thought about this for a moment. “You told me the other day that Beckert’s first wife died of a drug overdose. You have anything more on that?”
“There was no legal case, so no case records. The fuck would that have to do with anything anyway?”
“No idea. I’m just asking questions.”
When Gurney arrived home he found Geraldine Mirkle’s yellow Beetle parked by the asparagus patch. He was led by the sound of female laughter to the patio.
Geraldine and Madeleine were doubled over. Finally Madeleine got hold of herself and said, “Welcome home, sweetheart. Gerry was just describing an encounter with a client.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, you have no idea!” said Geraldine, her round face a picture of glee. “I’ve got to be going now. Buford gets a little crazy if he doesn’t get his dinner on time.” She stood up, surprisingly nimble for a rotund woman, and hurried off to her Beetle. As she was fitting herself into the driver’s seat she called back, “Thanks for the tea, my dear.” With a burst of giggles she drove off.
Madeleine responded to Gurney’s quizzical expression with a dismissive little wave of her hand. “Just a bit of dark clinic humor. Hard to explain. You had to be there.” She wiped her face again and cleared her throat. “I thought we’d have dinner out here this evening. The air is pure heaven.”
He shrugged. “Fine with me.”
She went into the house and came back ten minutes later with place mats, silverware, and two large bowls brimming with her favorite salad of cold shrimp, avocado, diced tomatoes, red-leaf lettuce, and crumbled blue cheese.
They were both hungry and hardly spoke until they were finished. The four chickens were pursuing their own daylong meal, pecking in the grass around the edges of the patio.
“Buford is her cat,” said Madeleine, putting down her fork.
“I thought it was her husband.”
“Hasn’t got a husband. Seems happy enough without one.”
After a pause Gurney launched into a summary of all that had transpired that day, including his meeting with Kline in the parking lot.
“The more he tells me how open and honest he’s being with me, the less I believe it. So I guess I need to make a decision.”
Madeleine said nothing, just cocked her head and eyed him incredulously.
“You think my involvement is a bad idea?” he asked.
“A bad idea? Is it a bad idea to let yourself be used in a murder investigation by a man you think is lying to you? To put your life in the hands of a man you don’t trust? My God, David, on what planet would that be considered a good idea?”
Putting his life in Kline’s hands might be an overly dramatic way of looking at it, but she had a point. “I’ll sleep on it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
In his own mind he was inclined to continue his investigation, at least for a while. What he intended to ‘sleep on’ was his relationship with Kline.
She gazed at him for a long moment. Then she gathered up their salad bowls and forks and carried them into the house.
He took out his phone and looked up the number Kim Steele had given him. The call went to her voicemail. He left a message saying it would be helpful for him to have her husband’s phone with whatever digital information might be stored in it. He avoided using language that sounded peremptory. He knew his best chance of getting her agreement lay in giving her the option of refusing.
Then he sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to put the jumble of the day behind him. But his mind kept going back to the unusual power dynamic of the White River meeting—Beckert clearly being the man in charge, despite being outranked by the three elected officials at the table—the mayor, the district attorney, and the blind sheriff.
He was still sitting there on the patio half an hour later, trying to relax in the sweetly scented spring breezes, when he heard Madeleine stepping back onto the patio. He opened his eyes and saw that she was fresh from a shower . . . hair still damp, barefoot, wearing only panties and a tee shirt.
She smiled. “I thought we should probably get to bed early.”
It proved to be a wonderful solution to his focus problem.
The next morning he awoke with a start. He’d been dreaming that he was lying in the bottom of his excavation, shackled by a black-iron chain to the foundation wall. A blind man in dark glasses was standing at the edge of the excavation, brandishing a long white cane. He slashed the cane viciously back and forth, each slash creating a high-pitched scream.
As Gurney came to his senses in the bed next to Madeleine, the screaming became the ringing of the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. He saw on the screen that the caller was Sheridan Kline.
He cleared his throat and pressed Talk.
“Gurney here.”
Kline’s voice was shrill. “About time you picked up.”
Gurney glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 7:34 AM. “Is there a problem?”
“An hour ago Dell Beckert got a call from the pastor of White River’s largest Episcopal church. He was concerned about Beckert’s statement on RAM News.”
“Meaning what?”
“It sounded to him like Beckert was saying that Jordan and Tooker were cop killers.”
“The pastor was upset by that?”
“Furious.”
“Because?”
“Because Marcel Jordan and Virgil Tooker just happened to have been meeting with him in the parish house at the time Steele was shot. Discussing ways to end the violence. Jesus! That’s why they left the demonstration early. Meaning they have what is known as a rock-solid alibi. They didn’t do it. Couldn’t have done it. Not unless we want to believe the most popular white pastor in White River is in the pocket of the BDA.”
“Okay. So they didn’t do it. They have an alibi. So what?”
“So what? So what? So they were just found. That’s so what.”
“Found?”
“Found. Dead.”
“What?”
“Stripped naked, tied to the jungle gym in the Willard Park playground, apparently beaten to death. In the goddamn playground!”
15
As they waited for Beckert and Turlock, the members of the critical situation management
