“For today, anyway. I need to get home before I fall asleep. By the way, do you recall back around the time of the shooting a guy by the name of Freddie living here?”

“Squatting here, you mean?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”

“Fre-de-ri-co.” McGrath’s dragged-out Spanish accent reeked of contempt. “What about him?”

“Did you know he disappeared?”

“Maybe I did. Long time ago.”

“You ever hear anything about it?”

“Like what?”

“Like why he disappeared.”

“Why the hell would I care about that? They come and go. One less sack of shit for me to deal with. Nice if they all disappeared. Make that happen, I’ll owe you one.”

Gurney tore half a sheet of paper out of his notebook, wrote his cell number on it, and handed it to McGrath. “If you hear anything about Freddie, any rumor of where he might be, I’d appreciate a call. In the meantime, Frank, take it easy. Life is short.”

“Thank Christ for small favors!”

For most of his drive home, Gurney felt as though he’d opened a puzzle box and discovered that several large pieces were missing. The one thing he was sure of was that no round fired from the apartment in question could have struck Carl Spalter in the temple without first passing through the metal arm of that light pole. And that was inconceivable. No doubt the missing puzzle pieces would eventually resolve the apparent contradiction. If only he knew what sort of pieces he was looking for, and how many.

The two-hour drive home to Walnut Crossing was mostly over secondary roads, through the rolling patchwork landscape of fields and woods that Gurney liked and Madeleine loved. But he noticed very little of it.

He was immersed in the world of the murder.

Immersed—until, at the end of the gravelly town road, he passed his pond and turned up his pasture lane. That’s when he was jarred into the present by the sight of four visiting cars—three Priuses and one Range Rover—parked in the grassy area alongside the house. It looked like a mini convention of the environmentally responsible and extravagantly countrified.

Oh, Jesus. The damn yoga club dinner!

He glanced at the time—6:49 p.m.—on the dashboard clock. Forty-nine minutes late. He shook his head, frustrated at his forgetfulness.

When he entered the big ground-floor space that served as kitchen, dining room, and sitting area, there was an energetic conversation in progress at the dining table. The six guests were familiar—they were people he’d been introduced to at local concerts and art shows—but he wasn’t sure of any of their names. (Madeleine had once pointed out, however, that he never forgot the names of murderers.)

Everyone looked up from the conversation and their food, most of them smiling or looking pleasantly curious.

“Sorry I’m late. I ran into a little difficulty.”