When Gurney arrived at the end of the mountain road that led to his property, he was surprised to discover a large black SUV parked by the barn. He lowered his window at the mailbox and found that Madeleine had already emptied it. Then he drove slowly over to the shiny Escalade and stopped in front of it.

Its door opened. The man who emerged had the bulky physique of a football lineman. He also had a shaved head, unfriendly bloodshot eyes, and a rictus-like grin. “Mr. Gurney?”

Gurney returned the empty smile. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Mick Klemper. That mean anything to you?”

“CIO on the Spalter case?”

“Right.” He took out his wallet, flipped it open to his Bureau of Criminal Investigation ID. In the younger photo displayed on the laminated card, he looked like mindless muscle for the Irish mob.

“What are you doing here?”

Klemper blinked, the grin wavered. “We need to talk—before this thing you’re involved in gets out of hand.”

“This thing I’m involved in?”

“This bullshit with Bincher. Do you know about him?”

“Do I know what about him?”

“What a scumbag he is?”

Gurney thought about this for a moment. “Did someone send you here, or is this your idea?”

“I’m trying to do you a favor. Can we talk?”

“Sure. Talk.”

“I mean, friendly. Like we’re on the same side of the street.”

The man’s eyes radiated danger. But Gurney’s curiosity outweighed his caution. He turned off the engine and got out of his car. “What do you want to tell me?”

“This Jew lawyer you’re working for, he’s made a career out of smearing cops—you aware of that?” Klemper reeked of mints overlaying a sour miasma of alcohol.

“I’m not working for anybody.”

“That’s not what Bincher said on TV.”

“I’m not responsible for what he said.”

“So the Jew scumbag is lying?”

Gurney smiled, even as he shifted his feet to get into a better position to defend himself physically, if the need arose. “How about we get back to the same side of the street?”

“What?”

“You said you wanted a friendly talk.”

“My friendly point is that Lex Bincher makes money by digging up phony little glitches he can use to keep his slimebag clients on the streets. You ever see his fucking house in Cooperstown? Biggest house on the lake, every cent from drug dealers he kept out of prison with one fucking technicality after another. You know about this shit?”

“I don’t care about Bincher. I care about the Spalter murder case.”

“Okay, good, let’s talk about that. Kay Spalter killed her husband. Shot him in the fucking head. She was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Kay Spalter is a lying, murdering cunt, doing the time she deserves. Except now your slimy little Jew friend Bincher is trying to spring her on procedural—”