Gurney waited quietly for her to continue, which she did, after taking a deep breath. “Of course, there was Roberta, who had tons of money from her father’s plumbing business. She was more intimidating than vulnerable, but he never stopped calling her. And there was Larry, also with scads of money, from his big cosmetic-dentistry practice. But I think Larry saw through Robby, saw how desperate he was for attention, maybe even felt sorry for him. Why are we talking about this? Robby didn’t kill Ruthie or Eric. He’s not capable of it. He’s a creep, but not that kind of creep. So what difference does any of this make?”

Gurney didn’t have an answer, but he was saved from having to admit it by the ringing of his phone on the sideboard. He hoped it would be Lieutenant Bullard with her reactions to the Brewster video. He glanced at the ID screen.

It was Hardwick. “Davey boy, I don’t know if you are aware of this, but you have managed to turn yourself into a giant fart in the elevator.”

“Is someone complaining?”

“Complaining? If tying a class-A felony around your neck and dropping you into the criminal-justice wood chipper is a form of complaining, then yeah, I’d say someone’s complaining.”

“Trout’s actually pursuing the barn thing?”

“BCI arson unit has nominal control, but the FBI regional office is expressing serious interest. They’re offering any help that might be needed to look into your financial life, find out if you might be in any tight situations that would make fire-insurance money attractive—gambling problems, mortgage problems, health problems, girlfriend problems.”

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Gurney. He began pacing around the dining table.

“Fuck did you expect? You threaten to pull the man’s pants down in public, you’re gonna get a reaction.”

“I’m not surprised at the reaction, just at how fast I’m running out of time.”

“Speaking of which, apart from pissing off everyone in the world, are you actually making any progress with your grand exposé of the hidden truth?”

“You say that like I’m searching for something that isn’t there.”

“Didn’t say that. Just wondering if you’re any closer to whatever the hell is there.”

“I won’t know till I get there. Meantime, what do you know about the White Mountain Strangler?”

There was brief silence. “Ancient history, right? Fifteen years ago? New Hampshire?”

“More like twenty years ago. In and around the town of Hanover.”

“Right. It’s sort of coming back now. Five or six women strangled with silk scarves, relatively short time frame. Why?”

“One of the strangler’s victims was the girlfriend of the son of one of the eventual victims of the Good Shepherd. She was a senior at Dartmouth. And it just so happens that the son of another Good Shepherd victim was there at the same time, as a freshman.”