by John Verdon
“I know that the effort resulted in her lead attorney being killed, along with six of his neighbors.”
“Anything else?”
“I know that Mr. Bincher had made some serious allegations of police corruption. Your email to me also referred to corruption, as well as ‘family dynamics.’ That could mean just about anything. Perhaps you could explain it.”
“It’s an area that the official investigation is likely to pursue.”
“Official investigation?”
“Lex Bincher’s murder will force BCI to take a new look at your brother’s murder. Not only BCI, but probably the AG’s office as well, since the corruption charges in Kay’s appeal are aimed at BCI. At that point, we’ll be turning over the new evidence we’ve uncovered—evidence indicating that Kay was framed. So, whichever agencies are involved, they’ll be asking who, besides Kay, stood to benefit from Carl’s death.”
“Well,” said Jonah, with wide-eyed chagrin, “that would certainly include me.”
“Is it true that you and your brother didn’t get along?”
“Didn’t get along?” He laughed softly, ruefully. “That would be an understatement.” He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, as though overwhelmed by the thoughts this subject raised. When he spoke again his tone was sharper. “Do you know where I am right now?”
“I have no idea.”
“No one does. That’s the point.”
“What point?”
“Carl and I never did get along. When we were younger it didn’t matter that much. He had his friends and I had mine. We went our own ways. Then, as you may know—it’s no secret—our father yoked us together in the monstrosity known as Spalter Realty. That’s when ‘not getting along’ turned into something poisonous. When I was forced to work with Carl on a daily basis … I realized I was dealing with something more than a difficult brother. I was dealing with a monster.” Jonah paused, as if to give that term room to expand in Gurney’s imagination.
It sounded to Gurney like a speech Jonah might have delivered before—an oft-repeated explanation of a terrible relationship.
“I watched Carl evolve from a selfish, aggressive businessman into a complete sociopath. As his political ambition grew, on the outside he became more charming, more magnetic, more charismatic. On the inside, he was rotting away to nothing—a black hole of greed and ambition. In biblical terms, he was the ultimate ‘whitewashed sepulchre.’ He got in bed with like-minded people. Ruthless people. Major criminals. Mob figures like Donny Angel. Murderers. Carl wanted to pull enormous amounts of money out of Spalter Realty to finance his megalomaniac schemes with those people, as well as his supremely hypocritical gubernatorial candidacy. He kept pressuring me to agree to unethical transactions that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—agree to. ‘Ethics,’ ‘morality,’ ‘legality’—none of those words meant anything to him. He began to frighten me. Actually, that’s not a strong enough word. The truth is, he terrified me. I came to believe there was nothing—nothing—he wouldn’t do to get what he wanted. Sometimes … the look in his eyes … it was positively satanic. As though all the evil in the world were concentrated in that gaze.”
“How did you deal with it?”
“Deal with it?” Again, the small smile and rueful laugh, followed by a lowered voice, almost confessional. “I ran away.”
“How?”
“I kept moving. Literally moving. One of the blessings of current technology is that you can do just about anything from anywhere. I bought a motor home, outfitted it with the appropriate communications equipment, and made it the rolling headquarters of the Cyberspace Cathedral. A process in which I have come to see the hand of Providence. Good can come out of evil, if good is our objective.”
“The good in this case being …?”
“Having no fixed geographical location, of being in a sense nowhere. My sole location has become the Internet, and the Internet is everywhere. Which has turned out to be the ideal ‘place’ for the Cathedral. The ubiquitous, worldwide Cyberspace Cathedral. Do you see what I mean, David? The need to get away from my brother and his deadly associates has been transformed into a gift. God does indeed work in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. This is a truth we encounter again and again. All that is required is an open mind and an open heart.” Jonah was looking increasingly radiant.
Gurney wondered if a delicate shift had been made in the lighting. He felt the urge to dull the glow. “Then you got a second gift, a large one, with Carl’s death.”
Jonah’s smile grew cooler. “That’s true. Once more, out of evil came good.”
“Apparently, quite a lot of good. I’ve heard that Spalter Realty’s assets are worth over fifty million dollars. Is that true?”
The man’s forehead frowned while his mouth continued to smile. “In today’s market, it’s impossible to say.” He paused, shrugged. “But I suppose, give or take a significant amount, it’s as good as any other guess.”
“Is it true that before Carl’s death you couldn’t touch that money, but now it all goes to you?”
“Nominally to me, but ultimately to the Cathedral. I’m merely a conduit. The Cathedral is of supreme importance. It’s far more important than any individual. The work of the Cathedral is the only thing that matters. The only thing.”
Gurney wondered if he was hearing a not-so-subtle threat in this emphatic priority. Rather than take that issue head-on, however, he decided to change direction. “Were you surprised by Carl’s murder?”
That question triggered Jonah’s first noticeable hesitation. He steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “Yes and no. Yes, because one is always initially startled by that ultimate form of violence. No, because murder was not a surprising end to the kind of life Carl led. And I could easily imagine someone close to him being driven to that extreme.”
“Even someone like Kay?”
“Even someone like Kay.”
“Or someone like yourself?”
Jonah wrapped his answer in an earnest frown. “Or someone like myself.” Then he glanced, not quite surreptitiously, at his watch.
Gurney smiled. “Just a couple more questions.”
“I do have a live webcast scheduled in ten minutes, but go ahead, please.”
“What did you think of Mick Klemper?”
“Who?”
“The chief investigator at Carl’s shooting.”
“Ah. Yes. What did I think of him? I thought he might have a drinking problem.”
“Did he interview you?”
“I wouldn’t call it an interview. He asked a few basic questions at the cemetery that day. He took down my contact information, but he never followed up. He didn’t strike me as particularly thorough … or trustworthy.”
“Would you be surprised if you heard that he was guilty of evidence tampering?”
“I can’t say it would be a shock.” He cocked his head curiously. “Are you saying that he used illegal means to get Kay convicted? Why?”
“Again, that’s confidential within the appeal process at this point. But it does raise an important point. Assuming that Kay didn’t kill Carl, obviously someone else did. Does the fact that the real killer is out there roaming around free worry you?”
“For my own safety? Not at all. Carl and I were on the opposite sides of every business decision, every proposed action of Spalter Realty—as well as every personal matter that ever came up between us. We never had the same friends, the same goals, the same anything. It’s highly unlikely that we’d have the same enemy.”
“One last question.” Gurney paused, more for dramatic effect than because of any indecision. “What would you say if I told you that your mother’s death may not have been accidental?”
“What do you mean?” He blinked, appeared stunned.
“Evidence has come to light that connects her death with Carl’s.”
“What evidence?”
“I can’t go into that. But it seems persuasive. Can you think o
f any reason that the person who targeted Carl would also have targeted your mother?”
Jonah’s expression was a frozen mix of emotions. The most recognizable one was fear. But was it the fear of the unknown? Or was it fear of the unknown becoming known? He shook his head. “I … I don’t know what to say. Look, I need to know what … I mean, what kind of evidence are you talking about?”
“Right now that’s a confidential part of the appeals case. I’ll see that you’re informed as soon as possible.”
“What you’re saying is … absolutely bizarre.”
“It must seem that way. But if any explanation occurs to you, any scenario that you think might connect the two deaths, please let me know right away.”
The man’s only visible response was a small nod.
Gurney decided on another abrupt change of direction. “What do you think of Carl’s daughter?”
Jonah swallowed, shifted in his chair. “Are you asking me if she could … could have killed her father? And her grandmother too?” He looked lost. “I have no idea. Alyssa is … not a healthy person, but … her father? Her grandmother?”
“Not healthy in what way? Can you be more specific?”
“No. Not now.” He looked at his watch, as if baffled by the data it conveyed. “I really have to go. Really. Sorry.”
“Last question. Who else might have wanted to kill Carl?”
He turned up his palms in a gesture that conveyed frustration with the question. “Anyone. Anyone who got close enough to see the rot behind the smile.”
“Thank you for your help, Jonah. I hope we can speak again. By the way, what’s the topic of your webcast?”
“Sorry, my what?”
“Your webcast.”
“Oh.” He looked sick. “Today’s topic is ‘Our Path to Joy.’ ”
Chapter 47
Still Missing
Gurney used the quarter hour prior to Hardwick’s and Esti’s scheduled arrival at nine o’clock to type and print out three copies of what he’d jotted down the day before on a legal pad—the case’s key points.
Esti was the first to arrive but only by a minute. As she was parking her hot blue Mini Cooper by the asparagus bed, Hardwick’s red GTO was rumbling up past the barn.
She stepped out of the little car, and her T-shirt, cutoff jeans, and relaxed smile all proclaimed a day off from the job. Her caramel skin glowed in the morning sunlight. As she approached the side door, she cast a curious glance at the flat stones marking the rooster’s grave.
Gurney opened the screen door and shook hands with her.
“Hey,” she said, “it’s so gorgeous today, we should stay out here.”
Gurney returned the smile. “That’d be nice. Problem is, I have some videos inside I want you and Jack to see.”
“Just a thought. The sun feels good on my skin.”
Hardwick pulled his car in next to hers, got out, and swung the heavy door shut. Without bothering to acknowledge her or Gurney, he shaded his eyes with his hand and began scanning the surrounding fields and wooded hillsides.
She gave him a sideways glance. “You looking for somebody?”
He didn’t answer, just continued what he was doing.
Gurney followed his gaze until it reached Barrow Hill, realizing then what was on the man’s mind. “That’s the most likely spot,” said Gurney.
Hardwick nodded. “At the top of that narrow trail?”
“It’s actually an overgrown quarry road.”
Hardwick stayed focused on the hill. “Pretty good distance from here. He’d need to be really good. Maybe twelve hundred feet?”
“Maybe a little more. Not too different from Long Falls.”
Esti looked alarmed. “You guys talking about a sniper?”
“A possible location for one,” said Gurney. “There’s a place near the top of that hill that would be my choice if I were targeting someone who lived in this house. Clear view of the side door, clear view of the cars.”
She turned to Hardwick. “Every place you go now, that’s what you’re checking out? Sniper spots?”
“With two rounds in the side of my house, it’s on my mind these days. Areas surrounded by good cover concern me.”
Her eyes widened. “So maybe instead of standing here like sitting ducks, staring at a place we could be shot from, we should go inside, yes?”
Hardwick looked like he was about to make a wiseass comment about her standing/sitting remark, but he just grinned and followed her into the house. After another glance up the hill, Gurney joined them.
He got his laptop and list of issues from the den, and they all settled down at the dining table. “Why don’t we start by getting up-to-date?” suggested Gurney. “You and Esti were going to make some calls. Do we have any new facts?”
Esti went first. “This Greek mob guy, Adonis Angelidis? According to my friend at OCTF, he’s a big deal. Low profile, compared to the Italians and the Russians, but a lot of influence. Works with all the families. It was the same with Gurikos, the guy who got his head nailed. He arranged big hits for big players. Major connections. Very trusted.”
“So why was he hit?” asked Hardwick. “Your task force buddy got any clue?”
“None. According to OCTF, Gurikos kept everybody happy. Smooth as silk. A resource.”
“Yeah, well, somebody didn’t agree.”
She nodded. “It could have happened the way Angelidis told Dave: Carl went to Gurikos to set up a hit on someone, then that someone found out about it and hired Panikos to kill them both. Makes sense, no?”
Hardwick turned his palms up in a gesture of uncertainty.
Esti looked at Gurney. “Dave?”
“In a way, I’d like the Angelidis version to be true. But it doesn’t feel quite right. Like it almost makes sense. The problem is, it doesn’t account for the nails in Gus’s head. A practical, preemptive hit on Carl and Gus is one thing. A gruesome warning about keeping secrets is something else. The two don’t fit together.”
“I’ve got the same problem with the mother,” said Esti. “I don’t get why she had to be killed.”
Hardwick sounded restless. “It’s not that big a mystery. To put Carl at the funeral, exposed, delivering a eulogy.”
“So why didn’t Panikos wait until he was actually standing at the podium? Why shoot him before he got there?”
“Who the hell knows? Maybe to stop him from revealing something.”
Gurney couldn’t see the logic in that. Why go to elaborate lengths to set up a situation in which someone would be scheduled to make a speech if you were afraid of what they might say?
“I’ve got one last thing,” said Esti. “About the Cooperstown fires? I found out something interesting, but strange. The four incendiary devices used on Bincher’s house were all different types and sizes.” She looked from Hardwick to Gurney and back again. “Does that say anything to you?”
Hardwick sucked at his teeth and shrugged. “Maybe that’s what little Peter happened to have in his toy box at the time.”
“Or maybe what his supplier had available? Any ideas, Dave?”
“Just an off-the-wall possibility: that he was experimenting.”
“Experimenting? For what purpose?”
“I don’t know. Maybe evaluating different devices with some future use in mind?”
She made a face. “Let’s hope that’s not the reason.”
Hardwick shifted in his chair. “You got anything else, sweetheart?”
“Yes. The headless body recovered at the scene has been positively ID’d.” She paused for one dramatic beat. “Lex Bincher. For sure.”
Hardwick was staring warily at her.
She went on slowly, “The head … is still missing.”
Hardwick’s jaw muscle twitched. “Christ! This is like some shit in a horror movie.”
Esti screwed up her face. “I don’t understand how this gets to you so much. That story about how you and Dave met—that incident involved a woman
who got cut in half, right? I heard you laugh about that, tell sick jokes, right?”
“Right.”
“So how come when this head thing comes up, you get all disturbed-like?”
“Look, for Christ’s sake …” He raised his hands in surrender, shaking his head. “It’s one thing to find a chopped-up body. A body in ten pieces. You’re a cop long enough, you work the inner city long enough, that kind of thing is going to happen. It just is. But there’s a big difference between finding a cut-off head and not finding it. You get what I mean? The fucking thing is missing! Which means somebody is keeping it somewhere. For some reason. For some God-awful use he has for it. Believe me, that fucking thing is going to turn up when we least expect it.”
“ ‘When we least expect it’? I think you see too much Netflix.” She gave him one of her affectionate little winks. “Anyway, that’s all the new stuff I have for now. How about you? You have anything?”
Hardwick rubbed his face hard with his palms, as though he were erasing a bad dream, trying to give his day a fresh start. “I managed to locate one of the missing witnesses—Freddie, the one whose testimony put Kay in the Axton Avenue apartment house at the time of the shooting. Officially, Frederico Javier Rosales.” He shot a glance at Gurney. “Any chance of getting some coffee?”
“No problem.” Gurney went to the machine on the sink island to get a fresh pot going.
Hardwick continued. “We had a friendly talk, me and Freddie. We focused on the interesting little gap between what he actually saw and what Mick the Dick told him he saw.”
Esti’s eyes widened. “He admitted that Klemper told him what to say on the stand?”
“Not only did Klemper tell him what to say, but he told him he damn well better say it.”
“Or else what?”
“Freddie had a drug problem. Small dealer supporting a big addiction. One more conviction would give him an automatic hard twenty, no parole. When a skell’s in that kind of spot, a prick like Mick has a lot of leverage.”
“So why’d he open up to you?”
Hardwick grinned unpleasantly. “Boy like Freddie has a short attention span. Always sees the biggest threat as the one that’s standing in front of him, and that was me. But don’t get the wrong idea. I was very civilized. I explained that the only way for him to avoid the substantial penalties for having committed perjury in a murder case would be for him to un-perjure himself.”