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

by John Verdon

  Gurney wasn’t really being asked a question, so he didn’t answer.

  Angelidis sucked loudly at his teeth before continuing. “They keep it secret because it makes them feel like they know something. Like they know secret shit nobody else knows. Makes them feel like they got power. Got classified information. You know what they got? They got shit for brains and toothpicks for dicks.” He glanced at his big gold Rolex and smiled. “Okay? It’s getting late. I hope this helps you.”

  “It’s all very interesting. I have one last question.”

  “Sure.” Angelidis looked again at his watch.

  “How well did you get along with Carl?”

  “Beautiful. Like a son to me.”

  “No problems?”

  “No problems.”

  “You weren’t bothered by all those ‘scum of the earth’ speeches he made?”

  “Bothered? What do you mean?”

  “In press interviews he called people in your line of business the scum of the earth. And a lot of other unpleasant things. How’d you feel about that?”

  “Felt it was pretty smart. Good way to get elected.” He pointed at the bowl of olives. “They’re very good. My cousin in Mykonos sends them to me special. Take some home to your wife.”

  Chapter 26

  Not a Fucking Chess Match

  When Gurney arrived at the end of the mountain road that led to his property, he was surprised to discover a large black SUV parked by the barn. He lowered his window at the mailbox and found that Madeleine had already emptied it. Then he drove slowly over to the shiny Escalade and stopped in front of it.

  Its door opened. The man who emerged had the bulky physique of a football lineman. He also had a shaved head, unfriendly bloodshot eyes, and a rictus-like grin. “Mr. Gurney?”

  Gurney returned the empty smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Mick Klemper. That mean anything to you?”

  “CIO on the Spalter case?”

  “Right.” He took out his wallet, flipped it open to his Bureau of Criminal Investigation ID. In the younger photo displayed on the laminated card, he looked like mindless muscle for the Irish mob.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Klemper blinked, the grin wavered. “We need to talk—before this thing you’re involved in gets out of hand.”

  “This thing I’m involved in?”

  “This bullshit with Bincher. Do you know about him?”

  “Do I know what about him?”

  “What a scumbag he is?”

  Gurney thought about this for a moment. “Did someone send you here, or is this your idea?”

  “I’m trying to do you a favor. Can we talk?”

  “Sure. Talk.”

  “I mean, friendly. Like we’re on the same side of the street.”

  The man’s eyes radiated danger. But Gurney’s curiosity outweighed his caution. He turned off the engine and got out of his car. “What do you want to tell me?”

  “This Jew lawyer you’re working for, he’s made a career out of smearing cops—you aware of that?” Klemper reeked of mints overlaying a sour miasma of alcohol.

  “I’m not working for anybody.”

  “That’s not what Bincher said on TV.”

  “I’m not responsible for what he said.”

  “So the Jew scumbag is lying?”

  Gurney smiled, even as he shifted his feet to get into a better position to defend himself physically, if the need arose. “How about we get back to the same side of the street?”

  “What?”

  “You said you wanted a friendly talk.”

  “My friendly point is that Lex Bincher makes money by digging up phony little glitches he can use to keep his slimebag clients on the streets. You ever see his fucking house in Cooperstown? Biggest house on the lake, every cent from drug dealers he kept out of prison with one fucking technicality after another. You know about this shit?”

  “I don’t care about Bincher. I care about the Spalter murder case.”

  “Okay, good, let’s talk about that. Kay Spalter killed her husband. Shot him in the fucking head. She was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Kay Spalter is a lying, murdering cunt, doing the time she deserves. Except now your slimy little Jew friend Bincher is trying to spring her on procedural—”

  Gurney interrupted him. “Klemper? Do me a favor. I’m not interested in your Jew problems. You want to talk about the Spalter case, talk.”

  There was a flash of hatred on the man’s face, and for a moment Gurney thought their confrontation was about to become brutally simple. He closed his right hand into a fist out of Klemper’s line of sight and adjusted his balance. But Klemper just produced an empty smile and shook his head. “Okay. What I’m telling you is this. There’s no way she should walk on a fucking technicality. With your background, you should know better. Why the hell are you trying to spring a piece of garbage?”

  Gurney shrugged, asked matter-of-factly, “Did you notice the problem with the light pole?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The light pole that made a clear shot from the apartment impossible.”

  If Klemper had intended to pretend ignorance, his thoughtful delay now made that position untenable. “It wasn’t impossible. It happened.”

  “How?”

  “Easy—if the victim wasn’t in the exact spot where some witnesses said he was, and if the weapon wasn’t fired from the exact spot where it was found.”

  “You mean if Carl was at least ten feet away from where everyone saw him get hit, and if the shooter was standing on a ladder?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What happened to the ladder?”

  “Maybe she stood on a chair.”

  “To make a five-hundred-yard head shot? With a five-pound tripod dangling from the gun?”

  “Who the hell knows? Fact is, Kay Spalter was seen in the building—in that apartment. We have an eyewitness. We have dust impressions in her small shoe size in that apartment. We have gunpowder residue in that apartment.” He paused, gave Gurney a shrewd look. “Who the hell told you there was a five-pound tripod?”

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is you’ve got contradictions in your shooting scenario. Is that why you got rid of the electronics store video?”

  Again Klemper’s hesitation was a second too long. “What video?”

  Gurney ignored the question. “Finding a piece of evidence that doesn’t fit your concept means your concept is wrong. Getting rid of the evidence tends to create a bigger problem down the road—like the one you have now. What was on the video?”

  Klemper didn’t answer. His jaw muscles were tightening visibly.

  Gurney went on. “Let me take a wild guess. The video showed Carl getting hit standing in a spot that couldn’t possibly work with the line of sight from the apartment. Am I right?”

  Klemper said nothing.

  “And there’s another little snag. The shooter was seen casing that apartment building three days before Mary Spalter died.”

  Klemper blinked but said nothing.

  Gurney continued. “The person your trial witness identified as Kay Spalter was actually a man, according to a second witness. And that same man was also captured on video in Mary Spalter’s community a couple of hours before she turned up dead.”

  “Where’s all this crap coming from?”

  Gurney ignored the question. “Looks like the shooter was a hired pro with a double contract. On the mother and son. Any thoughts about that, Mick?”

  That set off a twitch in Klemper’s cheek. He turned away and paced slowly across the open space in front of the barn. When he reached the mailbox at the side of the road he stared for a while in the direction of the pond, then turned around and paced back.

  He stopped in front of Gurney. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think none of this means a fucking thing. One witness says it was a woman, another says it was a man. Happens all the time. Eyewitnesses mak
e mistakes, contradict one another. So what? Big deal. Freddie ID’d the bitch wife in a lineup. Some other little coke-head skell didn’t. So what? There’s probably somebody else in that slum dump who thinks the bitch was a space alien. So fucking what? Somebody thinks they saw the same person somewhere else. Maybe they’re full of shit. But let’s say they’re right. Did you happen to turn up the fact that Kay, the bitch wife, hated her mother-in-law even more than she hated the husband she topped? Didn’t know that, did you? So maybe what we should’ve done was send the fucking bitch up for two murders instead of one.” Pasty saliva was accumulating at the corners of Klemper’s mouth.

  Gurney spoke calmly. “I have the Emmerling Oaks security video of the individual who probably killed Mary Spalter. The individual on that video is definitely not Kay Spalter. And someone else who saw the video insists the same person was in the Axton Avenue building at the time the shot was fired at Carl.”

  “So fucking what? Even if it was a pro, even if it was a double contract, that doesn’t get the bitch off the hook. All it means is she bought the hit instead of doing it herself. So it wasn’t her own sweaty little finger on the trigger. So she hired the triggerman—just like she tried to do before with Jimmy Flats.” Klemper suddenly looked excited. “You know what? I love your new theory, Gurney. It ties in with the bitch’s attempt to hire Flats to hit her husband, plus her attempt to talk her boyfriend into doing it. Ties the knot tighter around her fucking neck.” He stared at Gurney with a triumphant grin. “What do you got to say now?”

  “It matters who pulled the trigger. It matters whether the eyewitness IDs are right or wrong. It matters whether the trial testimony is honest or perjured. It matters whether the video you buried supports or destroys the shooting scenario.”

  “That’s the kind of shit that matters to you?” Klemper sucked a wad of mucus out of his nose and spat it out on the ground. “I expected more from you.”

  “More of what?”

  “I came here today because I found out you worked homicide for twenty-five years in the NYPD. Twenty-five years in Sewer City. I figured anyone who spent twenty-five years dealing with every piece of shit that crawled out of a hole would understand reality.”

  “What reality would that be?”

  “The reality that when push comes to shove, right matters more than rules. The reality that we’re in a war, not a fucking chess match. White hats versus scumbags. When the enemy is coming at you, you stop the fucker however you can. You don’t stop a bullet by waving a fucking rule book at it.”

  “Suppose you have it wrong.”

  “Suppose I have what wrong?”

  “Suppose Carl Spalter’s death had nothing to do with his wife. Suppose his brother had him shot to get control of Spalter Realty. Or the mob had him shot because they decided they didn’t want him to be governor after all. Or his daughter had him shot because she wanted to inherit his money. Or his wife’s lover had him shot because—”

  Klemper broke in, red-faced. “That’s all total horseshit. Kay Spalter is an evil, conniving, murdering whore. And if there’s any justice in this fucking world, she’ll die in prison with her brains bashed out on the floor. End of story!” Tiny bits of the spittle around his mouth were flying into the air.

  Gurney nodded thoughtfully. “You may be right.” It was his favorite all-purpose response—to the friendly and the furious, the sane and the insane. He went on calmly, “Tell me something. Did you ever run the shooter’s MO through the ViCAP database?”

  Klemper stared at him, blinking repeatedly, as though it would help him understand the question better. “What the hell do you want to know that for?”

  Gurney shrugged. “Just wondering. There are some distinctive elements in the shooter’s approach. Be interesting to see if they’ve popped up anywhere else.”

  “You’re out of your mind.” Klemper started backing away.

  “You may be right. But if you decide to check out that MO, there’s one more situation you should look into. You ever hear of an upstate Greek gangster by the name of Fat Gus Gurikos?”

  “Gurikos?” Now Klemper looked honestly confused. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Carl asked Gus to take care of something for him. And then Gus just coincidentally got hit the same day Carl did—two days after Carl’s mother. So maybe we’re really talking about a triple hit.”

  Klemper frowned, said nothing.

  “I’d look into it if I were you. I’ve been told the Organized Crime Task Force kept the Gurikos thing pretty much to themselves, but if there’s a tie-in to the Spalter case you have a right to know the details.”

  Shaking his head, Klemper looked like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he was. He turned away abruptly and was getting into his huge SUV when he noticed that Gurney’s Outback was blocking him.

  “You want to get that thing out of my way?” It was a snarled order, not a question.

  Gurney moved his car, and Klemper drove off without looking at him, nearly hitting the mailbox as he turned down the mountain road.

  It was then that Gurney noticed Madeleine at the corner of the barn with the rooster and the three hens standing quietly in the grass behind her. The birds were strangely motionless, their heads cocked, as if aware of the approach of something they could not yet identify.

  Chapter 27

  A Desperate Man

  After a less-than-relaxed dinner during which neither she nor Gurney said much, Madeleine began doing the dishes—a task she always insisted was hers.

  Gurney went over and sat quietly on a stool at the sink island. He knew if he waited long enough, she’d get around to saying what was on her mind.

  When the washed dishes had all been placed in the drainer, she picked up a towel to dry them. “I assume that was the Spalter murder investigator?”

  “Yes. Mick Klemper.”

  “A very angry man.”

  Whenever Madeleine stated the obvious, he knew that something less obvious was being implied. In this instance it wasn’t clear to him what that something was, but he did feel the need to offer some sort of explanation for what she’d apparently overheard.

  “It must have been a difficult day for him.”

  “Difficult?”

  He elaborated. “Once the Bincher accusations started shooting around the Internet, a lot of people would have been calling Klemper for clarification. BCI brass, State Police Legal Department, DA’s office, Internal Affairs, attorney general’s office—not to mention the media vultures.”

  She was holding a plate in her hand, frowning. “I find it hard to understand.”

  “It’s simple enough. After talking to Kay Spalter, Klemper decided she was guilty. The question is, how sick was that decision?”

  “How sick?”

  “I mean, how much of it was based on Kay reminding him of his ex-wife? Also, how many laws did he break to make sure she got convicted?”

  She was still holding the plate. “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the level of rage I saw down at the barn, how close to the edge he was, how—”

  “I’m pretty sure that was all coming out of fear. Fear that the evil Kay will go free, fear that his view of the case is about to be smashed, fear of losing his job, fear of going to jail. The fear of disintegrating, falling apart, losing his grasp of who he is. The fear of becoming nobody.”

  “So you’re saying he’s desperate.”

  “Absolutely desperate.”

  “Desperate. Disintegrating.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you carrying your gun?”

  For a moment the question baffled him. “No. Of course not.”

  “You were face-to-face with a furious lunatic—a desperate, disintegrating individual. But of course you weren’t carrying your gun?” She had a look of pain in her eyes. Pain and fear. “Now do you understand why I want you to see Malcolm Claret?”

  He was about to say something about not knowing that Klemper would be waiti
ng for him, that he’d never liked carrying a gun, and that he generally didn’t do so unless he was facing some known threat—but he realized that she was talking about something deeper and broader than this one incident, and for that larger subject at that moment he had no appetite.

  After drying the same plate absently for another minute, she left the room and headed up the hall stairs. A minute later, he heard the initial bars of an unpleasantly jagged cello piece.

  He’d avoided discussing the issue implicit in her question about Malcolm Claret, but now he couldn’t help picturing the man himself—the cerebral gaze, the thinning hair over a high, pale forehead, the gestures as economical as his speech, the colorless slacks and loose cardigan, the stillness, the unassuming manner.

  Gurney realized he was picturing the man as he appeared many years ago. He altered the image in his mind as a computer aging program might—deepening wrinkles, subtracting hair, adding the wearying effects of time and gravity on facial flesh. Uncomfortable with the result, he put it out of his mind.

  He thought instead about Klemper—about his obsessive negative focus on Kay Spalter, his certainty regarding her guilt, his willingness to subvert the investigation to produce the desired conclusion as quickly as possible.

  The approach was disconcerting—not because it was completely divorced from normal procedure, but because it wasn’t. Klemper’s offense seemed to Gurney not a matter of kind but of degree. The notion that a good detective always proceeds via pure logic and an open mind to objective conclusions concerning the nature of the crime and the identity of the perpetrator is at best a pleasant fantasy. In the real world of crime and punishment—as in all human endeavors—objectivity is an illusion. Survival itself demands that we leap to conclusions. Crucial action is always based on partial evidence. The hunter who demands a zoologist’s affidavit that the deer in his sights is truly a deer will soon starve. The jungle dweller who counts all the tiger’s stripes before deciding to retreat will be killed and eaten. The genes that urge certainty tend not to be passed into the next generation.