He was about to ask her how soon she expected actual control of the process to move to the FBI regional office when Clegg appeared in the doorway. His eyes were wide with the kind of distressed urgency you saw only on the faces of young cops.

Bullard looked up. “Yes, Andy?”

“Another murder. Eric Stone. Just inside his front door. Ice pick to the heart. A little plastic zebra on his lips.”

Chapter 37

Willing to Kill

“Oh, God!” said Madeleine, wincing. “Who found him like that?”

She was standing at the sink island, a half-drained colander of noodles in her hands. Gurney was sitting on a high stool across from her. He’d been relating the low points, difficulties, and conflicts of his day—something that didn’t come naturally to him. Never had. He blamed it on his genes. His father had never admitted to being disturbed by anything, never admitted to experiencing fear or anger or confusion. “Speech is silver, but silence is golden” was his father’s favorite aphorism. In fact, until Gurney learned different in high school, he thought that was the famous “golden rule.”

His first instinct was still to say nothing about anything he felt. But lately he’d been trying to make small advances against this lifelong habit. His injuries last autumn had diminished his tolerance for stress, and he’d discovered that sharing some of his thoughts and feelings with Madeleine seemed to help, seemed to relieve the pressure.

So he sat on the stool by the sink, feeling awkward, narrating the day’s disturbances, answering her questions as best he could.

“One of his customers found him. Stone made a living as a specialty baker for some local inns and B&Bs. One of the inn owners came by to pick up an order of cookies. Gingersnaps. She noticed that the front door wasn’t completely closed. When Stone didn’t answer her knocking, she opened the door herself. And there he was. Just like Ruth Blum. On his back in the entry hall. With the handle of an ice pick protruding just below his sternum.”

“God, how awful! What did she do?”

“Apparently called the police.”

Madeleine shook her head slowly, then blinked, looking surprised to find herself still holding the colander. She emptied the steaming noodles into a serving platter. “That was the end of your day in Sasparilla?”

“Pretty much.”

She went to the stove and got a pan in which she’d been sautéing asparagus and mushrooms. She tipped the mixture onto the noodles and put the empty pan in the sink. “The confrontation you were telling me about with that Trout person—how concerned are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He sounds like an officious ass.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that.”

“But you’re worried that he might be a dangerous ass?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”