“I can’t believe you said that. I really can’t. It’s so insulting. Look, I’m about to hang up on you. I’ll give you one chance to explain yourself before I do. Speak to me. Quickly.”

“Rebecca, we all fool ourselves from time to time. God knows I do. There’s no insult intended in my observation about this. When you look at the Good Shepherd case, you see a simple story of a brilliant psycho whose buried rage has found tragic expression in his attacks on symbols of wealth and power. When I look at the same case, I’m not sure what I see—maybe a case that people shouldn’t be as sure about as they seem to be. That’s all. I just think too many conclusions have been reached—and embraced—too quickly.”

“And where does that take you?”

“I don’t know where it takes me. But it does make me curious.”

“Curious like Max Clinter?”

“Is that a real question?”

“Oh, definitely a real question.”

“At least Max understands that the case isn’t nearly as sewn up as you and your FBI buddies think it is. At least he understands that there could be another connection among the victims beyond the fact of Mercedes ownership.”

“David, what do you have against the FBI?”

“Sometimes they get carried away by their way of doing things, their way of making decisions, their obsession with control, their process.”

“The simple reality is, they’re excellent at what they do. They’re smart, objective, disciplined, receptive to good ideas.”

“Does that mean they pay your consultancy fees on time without complaining?”

“Is that supposed to be just another observation with no insult intended?”

“It’s an observation that we tend to see the good in people who see the good in us.”

“You know, David, you’re so full of shit you ought to be a lawyer.”

He laughed. “That’s funny. I like that. But I’ll tell you something. If I were a lawyer, I’d like to have the Good Shepherd as a client. Because I have a feeling that the FBI concept of the case is about as solid as smoke in the wind. In fact, I’m getting kind of itchy to prove it.”

“I see. Lots of luck with that.”

The connection was broken.

Gurney slipped his phone back into his pocket, his unusually aggressive tone echoing in his head. Slowly his gaze moved to the far landscape. All that was left of the sunset was a purplish smudge across the gray sky, like a darkening bruise above the line of hills.

“Who was that?” The voice was Kim’s.

He turned around. She, Madeleine, and Kyle were still sitting at the table, their eyes on him. They all looked concerned, Kim more than the others.