Think Of a Number (2010) (23 page)

“No green peppers,” she warned. “I don’t like them.”

“Why do you buy them?”

“I don’t know. Certainly not for omelets.”

“You want any scallions?”

“No scallions.”

She set the table while he beat the eggs and heated the pans.

“You want anything to drink?” he asked.

She shook her head. He knew she never drank anything with her meals, but he asked anyway. Peculiar little quirk, he thought, to keep asking that question.

Neither of them spoke more than a few words until they’d finished eating and both had given their empty plates a ritual nudge toward the center of the table.

“Tell me about your day,” she said.

“My day? You mean my meeting with the ace homicide team?”

“You weren’t impressed?”

“Oh, I was impressed. If you wanted to write a book about dysfunctional team dynamics, run by the Captain from Hell, you could set up a tape recorder in that place and transcribe it word for word.”

“Worse than what you retired from?”

He was slow in answering, not because he was unsure of the answer but because of the fraught intonation he detected in the word
retired
. He decided to respond to the words instead of the tone.

“There were some difficult people in the city, but the Captain from Hell operates on a whole other level of arrogance and insecurity. He’s desperate to impress the DA, has no respect for his own people, no real feeling for the case. Every question, every comment, was either hostile or off the point, usually both.”

She eyed him speculatively. “I’m not surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged lightly. It looked like she was trying to compose her expression to convey as little as possible. “Just that I’m not surprised. I think if you came home and said you’d spent the day with the best homicide team you’d ever met, that would have surprised me. That’s all.”

He knew damn well that wasn’t all. But he was smart enough to know that Madeleine was smarter than he was and there was no way he was going to cajole her into talking about something she wasn’t inclined to talk about.

“Well,” he said, “the fact is, it was exhausting and unencouraging. Right now I intend to put it out of my mind and do something completely different.”

It was a statement made without forethought and followed by a mental blank. Moving on to something completely different was not as easy as it sounded. The difficulties of the day continued to swirl before him, along with Madeleine’s enigmatic reaction. At that moment the option which for the past week had been tugging at the edges of his resistance, the option he’d desperately kept out of sight but not entirely out of mind, again intruded. This time, unexpectedly, along with it came a surge of determination to take the action he’d been avoiding.

“The box …” he said. His throat was constricted, his voice raspy, as he forced the subject into the open before his fear of it could recapture him, before he even knew how he would finish the sentence.

She looked up at him from her empty plate—calm, curious, attentive—waiting for him to go on.

“His drawings … What … I mean, why …?” He struggled to coax from the conflict and confusion in his heart a rational question.

The effort was unnecessary. Madeleine’s ability to see his thoughts in his eyes always exceeded his ability to articulate them.

“We need to say good-bye.” Her voice was gentle, relaxed.

He stared down at the table. Nothing in his mind was forming into words.

“It’s been a long time,” she said. “Danny is gone, and we never said good-bye to him.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. His sense of time was dissolving, his mind strangely empty.

When the phone rang, he felt as if he were being awakened, yanked back into the world—a world of familiar, measurable, describable problems. Madeleine was still at the table with him, but he wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there.

“Do you want me to answer it?” she asked.

“That’s all right. I’ll get it.” He hesitated, like a computer reloading information, then stood up, a little unsteadily, and went to the den.

“Gurney.” Answering the phone that way—the way he’d answered it for so many years in homicide—was a habit he’d found difficult to break.

The voice that greeted him was bright, aggressive, artificially warm. It brought to mind that old rule of salesmanship: Always smile when you’re speaking on the phone, because it makes you sound friendlier.

“Dave, I’m glad you’re there! This is Sheridan Kline. I hope I didn’t interrupt your dinner.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’ll get right to the point. I believe you’re the kind of man I can be perfectly frank with. I know your reputation. This afternoon I had a glimpse of the reason for it. I was impressed. I hope I’m not embarrassing you.”

Gurney was wondering where this was leading. “You’re being very kind.”

“Not kind. Truthful. I’m calling because this case cries out for someone of your ability, and I’d love to find a way to take advantage of your talent.”

“You know I’m retired, right?”

“So I was told. And I’m sure that going back to the old routine is the last thing you’d want to do. I’m not suggesting anything like that. I have a feeling this case is going to be very big, and I’d love to have access to your thinking.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking me to do.”

“Ideally,” said Kline, “I’d like you to find out who killed Mark Mellery.”

“Isn’t that what the BCI Major Crimes Unit is for?”

“Sure. And with some luck they may eventually succeed.”

“But?”

“But I want to improve my odds. This case is too important to leave to the mercy of our usual procedures. I want an ace up my sleeve.”

“I don’t see how I’d fit in.”

“You don’t see yourself working for BCI? Don’t worry. I figured Rod wasn’t your kind of guy. No, you’d report to me personally. We could set you up as some kind of adjunct investigator or consultant to my office, whatever would work for you.”

“How much of my time are we talking about?”

“That’s up to you.” When Gurney did not respond, he went on, “Mark Mellery must have admired and trusted you. He asked you to help him deal with a predator. I’m asking you to help me deal with that same predator. Whatever you can give me I’d be grateful for.”

This guy is good
, thought Gurney.
He’s got the sincerity thing down pat
. He said, “I’ll talk to my wife about it. I’ll get back to you in the morning. Give me a number where I can reach you.”

The smile in the voice was huge. “I’ll give you my home number. I have a feeling you’re an early riser like me. Call anytime after six
A.M.
”

When he returned to the kitchen, Madeleine was at the table, but her mood had changed. She was reading the
Times
. He sat opposite her at a right angle so he was facing the old Franklin woodstove. He looked toward it without really seeing it and began massaging his forehead as if the decision confronting him were a muscle kink to be worked out.

“It’s not that difficult, is it?” said Madeleine without looking up from her paper.

“What?”

“What you’re thinking about.”

“The DA seems eager for my help.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“An outsider wouldn’t normally be brought into something like this.”

“But you’re not just any outsider, are you?”

“I guess my connection with Mellery makes a difference.”

She cocked her head, peering at him with her X-ray vision.

“He was very flattering,” said Gurney, trying not to sound flattered.

“Probably just describing your talents accurately.”

“Compared to Captain Rodriguez, anyone would look good.”

She smiled at his awkward humility. “What did he offer you?”

“A blank check, really. I’d operate through his office. Have to be very careful not to step on toes, though. I told him I’d decide by tomorrow morning.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether or not I want to do this.”

“Are you joking?”

“You think it’s that bad an idea?”

“I mean, are you joking about not having decided yet?”

“There’s a lot involved.”

“More than you may think, but it’s obvious you’re going to do it.”

She went back to reading her paper.

“What do you mean, more than I may think?” he asked after a long minute.

“Choices sometimes have consequences we don’t anticipate.”

“Like what?”

Her sad stare told him it was a stupid question.

After a pause he said, “I feel I owe something to Mark.”

A flicker of irony was added to the stare.

“Why the funny look?”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you call him by his first name.”

T
he County Office Building, which had carried that bland designation since 1935, had formerly been called the Bumblebee Lunatic Asylum—founded in 1899 through the generosity (and temporary insanity, his disowned heirs argued to no avail) of the eponymous British transplant, Sir George Bumblebee. The murky redbrick edifice, infused with a century of soot, loomed darkly over the town square. It was about a mile from state police headquarters and the same hour-and-a-quarter drive from Walnut Crossing.

The inside was even less appealing than the outside, for the opposite reason. In the 1960s it had been gutted and modernized. Begrimed chandeliers and oak wainscoting were replaced by glaring fluorescent fixtures and white drywall. The thought crossed Gurney’s mind that the harsh modern light might serve to keep at bay the mad ghosts of its former residents—an odd thing for a man to be thinking on his way to negotiate the details of an employment contract, so he focused instead on what Madeleine had said that morning on his way out: “He needs you more than you need him.” He pondered that as he waited to pass through the elaborate lobby security apparatus. Once past that barrier, he followed a series of arrows to a door whose frosted-glass panel bore the words
DISTRICT ATTORNEY
in elegant black lettering.

Inside, a woman at a reception desk met his eyes as he entered. It was Gurney’s observation that a man’s choice of a female assistant is
based on competence, sex, or prestige. The woman at the desk seemed to offer all three. Despite a possible age of fifty or so, her hair, skin, makeup, clothes, and figure were so well tended they suggested a focus on things physical that was almost electric. The assessing look in her eyes was cool as well as sensual. A little brass rectangle propped up on her desk announced that her name was Ellen Rackoff.

Before either of them spoke, a door to the right of her desk opened and Sheridan Kline stepped into the reception room. He grinned with an approximation of warmth.

“Nine o’clock on the dot! I’m not surprised. You strike me as a person who does exactly what he says he’s going to do.”

“It’s easier than the alternative.”

“What? Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Bigger grin, but less warmth. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“Me, too. Never understood tea. You a dog man or a cat man?”

“Dog, I guess.”

“Ever notice that dog people prefer coffee? Tea is for cat people?”

Gurney didn’t think that was worth thinking about. Kline gestured for him to follow him into his office, then extended the gesture in the direction of a contemporary leather sofa, settling himself into a matching armchair on the other side of a low glass table and replacing his grin with a look of almost comical earnestness.

“Dave, let me say how happy I am that you’re willing to help us.”

“Assuming there’s an appropriate role for me.”

Kline blinked.

“Turf is a touchy issue,” said Gurney.

“Couldn’t agree more. Let me be frank—speak with an open kimono, as the saying goes.”

Gurney hid a grimace under a polite smile.

“People I know at the NYPD tell me impressive things about you. You were the lead investigator on some very big cases, the key man, the man who put it all together, but when the time came for
congratulations, you always gave the credit to someone else. Word is, you had the biggest talent and smallest ego in the department.”

Gurney smiled, not at the compliment, which he knew was calculated, but at Kline’s expression, which seemed truly baffled by the notion of reluctance to take credit.

“I like the work. I don’t like being the center of attention.”

Kline looked for a long moment as if he were trying to identify an elusive flavor in his food, then gave it up.

He leaned forward. “Tell me how you think you can have an impact on this case.”

This was the critical question. Anticipating how it might be answered had occupied much of Gurney’s drive from Walnut Crossing.

“As a consulting analyst.”

“What does that mean?”

“The investigation team at BCI is responsible for gathering, inspecting, and preserving evidence, interviewing witnesses, following up leads, checking alibis, and formulating a working hypothesis regarding the identity, movements, and motives of the killer. That last piece is crucial, and it’s the one I believe I can help with.”

“How?”

“Looking at the facts in a complex situation and developing a reasonable narrative is the only part of my job I was any good at.”

“I doubt that.”

“Other people are better at questioning suspects, discovering evidence at the scene—”

“Like bullets no one else knew where to look for?”

“That was a lucky guess. There’s usually someone better than I am at each little piece of an investigation. But when it comes to fitting the pieces together, seeing what matters and what doesn’t, I can do that. On the job I wasn’t always right, but I was right often enough to make a difference.”

“So you have an ego after all.”

“If you want to call it that. I know my limitations, and I know my strengths.”

He also knew from his years of interrogations how certain personalities would respond to certain attitudes, and he wasn’t wrong about Kline. The man’s gaze reflected a more comfortable understanding of that exotic flavor he’d been trying to label.