“You remember that?”

“It was all that was on. The shootings happened right after I moved out of Mom’s to live at Stacey Marx’s house.”

“When you were … fifteen?”

“Sixteen. When Mom started going with Tom Gerard, the big real-estate guy.” A bright, brittle emotion flashed in his eyes as he added with antic emphasis, “Mom ’n’ Tom.”

“So,” said Gurney quickly, “you remember the television coverage?”

“Stacey’s parents had the TV on all the time. RAM News, all the time. God, I can still picture the reconstructions.”

“Of the shootings?”

“Right. They had an ominous-sounding announcer delivering a dramatic voice-over narration, based very loosely on the facts—while some actor was shown driving a shiny black car on a lonely road. They’d go through the whole thing like that—right up to the gunshot and the car careening off the road—with a tiny one-word ‘reenactment’ disclaimer flashed on the screen for half a second. It was like reality TV without the reality. Day after day. They got so much mileage out of that crap they should’ve been paying the Shepherd.”

“I remember now,” said Gurney. “All part of the RAM carnival.”

“Speaking of the carnival, you ever watch Cops? That was pretty big on TV around that same time.”

“I saw part of one episode.”

“I don’t think I ever told you this, but there was an asshole in junior year of high school who knew you were with the NYPD, and he always used to ask me, ‘Is that what your cop dad does for a living—busts down doors in trailer parks?’ Complete asshole. I used to tell him, ‘No, asshole, that’s not what he does. And by the way, asshole, he’s not just a cop, he’s a homicide detective.’ Detective first class, right, Dad?”

“Right.” Kyle sounded so young to him right then, like such a kid, it brought a tightness to his chest. He looked away, down the hill at the barn.

“I wish that New York magazine article about you had come out back then. That would have shut him up fast. That article was fantastic!”

“I guess Kim told you that her mother wrote that article?”

“Yeah, she did—when I asked how she knew you. She really likes you.”

“Who?”

“Kim. At least Kim, maybe her mother, too.” Kyle grinned and looked sixteen again. “That gold detective shield dazzles them, right?”

Gurney managed a small laugh.

A cloud passed slowly in front of the sun, and the pasture faded from golden tan to grayish beige. For a wrenching second, something about it reminded Gurney of the skin of a corpse. A particular corpse. A Dominican hit man whose sunny complexion had drained away with his blood on a Harlem sidewalk. Gurney cleared his throat, as if to dispel the image.