Then he thought about Clinter. Although the man was definitely a gambler and probably a little nuts, he knew how to create a layered narrative and how to manage it under pressure. He knew how to manipulate vicious and impulsive people, how to make them reach the conclusions he wanted them to reach. For an undercover cop—or a magician—there was no set of skills more valuable than that. But Gurney could sense something lurking in the arc of the story—something that foretold an ugly ending.

Hardwick continued. “Exactly what happened next was the subject of an extensive Bureau investigation. But in the final analysis all they really had was Max’s word for it. He said simply that he’d believed his life was in immediate danger and he’d acted accordingly, with force appropriate to the circumstances. Bottom line, he left five dead mobsters in that office and walked away without a scratch on him. From that day until the night five years later when he flushed it all down the toilet, Max Clinter had an aura of invincibility.”

“Do you know what he’s doing now, how he supports himself?”

Hardwick grinned. “Yeah. He’s a gun dealer. Unusual guns. Collectibles. Crazy military shit. Maybe even Desert Eagles.”

Chapter 8

Kim Corazon’s Complicated Project

When Gurney arrived home from Hardwick’s place in Dillweed at 11:15 A.M., Kim was parked by the side door in her red Miata. As he pulled in next to her, she put away her phone and rolled down her window. “I was just going to call you. I knocked on the door, and no one answered.”

“You’re early.”

“I’m always early. I can’t stand being late. It’s like a phobia. We can head for Rudy Getz’s right now unless there are things you need to do first.”

“I’ll just be a minute.” He went into the house to use the bathroom. He checked for phone messages. There weren’t any. Then he checked the laptop for e-mail. It was all for Madeleine.

When he went back outside, he was struck by the smell of wet earth in the air. The earthy scent in turn conjured up the image of the arrow in the flower bed—red feathers, black shaft, embedded in the dark brown soil. His gaze went to the spot, half expecting …

But there was nothing there.

Of course not. Why would there be? What the hell is the matter with me?

He walked over to the Miata and got into the low-slung passenger seat. Kim drove bumpily through the pasture, past the barn and the pond, to the dirt-and-gravel road that followed the stream down the mountain. Once they were heading east on the county route, Gurney asked, “Any new problems since yesterday?”

She made a face. “I think I’m getting too wound up. I think it’s what psychiatrists call ‘hypervigilance.’ ”

“You mean constantly checking for danger?”