Let the Devil Sleep

Chapter 35





Invitation to the Party





As Gurney turned onto Route 7, the main road through Sasparilla, his phone rang. The ID said it was Kyle, but the voice was Kim’s.

The guilt and anger of the previous day’s call had been replaced by shock and fear. “Something came a minute ago by rush mail … from him … the Good Shepherd … It talks about people being cut down … people dying.”

Gurney asked her to read it to him. He wanted to be sure it was the same message he’d received himself.

It was identical.

“What should we do?” she asked. “Should we call the police?”

Gurney told her that he’d received the same message and that he was only minutes away from a meeting at which he’d be passing it along to the state police and the FBI. But he did have a question for her. “How was the envelope addressed?”

“That’s the scariest part.” Her voice was trembly. “The outer envelope was addressed to Kyle here at his apartment, but there was a second envelope inside it that had my name on it—which means the Good Shepherd must know I’m here, that we’re here together. How could he know that?”

When Meese’s nasty phone message had prompted Madeleine to ask a similar question the night before, Gurney had dismissed the possibility of a physical tail. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“How could he know?” Kim repeated, her voice rising.

“He might not actually know that you’re there together. He might just believe that Kyle would have a way of reaching you, of getting the message to you.” Even as he was saying this, he realized it didn’t make a lot of sense, that he was mainly trying to calm her.

It didn’t seem to be working. “Overnight mail means he wanted me to get it this morning. And he used both our names. So he must know we’re both here!”

That logic was less than perfect, but Gurney wasn’t about to debate it. For a moment he considered bringing the NYPD into the affair, if for no other reason than to get a uniform to pay them a visit, creating the illusion of protection. But the confusion, crossed wires, and need for explanations that would ensue outweighed the practical benefits. The bureaucratic bottom line was that there was no concrete evidence of an imminent threat to them, and involving the NYPD would likely start with an argument and end in a mess.

“Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to stay in the apartment—both of you. Make sure the door is locked. Don’t open it for anyone. I’ll call you again after my meeting. In the meantime if there’s any tangible threat—or any communication at all beyond the message you’ve already received—call me immediately. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, let me ask you about something else: Can you access the video record of your interview with Jimi Brewster?”

“Yes, sure. I have a copy right here on my iPod.”

“With you?”

“Yes.”

“In a format you can e-mail me?”

“Depends on how large a document your e-mail server will accept. I’ll reduce the resolution to minimize the file size, and there shouldn’t be any problem.”

“Fine, just so long as I know what I’m looking at.”

“You want me to send it right now?”

“Please.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Jimi Brewster’s name came up in another context. A conversation I had with Max Clinter. I’d like to get a better sense of who he is.”

As Gurney ended the call, he was turning into the parking lot of New York State Police Zone Headquarters. He passed a row of trooper cruisers and pulled in next to a gleaming silver BMW 640i.

An eighty-five-thousand-dollar flash-and-dash vehicle would be a questionable choice for a civil servant, but for a high-flying consultant who was moving up in the world it could make sense. It hadn’t occurred to him until then that Rebecca Holdenfield might be attending the meeting, but now he’d be willing to put even money on it. It was her kind of car.

He checked his watch. He was five minutes early. He could use the time to return Connie Clarke’s call, with an honest excuse to keep the conversation short in case she actually picked up. As he was retrieving her number, one of the NYSP’s black Crown Victorias pulled in beside him. Bullard was in the passenger seat, and Andy Clegg was driving.

Bullard motioned to Gurney to join them, pointing toward the big sedan’s rear seat. He did as he was bidden, bringing his Priority Mail envelope with him.

Bullard began speaking like someone who’d carefully thought through what she wanted to say. “Good morning, Dave. Thanks for coming on short notice. Before we go inside, I wanted to make you aware of my position. As you know, BCI’s Auburn unit is investigating the murder of Ruth Blum. The murder may or may not be related to the ten-year-old Good Shepherd case. We may be dealing with the same perp, or a copycat, or with some third option still undefined.”

To Gurney there was no possibility of any “third option”—but he understood that Bullard wanted to establish the broadest rationale for retaining investigative control.

She went on. “I understand that there’s an established theory of the original case, and I understand that you’ve been questioning it aggressively. I want you to know that I come to the table with an open mind. I have no vested interest in any particular version of the truth. I also have no interest in ego-driven pissing matches. My interest is in facts. I have a great fondness for them. I asked you to join us this morning because I sensed that you might share that fondness. Any questions?”

It all sounded as straightforward as Bullard’s clear, forceful voice. But Gurney knew that the reality of the situation had another layer. He was pretty sure he’d been invited because Bullard had discovered, probably from Daker, that he’d gotten under Trout’s skin—meaning that his unstated role was to complicate the chemistry of the meeting and keep Trout off balance. In short, he was there as a wild card in Bullard’s hand.

“Any questions?” she repeated.

“Just one. I assume that Daker showed you the FBI profile of the Good Shepherd?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Good.”

“Pardon?”

“Sign of an open mind. Now, before we go in, I have a small bombshell for you.” He opened the Priority envelope he’d been holding in his lap, then the inner envelope, and slid the message out. “This was delivered to me this morning. I’ve already handled it, but it would be better if no one else touched it.”

Bullard and Clegg turned a little farther around in their seats to face him. He read the message aloud, slowly. He was struck again by its elegance—especially in the conclusion: “With devils in pulpits and angels ignored, it falls to the honest to punish what the mad world rewards.” The problem was, it was an elegant expression of emotion that felt devoid of any emotion at all.

When he finished, he held it up for Bullard and Clegg to read for themselves. Bullard’s expression was electric.

“This is the original?” she asked.

“One of two originals that I know of. The other one was received by Kim Corazon.”

She blinked several times, rapidly—in a way that seemed a by-product of rapid thinking. “We’ll make half a dozen copies when we go inside, then tag the original in an evidence bag for Albany forensics.” Her eyes shifted to Gurney. “Why you?”

“Because I’m helping Kim Corazon? Because he wants to stop both of us?”

More blinking. She looked at Clegg. “The people alluded to in this message need to be alerted. Everyone we can identify that would fit his definition of the enemy.” She looked back at Gurney. “Hold it up again so I can read it.” She scanned down through the text. “It sounds like he may be threatening everyone in the families of the original victims, their children, and their children’s families. We need names, addresses, phone numbers—fast. Who would have all that stuff?” She glanced at Clegg.

“There was some location and contact information in the files Daker showed us, but the question would be, how current is it?”

“Your most current source would be Kim Corazon,” said Gurney. “She’s been in touch with a lot of those people.”

“Right. Good. Let’s get inside and get some help on this. Our main concern here is to provide an appropriate alert to anyone who may be in danger, without creating a panic situation.”

Bullard was first out of the car, leading the way into the headquarters building. Gurney recognized the aggressive stride of the kind of person who is totally energized by a crisis. As he was about to follow her through the heavy glass doors into the reception area, he caught sight of a dark SUV turning into the parking lot. The lean, expressionless face behind the wheel belonged to Agent Daker.

A reflection on the glass obscured the face of Daker’s passenger. The result was that Gurney couldn’t tell if Trout had seen him or, if he had, how unhappy it had made him.