“I’m only surprised that we found such clear evidence of it. When the hospital HR director admitted that Jackson was fired for stealing propofol hypodermics, and propofol hypodermics had been found on Beckert’s property, it was natural to suspect a connection.”

“You think the money was Beckert’s payment to her for the drugs?”

Gurney shrugged. “It would seem to be payment for something. We need to know more about what went on between them. Obviously the chief of police wouldn’t ask a leader of the BDA to steal propofol for him unless they had an established relationship.”

Torres looked baffled. “Like what?”

“There are some interesting possibilities. Remember that revelation a few years back that one of the biggest mobsters in Boston was a major FBI informant?”

Torres’s eyes widened. “You think Jackson was fingering people for Beckert?”

“We’ve heard she was ambitious and ruthless. She could have been selectively informing on people she wanted out of her way. It could have been a useful association that got deeper as time passed. It’s not inconceivable that they collaborated on the elimination of Jordan and Tooker—an outcome we’ve been told they may both have wanted for their own reasons.”

“Are you suggesting Beckert did this?” Torres gestured toward the couch.

“The guy downstairs in the lawn chair claims that a white man in a black Durango was here two nights ago—just within Thrasher’s time-of-death window.”

“Jesus,” said Torres softly.

Gurney looked over at the bottles and glasses on the table and Jackson and Creel in their party clothes. “Maybe Beckert suggested a little toast to their success.”

Torres picked up the hypothetical narrative. “The midazolam in the drinks relaxes them to the point of not knowing what’s going on. Then he injects them with fatal overdoses of propofol. And just leaves everything there, so it’ll look like a drug party gone bad.” He hesitated, frowning. “But why kill them?”

Gurney smiled. “The demon of negative projection.”

“The what?”

“Let’s assume that Beckert relied on their help to get rid of people who could cause problems for him. At least Jordan and Tooker, and probably Loomis in the hospital. But that put them in a position where they could cause even bigger problems, because of what they knew. Once he started envisioning situations in which they might roll over on him, or even try to blackmail him, that would have done it. His political future and personal safety would have been far more important to him than the lives of two potential troublemakers.”

Torres nodded slowly. “You think he might have set Turlock up? By sending him out to the gun club and letting the Gorts know he’d be there? I mean, Turlock probably knew more damaging stuff about him than anyone else on earth, and if he’d outlived his usefulness . . .”

“That would depend on Beckert being in contact with the Gorts, which—”

Torres’s phone rang. He frowned at the screen. “It’s the DA’s office.” He listened intently for a minute or two. The only sound in the apartment was the hum of Felder’s evidence vac as he ran it slowly over the rug in front of the couch.

Torres finally spoke. “Okay . . . Yes, I know the area . . . Right, it looks that way . . . I agree . . . Thank you.” He ended the call and turned to Gurney. “That was the woman in Kline’s office who’s taking calls in response to his TV request for information on Beckert’s whereabouts.”

“Anything useful?”

“A caller said he saw a man earlier tonight in a gas station over near Bass River. The man was filling a couple of five-gallon gas cans in the back of a black Durango. The Durango plate number ended with the letters WRPD.”

“Did the caller identify himself?”

“No. He asked if there was a reward. She told him there wasn’t, and he hung up. Phone company says the call came from a prepaid.”

“Does Kline’s office have a recording of it?”

“No. The line they’re using bypasses their automatic system.”

“Too bad.” Gurney paused. “Bass River’s out by the reservoir, right?”

“Right. Other side of the mountain from the gun club. Heavily forested land. Not many roads.” Torres eyed Gurney’s expression. “Something about that bothering you?”

“I’m just thinking that if Beckert’s on the run, it’s surprising he’s still in the area.”

“Maybe he’s got a second cabin nobody knows about. In the woods somewhere, off the grid. Maybe that’s what the gas cans were for—a generator. What do you think?”

“I guess it’s possible.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“Driving his own vehicle with a distinctive plate number close to home seems like a stupid thing to do.”

“People make mistakes under pressure, right?”

“True,” said Gurney.

In fact, he thought with a twinge of anxiety, he might be doing that himself.

50