Peter Pan Must Die (Dave Gurney, No. 4)

by John Verdon

  “No, Jack, what did she say?”

  “She said, ‘You do some kind of shit, some kind of karma is coming around to bite your ass.’ I love Esti. She’s a real pisser. Also, did I mention that she’s a Puerto Rican bombshell? But she can be subtle, too. A subtle bombshell. You should see her in one of those trooper hats.” Hardwick was smiling broadly, his fingers tapping out a Latin rhythm on the steering wheel.

  Gurney was quiet for long while, trying to absorb what he was being told as objectively as possible. The goal was to take it all in and at the same time to keep it at arm’s length, much as one might absorb crime scene details that could have different interpretations.

  He pondered the odd shape the case was beginning to take in his mind, including the ironic parallel between the conviction-at-any-cost pursued by Klemper and the reversal-at-any-cost pursued by Hardwick. Both efforts seemed to provide further evidence that man is not primarily a rational species, and that all our so-called logic is never more than a bright facade for murkier motives.

  Thus occupied, Gurney was only half aware of the landscape of hills and valleys they were passing through—rolling fields of overgrown weeds and starved saplings, expanses of drought-faded greens and yellows, the sun coming and going through an intermittent pale haze, the unprofitable farms with their barns and silos unpainted for decades, the sadly weathered villages, old orange tractors, rusted plows and hay rakes, the quaint and quiet rural emptiness that was Delaware County’s pride and curse.

  Chapter 8

  Coldhearted Bitch

  Far from the gritty-beautiful, economically battered, depopulated counties of central New York State, northern Westchester County had the casual charm of country money. In the midst of this postcard landscape, however, the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility seemed as out of place as a porcupine in a petting zoo.

  Gurney was reminded once again that the actual security paraphernalia of a maximum-security prison covers a broad spectrum of sophistication and visibility. At one end are state-of-the-art sensors and control systems. At the other end are guard towers, twelve-foot chain-link fences, and razor wire.

  Surely technology would one day make razor wire obsolete. But for now it was the thing that made the clearest demarcation between inside and outside. Its message was simple, violent, and visceral. Its presence would easily overwhelm any effort to create an atmosphere of normalcy—not that any serious efforts in that direction were made at correctional facilities. In fact, Gurney suspected, razor wire might very well outlive its practical containment function, purely on the basis of its message value.

  Inside, Bedford Hills was fundamentally similar to most places of incarceration he’d visited over the years. It looked as bleakly institutional as its purpose. And despite the thousands and thousands of pages written on the subject of modern penology, that purpose—that essence—came down to one thing.

  It was a cage.

  It was a cage with many locks, security checkpoints, and procedures aimed at ensuring that no one entered or departed without proper evidence of their right to do so. Lex Bincher’s office had seen to it that Gurney and Hardwick were on Kay Spalter’s approved-visitors list, and they were admitted without difficulty.

  The long, windowless visiting room that they were led to for their meeting resembled rooms like it throughout the system. Its primary structural feature was a long counterlike divider separating the room into two sections—the inmate side and the visitor side, with chairs on both sides and a chest-high barrier in the center. Guards stood at either end with a clear view down the length of the barrier, aimed at preventing any unauthorized exchanges. The room was painted, not recently, an institutional noncolor.

  Gurney was relieved to see that there were only a few visitors present, allowing for more than adequate space and the possibility of some privacy.

  The woman who was brought into the room by a stocky black guard was short and slim with dark hair in a pixie style. She had a fine nose, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. Her eyes were a startling green, and beneath one of them there was a small bluish bruise. There was a hard intensity in her expression that made her face more arresting than beautiful.

  Gurney and Hardwick stood up as she approached. Hardwick was the first to speak, eyeing her bruise. “Jesus, Kay, what happened to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

  “It’s been taken care of,” she said dismissively. She was talking to Hardwick but looking at Gurney, examining him with a frank curiosity.

  “Taken care of how?” persisted Hardwick.

  She blinked impatiently. “Crystal Rocks. My protector.” She flashed a quick humorless smile.

  “The lesbian meth dealer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big fan of yours?”

  “A fan of who she thinks I am.”

  “She likes women who kill their husbands?”

  “Loves ’em.”

  “How’s she going to feel when we get your conviction thrown out?”

  “Fine—so long as she doesn’t think I’m innocent.”

  “Yeah, well … that shouldn’t be a problem. Innocence is not the issue in the appeal. The issue is due process, and we aim to prove, in your case, that the process was in no way due. Speaking of which, I’d like to introduce you to the man who’s going to help us show the judge just how un-due it was. Kay Spalter, meet Dave Gurney.”

  “Mr. Supercop.” She said it with a touch of sarcasm, then paused as if to see how he’d react. When he showed no reaction at all, she went on. “I’ve read all about you and your decorations. Very impressive.” She didn’t look impressed.

  Gurney wondered if those coolly assessing green eyes ever looked impressed. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Spalter.”

  “Kay.” There was nothing cordial in her tone. It sounded more like a pointed correction, a way of conveying distaste for her married name. She continued to look him over, as though he were a piece of merchandise she was considering purchasing. “You married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Happily?”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed to be turning this information over in her mind before asking her next question. “Do you believe I’m innocent?”

  “I believe that the sun rose this morning.”

  Her mouth twitched into something resembling a split-second smile. Or maybe it was just a tremor created by all the energy contained in that compact body. “What’s that supposed to mean? That you only believe what you see? That you’re a no-bullshit guy who bases everything on facts?”

  “It means that I just met you, and I don’t know enough to have an opinion, much less a belief.”

  Hardwick cleared his throat nervously. “Maybe we ought to sit down?”

  As they took their places at the small table, Kay Spalter kept her eyes on Gurney.

  “So what do you need to know to have an opinion about whether I’m innocent?”

  Hardwick broke in, leaning forward. “Or about whether you got a fair trial, which is the real issue.”

  She ignored this, stayed focused on Gurney.

  He sat back and studied those remarkable unblinking green eyes. Something told him that the best preamble would be no preamble. “Did you shoot Carl Spalter, or cause him to be shot?”

  “No.” The word came out hard and fast.

  “Is it true you were having an extramarital affair?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your husband found out about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was considering divorcing you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a divorce under those circumstances would have had a major negative effect on your economic status?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But at the time he was fatally wounded, your husband hadn’t yet made a final decision on the divorce, and hadn’t changed his will—so you were still his chief beneficiary. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”r />
  “Did you ask your lover to kill him?”

  “No.” An expression of distaste came and went in an instant.

  “So his story at the trial was a complete fabrication?”

  “Yes. But it couldn’t have been his fabrication. Darryl was the lifeguard at our club pool and a so-called personal trainer—million-dollar body and a two-cent brain. He was just saying what that piece of shit Klemper told him to say.”

  “Did you ask an ex-con by the name of Jimmy Flats to kill your husband?”

  “No.”

  “So his story at the trial was a fabrication too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Klemper’s fabrication?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Were you in that building where the shot came from, either the day of the shooting or any time prior to that?”

  “Definitely not on the day of the shooting.”

  “So the eyewitness testimony that you were there in the building, in the actual apartment where the murder weapon was found—that’s also a fabrication?”

  “Right.”

  “If not on that particular day, then how long before?”

  “I don’t know. Months? A year? Maybe I was there two or three times altogether—occasions when I was with Carl when he stopped to check on something, work being done, something like that.”

  “Most of the apartments were vacant?”

  “Yes. Spalter Realty paid next to nothing to buy buildings that needed major renovations.”

  “Were the apartments locked?”

  “Generally. Squatters would sometimes find ways in.”

  “Did you have keys?”

  “Not in my possession.”

  “Meaning?”

  Kay Spalter hesitated for the first time. “There was a master key for each building. I knew where it was.”

  “Where was it?”

  She seemed to shake her head—or, again, maybe it was just an infinitesimal tremor. “I always thought it was silly. Carl carried his own master key for all the apartments, but he kept an extra one hidden in each building. In the utility room in each basement. On the floor behind the furnace.”

  “Who knew about the hidden keys, besides you and Carl?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are they still there, behind the furnaces?”

  “I assume so.”

  Gurney sat quietly for several seconds, letting this curious fact sink in before going on.

  “You claimed that you were with your boyfriend at the time of the shooting?”

  “Yes. In bed with him.” Her gaze, locked on Gurney, was neutral and unblinking.

  “So when he testified he was alone that day—that was one more fabrication?”

  “Yes.” Her lips tightened.

  “And you believe that Detective Klemper manufactured and directed this elaborate web of perjury … why? Just because you reminded him of his ex-wife?”

  “That’s your friend’s theory,” she said, indicating Hardwick. “Not mine. I don’t doubt that Klemper’s a woman-hating asshole, but I’m sure there’s more to it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe my conviction was convenient for someone beyond Klemper.”

  “Who, for example?”

  “The mob, for example.”

  “You’re saying that organized crime was responsible for—?”

  “For the hit on Carl. Yes. I’m saying that it makes sense. More sense than anything else.”

  “For the hit on Carl. Isn’t that a pretty cold—”

  “A pretty cold way of discussing my husband’s death? You’re absolutely right, Mr. Supercop. I’m not going to shed sweet public tears to prove my innocence to a jury, or to you, or to anyone else.” She eyed him shrewdly. “That makes it a little harder, doesn’t it? Not so easy to prove the innocence of a coldhearted bitch.”

  Hardwick drummed his fingers on the table to get her attention. Then he leaned forward and reiterated with slow intensity, “We don’t have to prove you didn’t do it. Innocence is not the issue. All we have to prove is that your trial was seriously, purposely fucked up by the chief investigator on the case. Which is exactly what we will do.”

  Again Kay ignored Hardwick and kept her gaze fixed on Gurney. “So? Where do you stand? You have an opinion yet?”

  Gurney responded only with another question. “Did you take shooting lessons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I thought I might have to shoot someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Maybe some mob guys. I had a bad feeling about Carl’s relationship with those people. I saw trouble coming and I wanted to be ready.”

  Formidable, thought Gurney, searching for a word to describe the small, bold, unflinching creature sitting across from him. And maybe even a little frightening.

  “Trouble from the mob because of Carl starting an anticrime political party? And making his ‘These Are the Scum of the Earth’ speeches?”

  She gave a little snort of ridicule. “You don’t know a damn thing about Carl, do you?”

  Chapter 9

  Black Widow

  Kay Spalter’s eyes were closed in apparent concentration. Her full mouth was compressed into a narrow line, and her head was lowered, with her hands clasped tightly under her chin. She’d been sitting like that across the table from Gurney and Hardwick without saying a word for a good two minutes. Gurney guessed that she was wrestling with the question of how much to confide in two men she didn’t know, whose real agenda might be hidden—but who, on the other hand, might be her last chance at freedom.

  The silence seemed to be getting to Hardwick. The tic reappeared at the corner of his mouth. “Look, Kay, if you have any concerns, let’s get them out on the table so we can—”

  She raised her head and glared at him. “Concerns?”

  “What I meant was, if you have any questions—”

  “If I have any questions, I’ll ask them.” She turned her attention to Gurney, studying his face and eyes. “How old are you?”

  “Forty-nine. Why do you ask?”

  “Isn’t that early to be retired?”

  “Yes and no. Twenty-five years in the NYPD—”

  Hardwick broke in. “The thing of it is, he never really retired. Just moved upstate. He’s still doing what he always did. He’s solved three major murder cases since he left the department. Three major murder cases in the past two years. That not what I’d call retired.”

  Gurney was finding Hardwick’s sweaty-salesman assurances hard to take. “Look, Jack—”

  This time it was Kay who interrupted Gurney. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Getting involved in my case.”

  Gurney had a hard time coming up with an answer he was willing to give. He finally said, “Curiosity.”

  Hardwick jumped in again. “Davey is a natural-born onion peeler. Obsessive. Brilliant. Peeling away layer after layer until he gets to the truth. When he says ‘curiosity’ he means a hell of a lot more than—”

  “Don’t tell me what he means. He’s here. I’m here. Let him talk. Last time, I heard what you and your lawyer friend had to say.” She shifted in her chair, pointedly focusing her attention on Gurney. “Now I want to hear what you have to say. How much are they paying you to work on this case?”

  “Who?”

  She pointed at Hardwick. “Him and his lawyer—Lex Bincher of Bincher, Fenn, and Blaskett.” She said it as if it were a vile-tasting but necessary medicine.

  “They’re not paying me anything.”

  “You’re not getting paid?”

  “No.”

  “But you expect to get paid sometime in the future, if your effort produces the desired result?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You don’t? So, apart from that crap about onion peeling, why are you doing this?”

  “I owe Jack a favor.”

  “For what?”

 
; “He helped me with the Good Shepherd case. I’m helping him with this one.”

  “Curiosity. Payback. What else?”

  What else? Gurney wondered if she knew that there was a third reason. He sat back in his chair, thinking for a moment about what he was going to say. Then he spoke softly. “I saw a photograph of your late husband in his wheelchair, apparently taken a few days before he died. The photograph was mainly of his face.”

  Kay finally showed some sign of an emotional reaction. Her green eyes widened, and her skin seemed a shade paler. “What about it?”

  “The look in his eyes. I want to know what that was about.”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “Maybe it was just … the way a person looks when he knows he’s about to die.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve seen a lot of people die. Shot by drug dealers. By strangers. By relatives. By cops. But never before have I seen that expression on anyone’s face.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out shakily.

  “You all right?” asked Gurney. He’d observed hundreds, maybe thousands, of examples of faked emotion in his career. But this looked real.

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds then opened them. “The prosecutor told the jury that Carl’s face reflected the despair of a man who’d been betrayed by someone he loved. Is that what you’re thinking? That it might be the look of a man whose wife wanted him dead?”

  “I think that’s a possibility. But not the only possibility.”

  She reacted with a small nod. “One last question. Your buddy here keeps telling me the success of my appeal has nothing to do with whether or not I shot Carl. It just depends on showing ‘a substantive defect in due process.’ So tell me something. Does it matter to you personally whether I’m guilty or innocent?”