He sat at the far end of the bench, several feet from Gurney. He said nothing, just opened a small attaché case on his lap, angling the top to obstruct any view of the contents, and began fiddling with something.

Gurney assumed it was a scanner, probably the multi-function type that could indicate the presence of any transmitting or recording device.

After a minute or so, Klemper closed the case. He did a quick three-sixty visual check of the concourse, then spoke in a rough voice, half through his teeth, his gaze fixed on the floor. “So what the hell kind of game is this?” The man’s truculence seemed a shield for raw nerves, and his massive physique nothing more than excess baggage, a burden responsible for the sheen of sweat on his face. But it would be a mistake to go the extra yard and consider him harmless.

“You can do something for me, and I can do something for you,” said Gurney.

Klemper looked up from the floor with a little snort of a laugh, as if recognizing an interrogation trick.

The young woman in the doorway of Alpine Sports was still frowning at her phone.

“How’s Alyssa?” asked Gurney casually—knowing he was taking a chance playing that card so quickly.

Klemper shot him a sideways glance. “What?”

“The suspect you got tangled up with in a way you shouldn’t have.” He paused. “You still friends?”

“What kind of bullshit is this?” The man’s raw tone told him he’d hit a nerve.

“For you, very expensive bullshit.”

Klemper shook his head, as if trying to convey incomprehension.

Gurney went on. “It’s amazing what ends up getting recorded these days. Can be very embarrassing. But sometimes you get lucky and there’s a way to control the damage. That’s what I want to talk to you about—damage control.”

“I don’t get any of this.” His denial was loud and clear, seemingly for the benefit of a recording device his briefcase scanner might have missed.