“Good question. All I can tell you is that he—I’ve been told it’s a he—was in Mary Spalter’s retirement community the day she died, and in that Long Falls apartment house five days before Carl Spalter was shot and again on the day he was shot.”

“Is this something Klemper should have known?”

“Estavio Bolocco says he told Klemper that he saw him in the apartment on both occasions. That should have alerted Klemper to something—at least raised a question about the timing of the mother’s death.”

“But there’s no witness to that conversation between Klemper and Bolocco, right?”

“Not unless Freddie, the trial witness, was there. But, like I told you before, he disappeared.”

Hardwick sighed loudly. “Without corroboration, this supposed conversation between Klemper and Bolocco is useless.”

“Bolocco’s recognition of the person in the Emmerling Oaks security video connects the deaths of the mother and the son. That sure as hell isn’t useless.”

“By itself it doesn’t prove police misconduct—which makes it useless for the purpose of the appeal, which is our only purpose, which is something I keep telling you, which you seem to be fucking deaf to.”

“And what you’re deaf to is—”

“I know—I’m deaf to justice, deaf to guilt and innocence. Is that your point?”

“Okay, Jack, I have to go now. I’ll keep passing along whatever useless stuff I turn up.” There was a silence. “By the way, you might want to check on the status of the other people who testified against Kay. Be interesting to see how many of them are locatable.”

Hardwick said nothing.

Gurney ended the call.

Glancing at the clock and seeing that it was nearly six reminded him that he was hungry. He went into the kitchen and made himself a cheese omelet.

Eating calmed him. It took away most of the tension arising from the ongoing collisions between his approach to the case and Hardwick’s. Gurney had made it clear from the beginning that if the man wanted his help, it was going to be provided on Gurney’s terms. That aspect of the arrangement was not going to change. Neither, it seemed, was Hardwick’s unhappiness with it.

As he stood at the sink washing his omelet pan, his eyes grew heavy and the idea of a quick nap became very attractive. He’d just lie down for one of those restorative twelve-minute dips into semi-sleep that he’d relied on to get through double shifts in his NYPD days. He dried his hands, went into the bedroom, put his phone on the night table, took off his shoes, stretched out on top of the bedspread, and closed his eyes.

His phone awakened him.

He sensed immediately that his nap had far exceeded its intended twelve minutes. In fact, the clock by the bed said it was 7:32 p.m. He’d been asleep for more than an hour.