, although he wasn’t sure which one.

Entering the kitchen, he found her absence momentarily comforting—relieving him of the need to immediately decide how much or how little to reveal about his Klemper meeting. It also meant he’d have some undisturbed time to himself to sort the jumbled pieces of a long day into some kind of order.

He was heading into the den for the organizing assistance of a pad and pen when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the ID. It was Kyle.

“Hey, Dad. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Nothing that can’t wait. What’s up?”

“I made some calls, asking around about Jonah Spalter and/or the Cyberspace Cathedral. None of my own contacts knew anything, one thought maybe the name was familiar, thought something might be happening with it, but didn’t know anything specific. I was going to send you an e-mail saying, ‘Sorry, no grapes on the vine.’ But then one of the guys called me back. Told me he’d checked around and discovered a friend of his had handled a venture capital search for Jonah Spalter, the venture being a huge expansion of Spalter’s Cathedral.”

“What kind of expansion?”

“He didn’t get into that beyond the fact that it was going to cost plenty.”

“Interesting.”

“The
really
interesting part is that Spalter ended the capital search the day after his brother died. Called up the guy who’d been working on it, took him to lunch, cut off the whole process—”

Gurney broke in. “That doesn’t surprise me. I mean, the way that corporation was set up by their father, Carl’s share of Spalter Realty would go directly to Jonah—entirely separate from the rest of his assets, which were covered by his will. So Jonah would have come into some big real estate holdings that he’d be free to sell or mortgage. So he wouldn’t need to raise venture capital to finance whatever expansion he had in mind.”

“You didn’t let me get to the really interesting part.”

“Oh? Sorry. Tell me.”

“Jonah Spalter showed up for lunch half drunk, then got really drunk. And he quoted that saying ‘God works in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.’ And according to this guy, Spalter kept saying it and laughing, like he found it really funny. Kind of weirded the guy out.”

Gurney was silent for a while, imagining the scene. “You said the Cathedral expansion was going to cost plenty. Any idea how much?”

“The capital search had to be for at least fifty million. The guy
Jonah was dealing with wouldn’t touch any deal for an amount less than that.”

“Meaning,” said Gurney, mostly to himself, “that the assets of Spalter Realty must be worth at least that much, if Jonah was willing to cancel the search.”

“So what are you thinking, Dad?” said Kyle conspiratorially. “That fifty million could be a pretty compelling motive for murder?”

“More compelling than most. Did your contact have anything else to say about Spalter?”

“Just that he was super smart, super ambitious—but that’s nothing special, just the nature of the beast.”

“Okay, thanks. That was very helpful.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. More I know, the better my brain works. And there’s no other way I could have come upon that revealing little anecdote. So thank you again.”

“Glad I could help. By the way, you planning to go to the Summer Mountain Fair?”

“Me? No. But Madeleine will be there. She’s helping some friends of hers who have a farm over in Buck Ridge. They bring their alpacas to the fair every year and enter them in … I don’t know … alpaca events, I guess.”

“You don’t sound too revved up about it.”

“You could say that.”

“You mean to say you’re not impressed by the
biggest
agricultural fair in the Northeast? Tractor pulls, demolition derbies, butter sculptures, cotton candy, hog judging, sheep shearing, cheese making, country music, carnival rides, blue ribbons for biggest zucchini—how could you not be impressed by all that?”

“It’s tough, but somehow I manage to control my enthusiasm.”

After ending the call with Kyle, Gurney stayed at his desk for some time, letting the economic facts of the Spalter case sink in, and pondering the significance of those famous lines
God moves in a mysterious way / His wonders to perform
.

He took the thick case file out of his desk drawer and riffled through
it until he came to an index of key names and addresses. There were two email addresses for “J. Spalter”—one a Google gmail account, the other connected to the Cyberspace Cathedral website domain. There was also a physical address in Florida, with a notation indicating that it existed to serve legal and tax purposes, that it was the location where Jonah’s motor home was registered and where CyberCath was incorporated, but that the man did not actually live there. A further marginal note read, “Postal forwarding instructions redirect mail to changing series of P.O. boxes.” Apparently Jonah was on the road most of the time, maybe all the time.

Gurney sent a message to both email addresses—a message saying that Kay’s conviction was likely to be overturned and that he urgently needed Jonah’s help in evaluating some new evidence.

Getting to sleep that night was more difficult than usual.

It was a persistent source of frustration—this business of trying to pursue an investigation without the investigatory apparatus that had been available to him in the NYPD. And the problem had been compounded by Hardwick’s loss of access to NYSP files, information systems, and channels of inquiry. Being outsiders created a heavy reliance on insiders who might be willing to take a risk. Hardwick’s recent experience was proof that the risk was substantial.

In the current situation, much depended not only on Esti, whose commitment seemed positive and unequivocal, but also on the willingness of her contacts to be both helpful and discreet. Similarly, much depended on Hardwick’s contacts and how they might be feeling about the man and his motives. It would be impolitic to put pressure on any of these helpers since none of them
had
to provide any help at all.

It was a position Gurney hated being in—relying on the unpredictable generosity of others, hoping for some breakthrough piece of information to arrive from sources beyond his control.

The call came just before five a.m.—barely two hours after his churning thoughts had loosened their grip and let him drift into an exhausted half-sleep. Fumbling in the dark, knocking over an empty water glass, provoking a murmur of protest from Madeleine, he finally located his phone on the night table. When he saw Hardwick’s name on the screen, he took the phone into the den.

“Yes?”

“You might be thinking it’s a little on the early side for a call, but it’s seven hours later in Turkey. Noon over there, as a matter of fact. Must be hot as a steaming turd.”

“Great news, Jack. Thanks for letting me know.”

“My contact in Ankara woke me up. So I figured I’d wake you up. Time for Farmer Dave to scatter some cracked corn for the chickens. In fact, you probably should’ve been out there an hour ago, you lazy son of a bitch.”

Gurney was accustomed to Hardwick’s unusual approach to business conversations, and generally ignored the ritual abuse. “Your Ankara guy is with Interpol?”

“So he says.”

“What did he have for you?”

“A few tidbits. We get what we get. Goodness of his heart.”

“What did his good heart have for you?”

“You got time for this? You sure you don’t need to go do something for those chickens?”

“Chickens are a lovely addition to the rural life, Jack. You ought to get yourself a few.”

Embracing Hardwick’s tangent had the odd effect of getting him back on point.

“Tidbit number one. About ten years ago, the forces of good had one of the top bad guys in Corsica by the short hairs—had him looking at a hard twenty in a shithole prison—and they managed to turn him. Deal was, if he put the finger on some business colleagues the forces of good would put him in witness protection instead of the shithole prison. This plan did not work out well. About a week into the deal, the head of the witness protection operation received a box in the mail. What to take a stab at what was in the box?”

“Depends on how big a box we’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well, let’s say it was a lot bigger than would be needed if they were mailing his dick. So what do you think it was?”

“Just a wild guess, Jack, but I’d say if the box was big enough to hold a head, then it was probably his head in there. Am I right?”

The silence on the other end was answer enough.

Gurney went on. “And this is just another wild guess, but I’d say there were some nails hammered into his—”

“Yeah, yeah, all right, Sherlock. One for you. Let’s go on to story number two. You ready? You don’t need to piss or anything?”

“Ready.”

“Eight years ago, a member of the Russian Duma, a very connected multimillionaire, former KGB, made a trip to Paris. For his mother’s funeral. The mother lived in Paris because her third husband was French, she loved it there, she wanted to be buried there. And guess what happened?”

“The Duma guy got popped in the cemetery?”

“On his way out the door of the Russian Orthodox church next to the cemetery. Dead-on head shot—eye shot to be precise.”

“Hmm.”

“And there were a couple of other interesting details. Wanna guess?”

“Tell me.”

“Cartridge was a .220 Swift.”

“And?”

“And no one heard what direction the shot came from.”

“A suppressor?”

“Probably.”

Gurney smiled. “And firecrackers?”

“You got it, ace.”

“But … how did Interpol put these two cases together? What link did they see?”

“They didn’t see any link, and they never did put them together.”

“Then what—?”

“Your questions—your search terms from the Gurikos and Spalter cases—those terms brought up the Corsican mob case and the Paris—”

“But the nails-in-the-head detail would’ve only brought up the file on the Corsican murder, and the cemetery/firecrackers details would’ve only brought up the Duma guy. So what are we talking about? Just based on those two facts, it could’ve been two different hit men, no?”

“It might’ve looked that way—except for one little thing. Both Interpol files contained lists of possibilities—likely professional hitters the local cops or the national agencies thought would be worth looking at. Four names for the Corsican case, five for the Russian-in-Paris case.
Far as I can see, the Corsican and French police never got to any of those guys, not even to talk to them. But that’s not the point. The point is, there’s one name that pops up on both lists.”

Gurney didn’t say anything. A link that loose might be meaningless.

As if responding to this doubt, Hardwick added, “I know it doesn’t prove anything. But it’s sure as hell worth a closer look.”

“I agree. So who is this guy who likes firecrackers and hammering nails into people’s eyes?”

“The one name that appears on both lists is Petros Panikos.”

“So we may be looking for a Greek hit man?”

“Hit man for sure. With a Greek name for sure. But a name is only a name. Interpol says there’s no passport issued by any member country to anyone by that name. So it looks like he has other names. But they do have an interesting file on him under the name Panikos, for what it’s worth.”

“What
is
it worth? How much do they really know about him?”

“Good question. My contact told me there’s a lot in the file, but that it’s a mix—some facts, some secondhand stuff, some wild underworld stories that might be true or might be pure horseshit.”

“You have this fascinating mix in your hands right now?”

“What I have is bare bones—what my man could remember without pulling up the full document, which he said he would do as soon as he could. By the way, you may not have to take a piss, Sherlock, but I sure as hell do. Hold on.”

Judging from the sound effects, Hardwick had not only taken his phone into the bathroom with him but also managed to amplify the transmission volume. Sometimes Gurney was amazed that the man had survived as long as he had in the stiff culture of the NYSP. He presented such a prickly amalgam of characteristics. A sharp mind and sound investigative instincts were concealed behind a relentless eagerness to offend. His troubled NYSP career had foundered, like many a marriage, on irreconcilable differences and a mutual lack of respect. He had been a feisty iconoclast in an organization that revered conformity and respect for rank. Now this formidable but abrasive character was hell-bent on embarrassing the organization that had divorced him.