Peter Pan Must Die (6 page)

Gurney sighed. “Go on, Jack.”

“According to rumor, Mick’s wife was doing the deed with a certain influential organized crime figure she happened to meet because Mick happened to be—so the rumor goes—on the take from the aforesaid crime figure.” Hardwick paused. “You see the problem?”

“I see several.”

“Mick found out she was fucking the major wiseguy, but that left him with a dilemma. I mean, that’s not a can of worms you want opened in divorce court, or anywhere else. So he couldn’t take the normal legal steps. However, he used to talk privately about wanting to strangle the bitch, twist her head off, feed it to his dog. Apparently, he would also say this to
her
from time to time. One of those times, she made a video of him telling her in colorful detail, after a few drinks, how he was going to feed her sensitive body parts to his pit bull. Guess what happened then?”

“Tell me.”

“The next day she threatened to put the video on YouTube and flush his career and pension down the toilet if he didn’t give her a quiet divorce on her terms with a very generous settlement.”

Hardwick’s thin grin conveyed a kind of perverse admiration. “That was when the homicidal hate started oozing out of old Mick the Dick like pus. He would have gladly killed her at that point, wiseguy connection or no wiseguy connection, if she hadn’t ensured that the tape would go viral if anything happened to her. So he was forced to give her the divorce. And the money. And ever since then he’s been taking it out on every woman who even remotely reminds him of his wife. Mick was always a little touchy. But after he got that divorce deal rammed up his ass, he turned into two hundred and fifty pounds of pure vengeance, searching for targets.”

“You’re telling me he framed Kay Spalter just because she was fucking around like his wife?”

“Worse than that. Crazier than that. I think his blind hatred for anyone like his wife made him believe that Kay Spalter actually
did
murder her husband, and that it was his duty to see that she paid for it. She was guilty in his fucked-up mind, and he was determined to put her away at any cost. He wasn’t going to let another unfaithful bitch get off scot-free. If that meant suborning a little perjury here and there in the interest of justice, so what?”

“You’re telling me he’s a psycho.”

“Mild way of putting it.”

“And you know all this how, exactly?”

“I told you. He has enemies.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Someone close enough to the man to hear things gave me the details of his bile and bullshit on the job, snippets of phone calls, comments here and there, what he said about women in general, about his ex-wife and Kay Spalter in particular. The Dick got carried away sometimes, wasn’t as careful as he should have been.”

“This ‘someone’ have a name?”

“Can’t reveal that.”

“Yes you can.”

“No way.”

“Listen up, Jack. You keep secrets, and there’s no deal. I get to know everything you know. Every question answered. That’s the deal. Period.”

“Christ, Davey, you’re not making this easy.”

“Neither are you.”

Gurney glanced over at the speedometer and saw that it was creeping toward eighty. Hardwick’s jaw muscle was tight. So were his hands on the wheel. A good minute passed before he said simply, “Esti Moreno.” Another minute passed before he went on. “She worked under Mick the Dick from the time of his divorce right up through the end of the Spalter trial. Finally managed to get reassigned—same barracks, but a different reporting line. Had to accept an office job, all paperwork, which she hates. But she hates the paperwork less than she hates the Dick. Esti’s a good cop. Good brain. Good eyes and ears. And principles. Esti’s got principles. You know what she said about the Dick?”

“No, Jack, what did she say?”

“She said, ‘You do some kind of shit, some kind of karma is coming around to bite your ass.’ I love Esti. She’s a real pisser. Also, did I mention that she’s a Puerto Rican bombshell? But she can be subtle, too. A subtle bombshell. You should see her in one of those trooper hats.” Hardwick was smiling broadly, his fingers tapping out a Latin rhythm on the steering wheel.

Gurney was quiet for long while, trying to absorb what he was being told as objectively as possible. The goal was to take it all in and at the same time to keep it at arm’s length, much as one might absorb crime scene details that could have different interpretations.

He pondered the odd shape the case was beginning to take in his mind, including the ironic parallel between the conviction-at-any-cost pursued by Klemper and the reversal-at-any-cost pursued by Hardwick. Both efforts seemed to provide further evidence that man is not primarily a rational species, and that all our so-called logic is never more than a bright facade for murkier motives.

Thus occupied, Gurney was only half aware of the landscape of hills and valleys they were passing through—rolling fields of overgrown
weeds and starved saplings, expanses of drought-faded greens and yellows, the sun coming and going through an intermittent pale haze, the unprofitable farms with their barns and silos unpainted for decades, the sadly weathered villages, old orange tractors, rusted plows and hay rakes, the quaint and quiet rural emptiness that was Delaware County’s pride and curse.

Far from the gritty-beautiful, economically battered, depopulated counties of central New York State, northern Westchester County had the casual charm of country money. In the midst of this postcard landscape, however, the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility seemed as out of place as a porcupine in a petting zoo.

Gurney was reminded once again that the actual security paraphernalia of a maximum-security prison covers a broad spectrum of sophistication and visibility. At one end are state-of-the-art sensors and control systems. At the other end are guard towers, twelve-foot chain-link fences, and razor wire.

Surely technology would one day make razor wire obsolete. But for now it was the thing that made the clearest demarcation between inside and outside. Its message was simple, violent, and visceral. Its presence would easily overwhelm any effort to create an atmosphere of normalcy—not that any serious efforts in that direction were made at correctional facilities. In fact, Gurney suspected, razor wire might very well outlive its practical containment function, purely on the basis of its message value.

Inside, Bedford Hills was fundamentally similar to most places of incarceration he’d visited over the years. It looked as bleakly institutional as its purpose. And despite the thousands and thousands of pages written on the subject of modern penology, that purpose—that essence—came down to one thing.

It was a cage.

It was a cage with many locks, security checkpoints, and procedures
aimed at ensuring that no one entered or departed without proper evidence of their right to do so. Lex Bincher’s office had seen to it that Gurney and Hardwick were on Kay Spalter’s approved-visitors list, and they were admitted without difficulty.

The long, windowless visiting room that they were led to for their meeting resembled rooms like it throughout the system. Its primary structural feature was a long counterlike divider separating the room into two sections—the inmate side and the visitor side, with chairs on both sides and a chest-high barrier in the center. Guards stood at either end with a clear view down the length of the barrier, aimed at preventing any unauthorized exchanges. The room was painted, not recently, an institutional noncolor.

Gurney was relieved to see that there were only a few visitors present, allowing for more than adequate space and the possibility of some privacy.

The woman who was brought into the room by a stocky black guard was short and slim with dark hair in a pixie style. She had a fine nose, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. Her eyes were a startling green, and beneath one of them there was a small bluish bruise. There was a hard intensity in her expression that made her face more arresting than beautiful.

Gurney and Hardwick stood up as she approached. Hardwick was the first to speak, eyeing her bruise. “Jesus, Kay, what happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

“It’s been taken care of,” she said dismissively. She was talking to Hardwick but looking at Gurney, examining him with a frank curiosity.

“Taken care of how?” persisted Hardwick.

She blinked impatiently. “Crystal Rocks. My protector.” She flashed a quick humorless smile.

“The lesbian meth dealer?”

“Yes.”

“Big fan of yours?”

“A fan of who she thinks I am.”

“She likes women who kill their husbands?”

“Loves ’em.”

“How’s she going to feel when we get your conviction thrown out?”

“Fine—so long as she doesn’t think I’m innocent.”

“Yeah, well … that shouldn’t be a problem. Innocence is not the issue in the appeal. The issue is due process, and we aim to prove, in your case, that the process was in no way due. Speaking of which, I’d like to introduce you to the man who’s going to help us show the judge just how un-due it was. Kay Spalter, meet Dave Gurney.”

“Mr. Supercop.” She said it with a touch of sarcasm, then paused as if to see how he’d react. When he showed no reaction at all, she went on. “I’ve read all about you and your decorations. Very impressive.” She didn’t look impressed.

Gurney wondered if those coolly assessing green eyes ever looked impressed. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Spalter.”

“Kay.” There was nothing cordial in her tone. It sounded more like a pointed correction, a way of conveying distaste for her married name. She continued to look him over, as though he were a piece of merchandise she was considering purchasing. “You married?”

“Yes.”

“Happily?”

“Yes.”

She seemed to be turning this information over in her mind before asking her next question. “Do you believe I’m innocent?”

“I believe that the sun rose this morning.”

Her mouth twitched into something resembling a split-second smile. Or maybe it was just a tremor created by all the energy contained in that compact body. “What’s that supposed to mean? That you only believe what you see? That you’re a no-bullshit guy who bases everything on facts?”

“It means that I just met you, and I don’t know enough to have an opinion, much less a belief.”

Hardwick cleared his throat nervously. “Maybe we ought to sit down?”

As they took their places at the small table, Kay Spalter kept her eyes on Gurney.

“So what do you need to know to have an opinion about whether I’m innocent?”

Hardwick broke in, leaning forward. “Or about whether you got a fair trial, which is the real issue.”

She ignored this, stayed focused on Gurney.

He sat back and studied those remarkable unblinking green eyes. Something told him that the best preamble would be no preamble. “Did you shoot Carl Spalter, or cause him to be shot?”

“No.” The word came out hard and fast.

“Is it true you were having an extramarital affair?”

“Yes.”

“And your husband found out about it?”

“Yes.”

“And he was considering divorcing you?”

“Yes.”

“And a divorce under those circumstances would have had a major negative effect on your economic status?”

“Absolutely.”

“But at the time he was fatally wounded, your husband hadn’t yet made a final decision on the divorce, and hadn’t changed his will—so you were still his chief beneficiary. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask your lover to kill him?”

“No.” An expression of distaste came and went in an instant.

“So his story at the trial was a complete fabrication?”

“Yes. But it couldn’t have been
his
fabrication. Darryl was the lifeguard at our club pool and a so-called personal trainer—million-dollar body and a two-cent brain. He was just saying what that piece of shit Klemper told him to say.”

“Did you ask an ex-con by the name of Jimmy Flats to kill your husband?”

“No.”

“So his story at the trial was a fabrication too?”

“Yes.”

“Klemper’s fabrication?”

“I assume so.”

“Were you in that building where the shot came from, either the day of the shooting or any time prior to that?”

“Definitely not on the day of the shooting.”

“So the eyewitness testimony that you were there in the building, in the actual apartment where the murder weapon was found—that’s also a fabrication?”

“Right.”

“If not on that particular day, then how long before?”

“I don’t know. Months? A year? Maybe I was there two or three times altogether—occasions when I was with Carl when he stopped to check on something, work being done, something like that.”

“Most of the apartments were vacant?”

“Yes. Spalter Realty paid next to nothing to buy buildings that needed major renovations.”

“Were the apartments locked?”

“Generally. Squatters would sometimes find ways in.”

“Did you have keys?”

“Not in my possession.”

“Meaning?”

Kay Spalter hesitated for the first time. “There was a master key for each building. I knew where it was.”

“Where was it?”

She seemed to shake her head—or, again, maybe it was just an infinitesimal tremor. “I always thought it was silly. Carl carried his own master key for all the apartments, but he kept an extra one hidden in each building. In the utility room in each basement. On the floor behind the furnace.”

“Who knew about the hidden keys, besides you and Carl?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are they still there, behind the furnaces?”

“I assume so.”

Gurney sat quietly for several seconds, letting this curious fact sink in before going on.

“You claimed that you were with your boyfriend at the time of the shooting?”

“Yes. In bed with him.” Her gaze, locked on Gurney, was neutral and unblinking.

“So when he testified he was alone that day—that was one more fabrication?”