“First attack, Bruno Mellani. Bruno and his wife, Carmella, were on their way from a christening on Long Island to their country estate in Chatham, New York. The christening was really about paying respects to business associates. Bruno was all about money and business. There were rumors that he may have been connected, but probably no more so than a lot of guys in the New York construction industry, and the rumors probably did him some good. Bullet came through the side window of his Mercedes, took away about a third of his head, hit Carmella, and put her in a coma. Son, Paul, and daughter, Paula, in their late twenties at the time, seemed legitimately broken up, so maybe Dad had some good qualities. This the kind of crap you’re looking for?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

“Okay. Second attack. Carl Rotker was heading home to a gated community near Bolton Landing on the west shore of Lake George from his giant plumbing-supply outlet in Schenectady. As was often the case with Carl, his route had been lengthened by a detour to the condo of a Brazilian woman half his age. Carl had his Mercedes sound system cranked way up, playing a Sinatra CD. We know this because the fucking thing was still blasting ‘I Did It My Way’ when the trooper found the car flipped over next to the road, with most of Carl’s blood pooling on the inside of the roof. You want more?”

“As much as you can give me.”

“Third one. Ian Sterne was a very successful dentist—owner, operator, and chief promoter of a highly profitable practice employing over a dozen professionals on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Orthodontics, cosmetic prosthodontics, maxillofacial and plastic surgery—essentially, a factory that turned out perfect smiles and perfect cheekbones for people eager to trade the money they had for the beauty they lacked. The doctor himself, a wizened little creature, looked like a clever lizard. Had a nice artistic relationship going with a young Russian piano major at Juilliard. Rumors of marriage. Amusing finale—when the big bullet shattered Ian’s cerebral cortex and the big black S-Class Mercedes ended up hubcap-deep in a nearby stream, the first thing the first responder saw clearly—just above the water, illuminated by the flashing hazard lights switched on by the impact—was Ian’s license plate: A SMILE 4U. Had enough yet?”

“Far from it, Jack. You’re a born storyteller.”

“Number four. Sharon Stone, hotshot real-estate broker with a helluva name, was heading home to the chic little village of Barkham Dell from a big party with powerful friends in state government. Lived in a gorgeous antique Colonial with her gay twenty-seven-year-old son and a muscular gardener widely rumored to be involved with both mother and son. Ms. Stone was the owner of the misplaced earlobe I told you about before.” Hardwick paused, as though waiting for a reaction.

“Onward,” said Gurney.