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

by John Verdon

  Alyssa gave him a sly smile. “Girlfriend problems?”

  He didn’t answer, just stared at the coffee table.

  “You need to relax. All that tension, I can feel it over here. Is there anything I can do?”

  “It might help if you got dressed.”

  “Got dressed? I am dressed.”

  “Not noticeably.”

  Her lips parted in a slow, deliberate grin. “You’re funny.”

  “Okay, Alyssa. Enough. Let’s get to the point. Why did you want to see me?”

  The grin was replaced by the pouty look. “No need to sound so unfriendly. I just want to help.”

  “How?”

  “I want to help you understand the reality of the situation,” she said earnestly, as though that answer clarified everything. When Gurney just stared at her and waited, she switched back to the grin. “You positive you don’t want a drink? How about a tequila sunrise? I make a fantastic tequila sunrise.”

  He reached with obvious casualness to his hip, scratched a nonexistent itch, and switched on the digital recorder affixed to his belt, awkwardly hiding the soft click under a loud cough.

  Her grin broadened. “If you want to shut me up, sweetie, that’s the way to do it.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Beg pardon?” There was a glint of cold amusement in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” He projected as best he could the expression of a guilty man trying to appear innocent.

  “What’s that cute little thing on your belt?”

  He glanced down at his side. “Oh, that’s …” He cleared his throat. “That’s actually a recorder.”

  “A recorder. No shit. Can I see it?”

  He blinked. “Uh, sure.” He unclipped it and held it out across the coffee table.

  She took it, studied it, switched it off, and laid it on the sofa cushion next to her.

  He put on an anxious frown. “May I have that back, please?”

  “Come and get it.”

  He looked at her, at the recorder, back at her, cleared his throat again. “It’s a routine thing. I make a point of recording all my meetings. It can be very helpful in avoiding disputes later about what was said or what was agreed to.”

  “That so? Wow. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to record this meeting, too.”

  “Yeah? Well, like Santa said to the greedy little boy, fuck you.”

  He looked disconcerted. “Why is it such a big deal?”

  “It’s not a big deal. I just don’t like being recorded.”

  “I think it would be better for both of us.”

  “I disagree.”

  Gurney shrugged. “Okay. Fine.”

  “What were you going to do with it?”

  “Like I said, in case there was some dispute later …”

  His phone rang for the third time. Madeleine on the ID. He pressed TALK.

  “Jesus, what now?” he said into the phone, sounding thoroughly ticked off. Over the next ten seconds he imitated a man about to lose it completely. “I know … Right … Right … Jesus, can we talk about this LATER?… Right … Yes … I said YES.” He took the phone from his ear, glared at it as though it were the source of nothing but problems, poked at a spot close to the END CALL button without breaking the connection, and put the still-transmitting phone back in his shirt pocket. He shook his head and shot Alyssa an embarrassed glance. “Jesus.”

  She yawned, as though there were nothing more boring on earth than a man thinking about something other than her. Then she arched her back. The movement raised what little there was of her shirt, exposing the bottom of her breasts. “Maybe we ought to start over,” she said, nestling back into her corner of the sofa.

  “Okay. But I’d like my recorder back.”

  “I’ll hold on to it while you’re here. You can have it when you leave.”

  “Fine. Okay.” He gave a sigh of resignation. “Back to the beginning. You were saying that you wanted me to understand the reality of the situation. What reality?”

  “The reality is that you’re wasting your time, trying to turn everything upside down.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “You’re trying to turn the bitch loose, right?”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed your father.”

  “Who killed him? His whore cunt bitch wife killed him. End of story.”

  “Kay Spalter, the supersniper?”

  “She took lessons. It’s true. It’s documented.” She articulated the word reverently, as though it had magical powers of persuasion.

  Gurney shrugged. “A lot of people take shooting lessons without killing anyone.”

  Alyssa shook her head—a quick, bitter movement. “You don’t know what she’s like.”

  “Tell me.”

  “She’s a lying, greedy piece of shit.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She married my father for his money. Period. Kay is a money-fucker. And a general slut. When this finally dawned on my father, he told her he wanted a divorce. Bitch figured that’d be the end of the good life for her, so she ended his life instead. BANG! Simple.”

  “So you think it was all about money?”

  “It was all about that skeeve getting whatever she wanted. Did you know she was buying Darryl, the pool boy, presents with my father’s money? She bought him a diamond earring for his birthday. You know how much she paid for that? Guess.”

  Gurney waited.

  “No. Really. Guess how much.”

  “A thousand?”

  “A thousand? I wish! Fucking ten thousand! Ten fucking thousand dollars of my fucking father’s fucking money! For the fucking pool boy! You know why?”

  Again Gurney waited.

  “I’ll tell you why. The disgusting bitch was paying him to fuck her. On my father’s credit card. How disgusting is that? And speaking of disgusting, you should see her putting on her makeup … give you the fucking shakes watching it—like an undertaker putting a smiley face on a corpse.”

  This fury, this well of bile and hatred, struck Gurney as the most authentic part of Alyssa he’d seen so far. But even about that he wasn’t absolutely sure. He wondered how extensive her acting talent might be.

  She sat silently now, chewing at her thumb.

  “Did she kill your grandmother, too?” he asked mildly.

  She blinked in apparent confusion. “My … who?”

  “Your father’s mother.”

  “The hell are you talking about?”

  “There’s reason to believe Mary Spalter’s death was no accident.”

  “What reason?”

  “The day she was found dead, an individual was videotaped entering the Emmerling Oaks complex under false pretenses. The day your father was shot, that same individual was seen entering the apartment where the rifle was found.”

  “Is this some kind of bullshit invented by your scumbag lawyer?”

  “Did you know, the same day your father was shot, a local mobster he was dealing with was killed? You think Kay did that, too?”

  Gurney got the impression that Alyssa was rattled and trying not to show it.

  “She could have. Why not? If she could kill her husband …” Her voice trailed off.

  “She’s a regular homicide factory, huh? Those lifers over in Bedford Hills better watch out.” Even as he tossed in this sarcastic crack, he recalled the nickname Kay had acquired from her prison-mates, the Black Widow, and wondered if they saw something in her that he’d missed.

  Alyssa made no reply, just sank a little deeper into the corner of the sofa and crossed her arms in front of her. Apart from her very adult figure, she looked for a passing instant like a troubled middle-schooler. Even when she finally spoke, it was with more angry bravado than confidence. “What a pile of bullshit! Anything to free that bitch, right?”

  Gurney was weighing his options. He could leave things as they were, letting what h
e’d revealed fester in her mind, and see what developed. Or he could press on, use all his ammunition right now, try to provoke an explosion. There were sizable risks either way. He opted to press on. He hoped to Christ his phone was still transmitting.

  He leaned toward her, elbows on his knees. “Listen carefully, Alyssa. Some of this you already know. In fact, most of it. But you better listen to all of it. I’ll only say it once. Kay Spalter didn’t kill anybody. She was convicted because Mick Klemper screwed up the investigation. On purpose. The only open question in my mind is whether that was his idea or yours. I’m thinking it was yours.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “I’m thinking the idea was yours, because you’re the one with the motive that makes the most sense. Get Kay put away for Carl’s murder, and all the money goes to you. So you fucked Klemper—literally—into doing a frame job on Kay. Problem is, Klemper did a lousy job. So now the house of cards is collapsing. The prosecution’s case is full of gaping holes, evidence problems, police misconduct. Kay’s conviction is sure to be reversed on appeal. She’ll be out in another month, maybe sooner. As soon as that happens, Carl’s estate goes immediately to her. So you fucked that idiot Klemper for nothing. It’ll be interesting to see what happens in court—which one of you ends up doing the most time.”

  “Doing time? For what?”

  “Obstruction. Perjury. Suborning perjury. Conspiracy. And half a dozen other nasty legal offenses, with long prison sentences attached to them. Klemper will blame you, you’ll blame Klemper. The jury probably won’t care much for either one of you.”

  As he was speaking, she drew her knees up in front of her and wrapped her arms tightly around them. Her eyes appeared to be focused on some invisible road map.

  After a long minute, she spoke in a small, even voice. “Suppose I told you he blackmailed me.”

  He worried whether her comment was loud enough for his phone to pick up. “Blackmailed you? How? Why?”

  “He knew something about me.”

  “What did he know?”

  She gave him a shrewd look. “You don’t need to know that.”

  “Okay. He blackmailed you into doing what?”

  “Having sex with him.”

  “And lying in court about things you heard Kay say on the phone?”

  She hesitated. “No. I actually heard those things.”

  “So you admit having sex with Klemper but deny committing perjury?”

  “That’s right. Me fucking him was not a crime. But him making me fuck him was. So if anybody’s got a problem, it’s him, not me.”

  “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “No.” She lowered her feet gracefully to the floor. “And you should really forget everything I just told you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It might not be true.”

  “Why bother telling me, then?”

  “To help you understand. That stuff you were saying about me doing time? That’s never going to happen.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  “Okay. Then I guess we’re finished here.”

  “Unless you want to change your mind about my tequila sunrise. Believe me, it’s worth changing your mind for.”

  Gurney stood up, pointed to his mini-recorder on the sofa cushion. “May I have that, please?”

  She picked it up and jammed it into the pocket of her shorts, which were already about to burst a seam. She smiled. “I’ll mail it to you. Or … you could try to take it now.”

  “Keep it.”

  “Aren’t you even going to try? I bet you could take it if you really tried.”

  Gurney smiled. “Klemper didn’t have a chance, did he?”

  She smiled back. “I told you, he blackmailed me. Made me do things I never would have done willingly. Never. You can just imagine what kind of things.”

  Gurney walked around the far side of the coffee table and out of the living room, opened the front door, and stepped out onto the broad stone steps. Alyssa followed him to the doorway and put on her pouty look.

  “Most men ask me what FMAD means.”

  He glanced at the big letters on the front of her tee. “I bet they do.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Okay, I’m curious. What does FMAD mean?”

  She leaned toward him and whispered, “Fuck Me And Die.”

  Chapter 31

  Another Black Widow

  The red GTO was parked at his side door, as Gurney expected it would be. He’d called Hardwick on his way home from Venus Lake and left a message suggesting they get together ASAP, including Esti if possible. He felt the need for other perspectives on his Alyssa interview.

  Hardwick had called Gurney back as he was nearing Walnut Crossing and offered to come right over. When Gurney entered the house, he found the man lounging in a chair at the breakfast table with the French doors open.

  “Your lovely wife let me in as she was leaving. Said she was off to therapize the local nutcases at the clinic,” he said in response to Gurney’s unvoiced question.

  “I doubt she put it that way.”

  “She might have put it in cuddlier words. Women love the fantasy that crazy fuckers can be de-crazed. As if the only thing Charlie Manson needed was a touch of TLC.”

  “Speaking of nice women getting involved with lunatics, what’s the deal with you and Esti?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “You serious about her?”

  “Serious? Yeah, I guess, whatever ‘serious’ means. I’ll tell you one thing. The sex is seriously good.”

  “Is she the reason you finally bought some furniture?”

  “Women like furniture. Turns them on. Feathered nests trigger good feelings. The biological imperatives start kicking in. Beds, couches, comfy chairs, cozy rugs—shit like that makes a difference.” He paused. “She’s on her way. Did you know that?”

  “On her way here?”

  “I passed your invitation along to her. I thought she might’ve called you.”

  “No, but I’m glad she’s coming. The more heads on this subject the better.”

  Hardwick made a skeptical face—his usual face—stood up from the table and stepped over to the French doors. He gazed out curiously for a while before asking, “Fuck are you up to out there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That pile of lumber.”

  Gurney came to the door. There was indeed a pile of lumber that he’d missed on his way into the house. His view had been blocked by the asparagus ferns. For a moment he was at a loss. There were stacks of what appeared to be two-by-fours, four-by-fours, and two-by-sixes.

  He took out his phone and entered Madeleine’s number.

  Surprisingly, she picked up on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “What’s this stuff out back?” Even as he was asking, he realized the answer was obvious and calling her had probably been a mistake.

  “Lumber. For the chicken house. I had it delivered this morning. The things you said we’d be using first.”

  He started raising his shields. “I didn’t say we’d be using them today.”

  “Well, tomorrow, then? Don’t worry about it. If you’re too busy, just point me in the right direction and I’ll get started myself.”

  He felt cornered, but he remembered a wise man once saying that feelings aren’t facts. He decided it would be prudent to keep his irritation out of his voice. “Right.”

  “That’s it? That’s the reason you called?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, see you tonight. I’m on my way into a session.”

  He slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  Hardwick was watching him with a sadistic grin. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “No trouble.”

  “Really? You looked like you were going to bite that phone.”

  “Madeleine is better at switching focus than I am.”

  “You mean she wants you to get involved in something you don’
t give a shit about?”

  It was a comment, not a question, and like many of Hardwick’s comments, it was rudely true.

  “I hear a car,” said Gurney.

  “Got to be Esti.”

  “You recognize the sound of her Mini?”

  “No. But who the hell else would be driving up that crappy little road of yours?”

  A minute later, she was at the side door and Gurney was letting her in. She was dressed a lot more conservatively than at Hardwick’s house—in dark slacks, white blouse, and dark blazer, looking like she’d come directly from the job. Her hair had lost some of the sheen it’d had the previous night. She had a manila envelope in her hand.

  “You just coming off a shift?” Gurney asked.

  “Yep. Midnight to noon. Pretty tiring after all that craziness last night. But I had to fill in for someone who filled in for me two weeks ago. Then I had to get my car inspected. Anyway, here I am.” She followed Gurney into the kitchen, saw Hardwick standing at the table, and gave him a big smile. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “Hey, peaches, how’s things?”

  “Good—now that I see you in one piece.” She went to him, kissed him on the cheek, and ran her fingers down his arm, as if to confirm her observation. “You’re really okay, right? There’s nothing you’re not telling me?”

  “Babe, I am one hundred percent okay.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” She gave him a cute little wink. “So,” she continued, suddenly all business, “I got some answers. You boys interested?”

  Gurney gestured toward the dining table. “We can sit there.”

  Esti chose the end chair. The two men sat across from each other. She took her notepad out of the envelope. “Simple things first. Yes, according to the autopsy—pretty basic one—Mary Spalter’s injuries could have been intentionally inflicted, but that option was never seriously considered. Falls, even fatal falls, happen enough in geriatric situations that the simplest explanation is usually accepted.”