Kilbrick was staring at him now in amazement. She looked down at her clipboard, then back at him. “You said . . . I believe . . . that he killed Judd Turlock?”

“Yes.”

“The information we have from the DA’s office is that the Gort brothers are being sought in connection with the Turlock homicide.”

“My father has always used other people to do his dirty work. The Gorts were convenient tools for dealing with Turlock.”

“We were told that Judd Turlock was your father’s longtime friend. Why would—”

Payne cut her off. “Longtime tool and strong-arm man. Not friend. He had no friends. Friendship requires caring about another human being. My father never cared about anyone but himself. If you want to know why he would have arranged for Turlock to be killed, the answer is simple. He outlived his usefulness.”

Kilbrick nodded, glancing up out of the frame as though checking the time. “This has been . . . remarkable. I have no more questions. Is there anything you’d like to add before we wrap this up?”

“Yes.” He looked directly into the camera. “I want to thank Detective David Gurney with all my heart and soul. He was the one who saw through the framework of false evidence that made it look as though I’d killed those two police officers. Without his insight and persistence, the world might never have known the truth about Dell Beckert, the truth of what he is and what he always was. A destroyer of lives. A controlling monster, a corrupter, a killer. I want to thank Detective Gurney for the truth, and I want the world to know that I owe him my life.”

Gurney grimaced.

The scene shifted back to the studio news desk.

Kronck turned to Kilbrick. “Wow, Stacey, astounding interview!”

“Payne certainly had a lot to say, and he wasn’t shy about saying it.”

“I noticed the name David Gurney came up again—in a very favorable way—just like it did in my interview with Sheridan Kline.”

Kilbrick nodded. “I noticed that, too. And you know what I’m thinking right now? It’s kind of a wild possibility . . . but I’m thinking David Gurney might be a great choice for our next attorney general. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a fabulous idea!”

“Okay!” said Kilbrick, smiling, turning to the camera. “Stay with us. Our next guest—”

Gurney closed the video window and turned to Madeleine. “I have a creepy feeling that Gelter is using Kilbrick and Kronck to push his AG idea.”

“You think he has that kind of influence at RAM-TV?”

“I suspect he may own it.”

53

The weather the following morning matched Gurney’s mood—gray and unsettled. Restless breezes kept changing direction, pushing the asparagus ferns this way and that. Even Madeleine seemed at odds. A mottled overcast was obscuring the sun, and Gurney was surprised to see by the old regulator clock on the kitchen wall that it was already past nine. As they were finishing their oatmeal, Madeleine frowned and tilted her head toward the French doors.

“What is it?” he asked. His hearing was normal, but hers was extraordinary and she was usually aware of approaching sounds before he was.

“Someone’s coming.”

He opened the doors and soon he heard it—a vehicle coming up the town road. As he watched, a large SUV came into view. It slowed and came to a stop between the barn and the pond. When he went out on the patio for a clearer view he saw that it was a dark-green Range Rover, its polish glistening even in the sunless light.

The driver emerged, a solid-looking man in a blue blazer and gray slacks. He opened the rear door, and a woman stepped out. She was wearing a khaki jacket, riding breeches, and knee-high boots. She stood there for a few moments, looking around at the fields and woods and up across the pasture to the Gurney house. After lighting a cigarette, she and her driver got back in the big green vehicle.

Gurney watched as it proceeded slowly up through the pasture to the house, where it stopped not far from his Outback, which by comparison seemed very small. Again the driver got out first and opened the rear door for the lady, who Gurney could now see was probably somewhere in her late forties. Her ash-blond hair was arranged in a short asymmetrical style that looked expensive and aggressive. After a final drag, she dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the ground with the tip of a boot that looked every bit as costly as her hairdo.

As she surveyed the property around her with a dour expression, her driver noticed Gurney standing on the patio. He said something to her, she glanced over, and then she nodded to him. She lit another cigarette.

He approached the patio. He had a hard, expressionless, ex-military look about him. For a heavy man his step was light and athletic.

“David Gurney?”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Haley Beckert would like to speak with you.”

“Dell Beckert’s wife?”

“That’s correct.”

“Would she like to come into the house?”

“Mrs. Beckert would prefer to remain outdoors.”

“Fine. We can talk right here.” He gestured toward the two Adirondack chairs.