“For the hit on Carl. Yes. I’m saying that it makes sense. More sense than anything else.”

“For the hit on Carl. Isn’t that a pretty cold—”

“A pretty cold way of discussing my husband’s death? You’re absolutely right, Mr. Supercop. I’m not going to shed sweet public tears to prove my innocence to a jury, or to you, or to anyone else.” She eyed him shrewdly. “That makes it a little harder, doesn’t it? Not so easy to prove the innocence of a coldhearted bitch.”

Hardwick drummed his fingers on the table to get her attention. Then he leaned forward and reiterated with slow intensity, “We don’t have to prove you didn’t do it. Innocence is not the issue. All we have to prove is that your trial was seriously, purposely fucked up by the chief investigator on the case. Which is exactly what we will do.”

Again Kay ignored Hardwick and kept her gaze fixed on Gurney. “So? Where do you stand? You have an opinion yet?”

Gurney responded only with another question. “Did you take shooting lessons?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought I might have to shoot someone.”

“Who?”

“Maybe some mob guys. I had a bad feeling about Carl’s relationship with those people. I saw trouble coming and I wanted to be ready.”

Formidable, thought Gurney, searching for a word to describe the small, bold, unflinching creature sitting across from him. And maybe even a little frightening.

“Trouble from the mob because of Carl starting an anticrime political party? And making his ‘These Are the Scum of the Earth’ speeches?”

She gave a little snort of ridicule. “You don’t know a damn thing about Carl, do you?”

Chapter 9

Black Widow

Kay Spalter’s eyes were closed in apparent concentration. Her full mouth was compressed into a narrow line, and her head was lowered, with her hands clasped tightly under her chin. She’d been sitting like that across the table from Gurney and Hardwick without saying a word for a good two minutes. Gurney guessed that she was wrestling with the question of how much to confide in two men she didn’t know, whose real agenda might be hidden—but who, on the other hand, might be her last chance at freedom.

The silence seemed to be getting to Hardwick. The tic reappeared at the corner of his mouth. “Look, Kay, if you have any concerns, let’s get them out on the table so we can—”

She raised her head and glared at him. “Concerns?”

“What I meant was, if you have any questions—”

“If I have any questions, I’ll ask them.” She turned her attention to Gurney, studying his face and eyes. “How old are you?”

“Forty-nine. Why do you ask?”

“Isn’t that early to be retired?”

“Yes and no. Twenty-five years in the NYPD—”