“It was all about that skeeve getting whatever she wanted. Did you know she was buying Darryl, the pool boy, presents with my father’s money? She bought him a diamond earring for his birthday. You know how much she paid for that? Guess.”

Gurney waited.

“No. Really. Guess how much.”

“A thousand?”

“A thousand? I wish! Fucking ten thousand! Ten fucking thousand dollars of my fucking father’s fucking money! For the fucking pool boy! You know why?”

Again Gurney waited.

“I’ll tell you why. The disgusting bitch was paying him to fuck her. On my father’s credit card. How disgusting is that? And speaking of disgusting, you should see her putting on her makeup … give you the fucking shakes watching it—like an undertaker putting a smiley face on a corpse.”

This fury, this well of bile and hatred, struck Gurney as the most authentic part of Alyssa he’d seen so far. But even about that he wasn’t absolutely sure. He wondered how extensive her acting talent might be.

She sat silently now, chewing at her thumb.

“Did she kill your grandmother, too?” he asked mildly.

She blinked in apparent confusion. “My … who?”

“Your father’s mother.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“There’s reason to believe Mary Spalter’s death was no accident.”

“What reason?”

“The day she was found dead, an individual was videotaped entering the Emmerling Oaks complex under false pretenses. The day your father was shot, that same individual was seen entering the apartment where the rifle was found.”

“Is this some kind of bullshit invented by your scumbag lawyer?”

“Did you know, the same day your father was shot, a local mobster he was dealing with was killed? You think Kay did that, too?”

Gurney got the impression that Alyssa was rattled and trying not to show it.

“She could have. Why not? If she could kill her husband …” Her voice trailed off.

“She’s a regular homicide factory, huh? Those lifers over in Bedford Hills better watch out.” Even as he tossed in this sarcastic crack, he recalled the nickname Kay had acquired from her prison-mates, the Black Widow, and wondered if they saw something in her that he’d missed.

Alyssa made no reply, just sank a little deeper into the corner of the sofa and crossed her arms in front of her. Apart from her very adult figure, she looked for a passing instant like a troubled middle-schooler. Even when she finally spoke, it was with more angry bravado than confidence. “What a pile of bullshit! Anything to free that bitch, right?”

Gurney was weighing his options. He could leave things as they were, letting what he’d revealed fester in her mind, and see what developed. Or he could press on, use all his ammunition right now, try to provoke an explosion. There were sizable risks either way. He opted to press on. He hoped to Christ his phone was still transmitting.