“I’m talking about a booby-trapped staircase over a concrete floor, designed to create a potentially fatal injury.”

“Well, Mr. Gurney, let me tell you something. Right now there’s nothing ‘potential’ about the fatal injuries we’re dealing with. I guess you didn’t hear about the little crack-dealer turf war that erupted here yesterday? No, I didn’t think so. But your giant trespassing problem is right up there at the top of our list—just as soon as we shut down about a dozen crazy scumbags with AK-47s. Okay? We’ll be sure to keep you informed. You have a nice day.”

Kim was watching Gurney’s face as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “What did he say?”

“He said maybe the day after tomorrow.”

At Gurney’s insistence they took separate cars on their trip to Barkham Dell. In the event something unexpected arose, he wanted the flexibility to separate himself from Kim’s series of interviews.

She drove faster than he did, and they were out of sight of each other before they reached the interstate. It was a beautiful day—the only one so far that captured the concept of the season. The sky was a piercing blue. The widely scattered little clouds were radiant puffy things. Patches of tiny snowdrop flowers were blossoming in shaded areas along the highway. When the time-to-destination on his GPS told him he was halfway there, Gurney stopped for gas. After he filled his tank, he went into the station’s convenience store for a container of coffee. Minutes later, sitting in the car with the windows open, sipping his French roast, he decided to call Jack Hardwick and ask for two more favors. He was concerned that the quid pro quo, whenever it might come, would be substantial. But he wanted information, and this was the most efficient way to get it. He placed the call, half hoping for voice mail. Instead he got the sarcastic sandpaper voice of the man himself.

“Davey boy! Bloodhound on the trail of evil incarnate! What the fuck do you want from me now?”

“Actually, quite a lot.”

“You don’t say! What a goddamn shock!”

“I’ll be seriously indebted to you.”

“You already are, ace.”

“True.”

“Just so long as you know it. Speak.”

“First, I’d like to know everything there is to know about a Syracuse University student by the name of Robert Meese, aka Robert Montague. Second, I’d like to know everything there is to know about Emilio Corazon, father of Kim Corazon, former husband of New York City journalist Connie Clarke. Emilio dropped out of sight and out of communication ten years ago this week. Family efforts to locate him have failed.”

“When you say ‘everything there is to know,’ what exactly—”

“What I mean is, everything that can be dug up within the next two or three days.”

“That’s it?”

“You’ll do it?”