Hardwick broke in. “The thing of it is, he never really retired. Just moved upstate. He’s still doing what he always did. He’s solved three major murder cases since he left the department. Three major murder cases in the past two years. That not what I’d call retired.”

Gurney was finding Hardwick’s sweaty-salesman assurances hard to take. “Look, Jack—”

This time it was Kay who interrupted Gurney. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Getting involved in my case.”

Gurney had a hard time coming up with an answer he was willing to give. He finally said, “Curiosity.”

Hardwick jumped in again. “Davey is a natural-born onion peeler. Obsessive. Brilliant. Peeling away layer after layer until he gets to the truth. When he says ‘curiosity’ he means a hell of a lot more than—”

“Don’t tell me what he means. He’s here. I’m here. Let him talk. Last time, I heard what you and your lawyer friend had to say.” She shifted in her chair, pointedly focusing her attention on Gurney. “Now I want to hear what you have to say. How much are they paying you to work on this case?”

“Who?”

She pointed at Hardwick. “Him and his lawyer—Lex Bincher of Bincher, Fenn, and Blaskett.” She said it as if it were a vile-tasting but necessary medicine.

“They’re not paying me anything.”

“You’re not getting paid?”

“No.”

“But you expect to get paid sometime in the future, if your effort produces the desired result?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You don’t? So, apart from that crap about onion peeling, why are you doing this?”

“I owe Jack a favor.”

“For what?”

“He helped me with the Good Shepherd case. I’m helping him with this one.”

“Curiosity. Payback. What else?”

What else? Gurney wondered if she knew that there was a third reason. He sat back in his chair, thinking for a moment about what he was going to say. Then he spoke softly. “I saw a photograph of your late husband in his wheelchair, apparently taken a few days before he died. The photograph was mainly of his face.”

Kay finally showed some sign of an emotional reaction. Her green eyes widened, and her skin seemed a shade paler. “What about it?”

“The look in his eyes. I want to know what that was about.”

She bit down on her lower lip. “Maybe it was just … the way a person looks when he knows he’s about to die.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve seen a lot of people die. Shot by drug dealers. By strangers. By relatives. By cops. But never before have I seen that expression on anyone’s face.”

She took a deep breath, let it out shakily.

“You all right?” asked Gurney. He’d observed hundreds, maybe thousands, of examples of faked emotion in his career. But this looked real.