“Sounds like a big job for ‘just a guy.’ ”

“Big pain-in-the-ass job, actually.”

“That’s funny.” He didn’t smile.

“So when did Freddie go missing?”

“After he got the call.” He cocked his head and gave Gurney a sideways look. “Man, I’m thinking you know this shit already.”

“Tell me about the call.”

“I don’t know nothing about the call. Just that Freddie got it. Made it sound like it was from one of your guys.”

“From a cop?”

“Right.”

“And then he disappeared?”

“Yeah.”

“And this was when?”

“Right after the lady got sent up.”

Gurney’s phone rang. He let it ring. “Did Freddie say the call was from a cop by the name of Klemper?”

“Could be.”

Gurney’s phone kept ringing. The ID said it was Paulette Purley. He put it back in his pocket.

“You live in this apartment?”

“Mostly.”

“You going to be around later?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe we could talk again?”

“Maybe.”

“My name’s Dave Gurney. Can you tell me yours?”

“Bolo.”

“Like the string tie?”

“No, man, not like the tie.” He grinned, showing off the gold teeth again. “Like the knife.”

Chapter 17

An Impossible Shot

Gurney stood at the window, phone in hand, gazing over the avenue and river at the Spalter crime scene and burial ground. He could see Paulette standing roughly in the middle of it, a blue umbrella in one hand, a phone in the other.

He backed away from the window several paces to the spot in the room where, according to the forensic photo, the rifle had been found on its tripod. He knelt down to lower his line of sight to the approximate height of the rifle scope, and spoke into his phone.

“Okay, Paulette, open the umbrella and place it where you remember Carl’s body lying.”

He watched as she did it, wishing he’d brought his binoculars. Then he looked down at the police sketch of the scene that he had on the floor in front of him. It showed two positions for Carl: the spot where he was standing when he was hit and the spot where he fell to the ground. Both positions were between his mother’s open grave in front and two rows of folding chairs in back. There was a number written on the sketch by each of the sixteen chairs, presumably keying them to a separate list of the mourners who had occupied them.

“Paulette, can you recall by any chance who was sitting where?”

“Of course. I can still see it like it happened this morning. Every detail. Like that trickle of blood on the side of his head. That drop of blood on the snow. God, will that ever go away?”