Shut Your Eyes Tight (Dave Gurney, No. 2): A Novel (18 page)

Gurney shrugged. “
Too
complicated?”

“Not for me to say. I’m not a forensic psychologist.”

“What are you?”

Ashton blinked, perhaps at the abruptness of the question. “I beg pardon?”

“Your field of expertise …?”

“Destructive sexual behavior, particularly sexual abuse.”

It was Gurney’s turn to blink. “I had the impression you were director of a school for troubled kids.”

“Yes. Mapleshade.”

“Mapleshade is for kids who’ve been sexually abused?”

“Sorry, Detective. You’re opening a subject that cannot be discussed briefly without the risk of misunderstanding, and I don’t have the time now to discuss it in detail. Perhaps another day.”
He glanced again at his watch. “The fact is, I have two appointments this afternoon I need to prepare for. Do you have any simpler questions?”

“Two. Is it possible that you were mistaken about Hector Flores being Mexican?”

“Mistaken?”

Gurney waited.

Ashton appeared agitated, moved to the edge of his chair. “Yes, I may have been mistaken about that, along with everything else I thought I knew about him. Second question?”

“Does the name Edward Vallory mean anything to you?”

“You mean the text message on Jillian’s phone?”

“Yes. ‘For all the reasons I have written. Edward Vallory.’ ”

“No. The first officer on the case asked me about that. I said it wasn’t a familiar name then, and that hasn’t changed. I was told that the phone company traced the message back to Hector’s cell phone.”

“But you have no idea why he would use the name Edward Vallory?”

“None. I’m sorry, Detective, but I do need to prepare for my appointments.”

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be at Mapleshade all day—with a full schedule.”

“What time do you leave in the morning?”

“Here? Nine-thirty.”

“How about eight-thirty, then?”

Ashton’s expression flickered between consternation and concern. “All right. Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”

On the way to his car, Gurney glanced back into the far corner of the patio. The sun was gone now, but Hobart Ashton’s metronomic twig was still rocking back and forth to a slow, monotonous beat.

A
s Gurney drove down Badger Lane under gathering clouds, the homes that had looked picturesque when bathed in sunlight now looked grim and guarded. He was eager to reach the openness of Higgles Road and the pastoral valleys that lay between Tambury and Walnut Crossing.

Ashton’s decision to end the interview, necessitating a return trip, didn’t bother Gurney at all. It would give him time to digest his first live impressions of the man, along with the opinions offered by his extraordinary neighbors. Having an opportunity to organize it all in his mind would help him start to make connections and put together the right questions for tomorrow. He decided he’d head straight for the Quick-Mart on Route 10, get the biggest container of coffee they offered, and make some notes.

As he came within sight of the intersection at Calvin Harlen’s tumbledown farm, he could see that a black car was blocking the road, angled directly across it. Two muscular young men with matching buzz cuts, sunglasses, dark jeans, and shiny Windbreakers were leaning against the side of the car, watching Gurney’s approach. The fact that the car was an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria—as obvious a law-enforcement vehicle as a cruiser with its siren blaring—made the state police ID tags pinned to their jackets no surprise.

They ambled over to where Gurney had stopped, one on each side of his car.

“License and registration,” said the one at Gurney’s window in none too friendly a tone.

Gurney already had his wallet out, but now he hesitated. “Blatt?”

The man’s mouth twitched as if a fly had landed on it. He slowly removed his glasses, managing to inject menace into the action. His eyes were small and mean. “Where do I know you from?”

“The Mellery case.”

He smiled. The wider the smile got, the nastier it got. “Gurney, right? The genius from shit city. The hell you doing here?”

“Visiting.”

“Visiting who?”

“When it’s appropriate to share that information with you, I will.”

“Appropriate?
Appropriate?
Get out of the car.”

Gurney complied calmly with the order. The other officer had circled around to the back of the car.

“Now, like I said, license and registration.”

Gurney opened his wallet, handed the two items to Blatt, who studied them with great care. Blatt went back to the Crown Victoria, got in, and started punching keys on his in-car computer. The officer in back of the car was watching Gurney as if he might be about to sprint across Higgles Road into the thornbushes. Gurney smiled wearily and tried to read the man’s ID, but the plastic holder was reflecting the light. He gave up and introduced himself instead. “I’m Dave Gurney, NYPD Homicide, retired.”

The officer nodded slightly. Several minutes passed. Then several more. Gurney leaned back against his car door, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. He had little appetite for pointless delays, and the complexity of the day was wearing him down. His fabled patience was fraying. Blatt returned and handed him back his items as though he were sick of holding them.

“What’s your business here?”

“You asked me that already.”

“All right, Gurney, let me make something clear to you. There’s a murder investigation in progress here. You understand what I’m saying? Murder investigation. Big mistake for you to get in the way. Obstruction of justice. Impeding the investigation of a felony. Get the message? So I’ll ask you one more time. What are you doing on Badger Lane?”

“Sorry, Blatt, private matter.”

“You saying you’re not here about the Perry case?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

Blatt turned to the other officer, spit on the ground, and pointed his thumb back at Gurney. “This is the guy that almost got everyone killed at the end of the Mellery case.”

The stupid accusation was dangerously close to pushing a button in Gurney that most people didn’t know existed.

Maybe the other officer sensed ominous vibrations, or maybe he’d gotten jammed up by Blatt’s animosities before, or maybe a little light finally went on. “Gurney?” he asked. “Isn’t that the guy with all the NYPD commendations?”

Blatt didn’t answer. But something about the question changed the dynamic of the situation just enough to restrain further escalation. He stared dully at Gurney.

“A word to the wise: Get out of here. Get out of here right this fucking minute. You even breathe on this case, I guarantee you’ll get banged for obstruction.” He raised his hand, pointed his forefinger between Gurney’s eyes, and dropped his thumb like a hammer.

Gurney nodded. “I hear you, but … I have a question. Suppose I discover that all your assumptions about this murder are bullshit. Who should I tell?”

T
he coffee on the drive home was a mistake. The cigarette was a bigger mistake.

The gas-station brew had been concentrated by time and evaporation into a caffeine-packed, tar-colored liquid that didn’t taste much like coffee at all. Gurney drank it anyway: a comforting ritual. Not so comforting was the impact of the caffeine on his nerves as the first rush of stimulation gave way to a vibrating anxiety that demanded a cigarette. But that, too, came with pluses and minuses: a brief feeling of ease and freedom, followed by thoughts as bleak as the dispiriting overcast. The memory of something a therapist had said fifteen years earlier:
David, you behave like two different people. In your professional life, you have drive, determination, direction. In your personal life, you’re a ship without a rudder
. Sometimes he had the illusion of making progress—giving up smoking, living more of his life outdoors and less of it in his head, focusing on the here and now and Madeleine. But inevitably he slipped back from what he’d hoped to be into the shape of the person he’d always been.

His new Subaru had no ashtray, and he was making do with the rinsed-out sardine tin he kept in the car for that purpose. As he ground his butt into it, it suddenly brought to mind another acute instance of failure in his personal life, another jabbing reminder of a mind adrift: He’d forgotten about dinner.

His call to Madeleine—omitting his memory lapse, asking only if she wanted him to pick up anything on his way home—did not leave him feeling any better. He had the sense that she knew he’d
forgotten, knew he was trying to cover it up. It was a short call with long silences. Their final exchange:

“You’ll clear your murder files off the dinner table when you get home?”

“Yes. I said I would.”

“Good.”

For the balance of the drive, Gurney’s restless mind skittered around a set of bothersome questions: Why was Arlo Blatt waiting at the bottom of Badger Lane? There was no surveillance car there earlier. Had he been tipped that someone was asking questions? That Gurney in particular was asking questions? But who would care enough to call Blatt? Why was Blatt so eager to keep him off the case? Which reminded Gurney of another unresolved question: Why was Jack Hardwick so eager to have him on it?

At exactly 5:00
P.M
. under a glowering sky, Gurney turned onto the dirt-and-gravel road that ran up into the hills to his farmhouse. A mile or so along the way, he caught sight of a car ahead of him, a grayish green Prius. As they proceeded up the dusty road, it became increasingly certain that the people in the car were the mystery dinner guests.

The Prius slowed to a cautious crawl on the rutted farm track through the pasture to the informal parking area of matted-down grass next to the house. A second before they emerged, Gurney remembered: George and Peggy Meeker. George, retired professor of entomology in his early sixties, a gangling praying mantis of a man; and Peggy, bubbly social worker in her early fifties who’d talked Madeleine into her current part-time job. As Gurney parked, the Meekers removed from their backseat a platter and a bowl covered with aluminum foil.

“Salad and dessert!” cried Peggy. “Sorry we’re late. George lost the car keys!” She seemed to find this both exasperating and entertaining.

George raised his hand in a gesture of greeting, accompanied by a sour glance at his wife. Gurney managed only a small smile of welcome. The George-and-Peggy dynamic was too close for comfort to what had gone on between his parents.

Madeleine came to the door, her smile directed at the Meekers.

“Salad and dessert,” explained Peggy, handing the covered dishes to Madeleine, who made appreciative noises and led the way into the big farmhouse kitchen.

“I love it!” said Peggy with wide-eyed appreciation, the same reaction she’d had on their two previous visits, adding as she always did, “It’s the perfect house for you two. Don’t you think it fits their personalities perfectly, George?”

George nodded agreeably, eyeing the case files on the table, tilting his head to read the abbreviated content descriptions on the covers. “I thought you were retired,” he said to Gurney.

“I am. This is just a brief consulting assignment.”

“An invitation to a beheading,” said Madeleine.

“What sort of consulting assignment?” asked Peggy with real interest.

“I’ve been asked to review the evidence in a murder case and suggest alternative directions for the investigation if they seem warranted.”

“Sounds fascinating,” said Peggy. “Is it a case that’s been in the news?”

He hesitated a moment before answering, “Yes, a few months ago. The tabloids referred to it as the case of the butchered bride.”

“No! Why, that’s incredible! You’re investigating that horrible murder? The young woman who was killed in her wedding dress? What exactly—”

Madeleine broke in, her voice’s volume a little high for the proximity of the company. “What can I get you folks to drink?”

Peggy kept her eyes on Gurney.

Madeleine went on, loud and cheery. “We have a California pinot grigio, an Italian Barolo, and a Finger Lakes something-or-other with a cute name.”

“Barolo for me,” said George.

“I want to hear the inside story of this murder,” declared Peggy, adding as an afterthought, “Any wine is fine for me. Except the cute one.”

“I’ll have a Barolo like George,” said Gurney.

“Could you clear the table now?” asked Madeleine.

“Absolutely,” said Gurney. He turned to the task and began consolidating the many piles of papers into a few. “I should have done it this morning. Can’t remember a damn thing anymore.”

Madeleine smiled dangerously, got a couple of bottles from the pantry, and went about the business of extracting corks.

“So …?” said Peggy, still staring expectantly at Gurney.

“How much do you remember from the news stories?” he asked.

“Gorgeous young woman, murdered by a crazy Mexican gardener about ten minutes after marrying none other than Scott Ashton.”

“Sounds like you know who he is.”

“Know who he is? Jeez, everybody in the world—Wait, let me take that back. Everybody in the world of
social sciences
knows Scott Ashton—or at least his reputation, his books, his journal articles. He’s the hottest sexual-abuse therapist out there.”

“Hottest?”
said Madeleine, approaching with two glasses of red wine.

George guffawed, an oddly hearty sound from his sticklike frame.

Peggy winced. “Poor word choice. Should have said
most famous
. Lots of cutting-edge therapies. I’m sure Dave can tell us a heck of a lot more than that.” She accepted the glass Madeleine offered her, took a small sip, and smiled. “Lovely. Thanks.”

“So tomorrow’s the big day, right?” said Madeleine.