He took the thick case file out of his desk drawer and riffled through it until he came to an index of key names and addresses. There were two email addresses for “J. Spalter”—one a Google gmail account, the other connected to the Cyberspace Cathedral website domain. There was also a physical address in Florida, with a notation indicating that it existed to serve legal and tax purposes, that it was the location where Jonah’s motor home was registered and where CyberCath was incorporated, but that the man did not actually live there. A further marginal note read, “Postal forwarding instructions redirect mail to changing series of P.O. boxes.” Apparently Jonah was on the road most of the time, maybe all the time.

Gurney sent a message to both email addresses—a message saying that Kay’s conviction was likely to be overturned and that he urgently needed Jonah’s help in evaluating some new evidence.

Chapter 36

An Unusual Killer

Getting to sleep that night was more difficult than usual.

It was a persistent source of frustration—this business of trying to pursue an investigation without the investigatory apparatus that had been available to him in the NYPD. And the problem had been compounded by Hardwick’s loss of access to NYSP files, information systems, and channels of inquiry. Being outsiders created a heavy reliance on insiders who might be willing to take a risk. Hardwick’s recent experience was proof that the risk was substantial.

In the current situation, much depended not only on Esti, whose commitment seemed positive and unequivocal, but also on the willingness of her contacts to be both helpful and discreet. Similarly, much depended on Hardwick’s contacts and how they might be feeling about the man and his motives. It would be impolitic to put pressure on any of these helpers since none of them had to provide any help at all.

It was a position Gurney hated being in—relying on the unpredictable generosity of others, hoping for some breakthrough piece of information to arrive from sources beyond his control.

The call came just before five a.m.—barely two hours after his churning thoughts had loosened their grip and let him drift into an exhausted half-sleep. Fumbling in the dark, knocking over an empty water glass, provoking a murmur of protest from Madeleine, he finally located his phone on the night table. When he saw Hardwick’s name on the screen, he took the phone into the den.

“Yes?”

“You might be thinking it’s a little on the early side for a call, but it’s seven hours later in Turkey. Noon over there, as a matter of fact. Must be hot as a steaming turd.”

“Great news, Jack. Thanks for letting me know.”