Shut Your Eyes Tight (Dave Gurney, No. 2): A Novel (27 page)

A prissy, authoritative voice announced, “This is Dr. Kale. Who is this?”

“David Gurney, Dr. Kale. Sorry to bother you so late in the
evening, but there’s some urgency involved. I’m working as a consultant on the Jillian Perry murder case, and I’m trying to get some perspective on Mapleshade. You were suggested to me as a person who could be helpful.” There was no response. “Dr. Kale?”

“
Consultant?
What does that mean?”

“I’ve been retained by the Perry family to provide them with an independent view of the investigation.”

“Is that so?”

“I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me regarding Mapleshade’s clientele and general philosophy.”

“I would have thought Scott Ashton would be the perfect source for that sort of enlightenment.” There was acid in this comment, which he softened by adding in a more casual tone, “I’m no longer part of the Mapleshade staff.”

Gurney tried for a foothold in what sounded like a rift between the two men. “I thought your position might give you more objectivity than someone still involved with the school.”

“That’s not a subject I’d care to discuss on the phone.”

“I can understand that. The fact is, I live over in Walnut Crossing, and I’d be happy to come to Cooperstown, if you could spare me even half an hour.”

“I see. Unfortunately, I’ll be away on a one-month vacation starting the day after tomorrow.” The way he said it made it sound more like a legitimate impediment than a brush-off. Gurney got the feeling that Kale was not only intrigued but might have something interesting to say.

“It would be enormously helpful, Doctor, if I could see you before then. It just so happens that I have a meeting with the district attorney tomorrow afternoon. If I could spend some time with you, perhaps I could make a detour on my way?”

“You have a meeting with Sheridan Kline?”

“Yes, and it would be really helpful to get your input prior to that.”

“Well … I suppose … Still, I would need to know more about you before … before it would be appropriate to discuss anything. Your credentials and so forth.”

Gurney responded with his résumé highlights and the name of
a deputy commissioner Kale could talk to at the NYPD. He even mentioned, half apologetically, the existence of the five-year-old
New York
magazine article that glorified his contributions to the solution of two infamous serial-murder cases. The article had made him sound like a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Dirty Harry, which he found embarrassing. But it had its uses.

Kale agreed to meet with him at 12:45
P.M
. the next day, Friday.

W
hen Gurney tried to organize his thoughts for that meeting, to make a mental list of the topics he wanted to cover, he discovered for the hundredth time that excitement and weariness formed a lousy foundation on which to organize anything. He concluded that sleep would be the most efficient use of his time. But no sooner had he taken off his clothes and slipped into bed next to Madeleine than the ring of his cell phone summoned him back to the kitchen counter where he’d absentmindedly left it.

The voice on the other end was born and bred in a Connecticut country club. “This is Dr. Withrow Perry. You called. I can give you precisely three minutes.”

It took Gurney a moment to focus. “Thank you for calling back. I’m investigating the murder of—”

Perry cut in sharply. “I know what you’re doing. I know who you are. What do you want?”

“I have some questions that might help me to—”

“Go ahead, ask them.”

Gurney suppressed an impulse to comment on the man’s attitude. “Do you have any idea why Hector Flores killed your daughter?”

“No, I don’t. And for the record, Jillian was my wife’s daughter, not mine.”

“Do you know of anyone besides Flores who might have had a grudge against her—a reason to hurt or kill her?”

“No.”

“No one at all?”

“No one and, I suppose, everyone.”

“Meaning?”

Perry laughed—a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Jillian was a lying, manipulative bitch. I doubt I’m the first to tell you that.”

“What’s the worst thing she ever did to you?”

“That’s not a subject I’m willing to discuss.”

“Why do you think Dr. Ashton wanted to marry her?”

“Ask him.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Next question.”

“Did she ever talk about Flores?”

“Not to me, certainly. We had no relationship at all. Let me be clear, Detective. I’m speaking to you solely because my wife has decided to pursue this unofficial inquiry and asked that I return your call. I really don’t have anything to contribute, and to be honest with you, I personally consider her endeavor a waste of time and money.”

“How do you feel about Dr. Ashton?”

“Feel? What do you mean?”

“Do you like him? Admire him? Pity him? Despise him?”

“None of the above.”

“What then?”

There was a pause, a sigh. “I have no interest in him. I consider his life none of my business.”

“But there’s something about him that … what?”

“Just the obvious question. The question you already asked, in a way.”

“Which one?”

“Why would such a competent professional marry a train wreck like Jillian?”

“Did you hate her that much?”

“I didn’t hate her, Mr. Gurney, no more than I would hate a cobra.”

“Would you kill a cobra?”

“That’s a childish question.”

“Humor me.”

“I’d kill a cobra that threatened my life, just as you would.”

“Did you ever want to kill Jillian?”

He laughed humorlessly. “Is this some sort of sophomoric game?”

“Just a question.”

“You’re wasting my time.”

“Do you still own a Weatherby .257 rifle?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Are you aware that someone with a rifle like that took a shot at Scott Ashton a week after Jillian’s murder?”

“With a .257 Weatherby? For Godsake, you’re not suggesting … you’re not daring to suggest that somehow … What the hell
are
you suggesting?”

“I’m just asking you a question.”

“A question with offensive implications.”

“Shall I assume you still have the rifle in your possession?”

“Assume whatever you like. Next question.”

“Can you say for sure where that rifle was on May seventeenth?”

“Next question.”

“Did Jillian ever bring friends home?”

“No—thank God for small favors. I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Gurney.”

“Final question. Do you happen to know the name or address of Jillian’s biological father?”

For the first time in the conversation, Perry hesitated. “Some Spanish-sounding name.” There was a kind of revulsion in his voice. “My wife mentioned it once. I told her I never wanted to hear it again. Cruz, perhaps? Angel Cruz? I don’t know his address. He may not have one. Considering the life expectancy of the average methamphetamine addict, he’s probably been dead for quite a few years.”

He broke the connection without another word.

G
etting to sleep proved difficult. If Gurney’s mind was engaged after midnight, turning it off wasn’t easy. It could take hours to loosen its obsessive grip on the problems of the day.

He’d been in bed, he guessed, for at least forty-five minutes without any respite from the kaleidoscope of images and questions embedded in the Perry case when he noted that the rhythm of Madeleine’s breathing had changed. He was convinced she’d been asleep
when he came to bed, but now he had the distinct feeling that she was awake.

He wanted to talk to her. Well, actually, he wasn’t sure about that. And he wasn’t sure, if he did talk to her, what it was that he wanted to talk to her about. Then he realized that he wanted her advice, wanted her guidance out of the swamp in which he was getting mired—a swamp composed of too many shaky stories. He wanted her advice, but he wasn’t sure how to ask for it.

She cleared her throat softly. “So what are you going to do with all your money?” she asked matter-of-factly, as though they’d been discussing some related matter for the past hour. This was not an unusual way for her to bring something up.

“The hundred thousand dollars, you mean?”

She didn’t reply, which meant she considered the question unnecessary.

“It’s not
my
money,” he said. “It’s
our
money. Even if it’s still theoretical.”

“No, it’s definitely
your
money.”

He turned his head toward her on the pillow, but it was a moonless night, too dark to make out her expression. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. It’s your hobby, now your very lucrative hobby. And it’s your gallery contact, or your representative, or agent, or whatever she is. And now you’re going to meet your new fan, the art collector, whoever he is. So it’s your money.”

“I don’t understand why you’re saying this.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.”

“No it’s not. Whatever
I
own,
we
own.”

She uttered a rueful little laugh. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

She yawned, suddenly sounded very tired. “The art project is yours. All I ever did was complain about how much time you spent on it, how many beautiful days you spent cooped up in your den staring at your screen, staring at the faces of serial killers.”

“That’s got nothing to do with how we think about the money.”

“It’s got everything to do with it. You earned it. It’s yours.” She yawned again. “I’m going back to sleep.”

G
urney left at 11:30
A.M
. the next day for his meeting with Simon Kale, allowing himself a little over an hour for the drive to Cooperstown. Along the way he drank a sixteen-ounce container of Abelard’s house blend, and by the time Lake Otsego was in sight, he was feeling awake enough to take note of the classic September weather, the blue sky, the hint of chill in the air.

His GPS brought him along the hemlock-shaded west shore of the lake to a small white Colonial on its own half-acre peninsula. The open garage doors revealed a shiny green Miata roadster and a black Volvo. Parked at the edge of the driveway, away from the garage, was a red Volkswagen Beetle. Gurney parked behind the Beetle and was getting out of his car just as an elegant gray-haired man emerged from the garage with a pair of canvas tote bags.

“Detective Gurney, I presume?”

“Dr. Kale?”

“Correct.” He smiled perfunctorily and led the way along a flagstone path from the garage to the side door of the house. The door was open. Inside, the place looked very old but meticulously cared for, with the heat-conserving low ceilings and hand-hewn beams typical of the eighteenth century. They were standing in the middle of a kitchen that featured an enormous open hearth as well as a chrome-and-enamel gas stove from the 1930s. From another room came the unmistakable strains of “Amazing Grace” being played on a flute.

Kale laid his tote bags on the table. They were imprinted with
the logo of the Adirondack Symphony Orchestra. Leafy vegetables and loaves of French bread were visible in one, bottles of wine in the other. “The elements of dinner. I was sent out to hunt and gather,” he said rather archly. “I do not myself cook. My partner, Adrian, is both chef and flautist.”

“Is that …?” Gurney began, tilting his head in the direction of the faint melody.

“No, no, Adrian is far better than
that
. That would be his twelve-o’clock student, the Beetle person.”

“The …?”

“The car outside, the one in front of yours, the cutesy red thing.”

“Ah,” said Gurney. “Of course. Which would leave the Volvo for you and the Miata for your partner?”

“You’re sure it’s not the other way around?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Interesting. What exactly is it about me that screams Volvo to you?”

“When you came out of the garage, you came out of the Volvo side of it.”

Kale emitted a sharp cackle. “You’re not clairvoyant, then?”

“I doubt it.”

“Would you care for tea? No? Then come, follow me to the parlor.”

The parlor turned out to be a tiny room next to the kitchen. Two floral-printed armchairs, two tufted fussy-floral hassocks, a tea table, a bookcase, and a small red-enameled woodstove just about filled the space. Kale gestured to one of the chairs for Gurney, and he sat in the other.

“Now, Detective, the purpose of your visit?”

Gurney noticed for the first time that Simon Kale’s eyes, in contrast with his giddy manner, were sober and assessing. This man would not be easily fooled or flattered—although his dislike of Ashton, revealed on the phone, might be helpful if handled carefully.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure what the purpose is.” Gurney shrugged. “Maybe I’m just on a fishing expedition.”

Kale studied him. “Don’t overdo the humility.”

Gurney was surprised by the jab but responded blandly. “Frankly,
it’s more ignorance than humility. There’s so damn much about this case that I don’t know—that no one knows.”

“Except for the bad guy?” Kale looked at his watch. “You do have questions you want to ask me?”

“I’d like to know whatever you’re willing to tell me about Mapleshade—who goes there, who works there, what it’s all about, what you did there, why you left.”

“Mapleshade before or Mapleshade after the arrival of Scott Ashton?”

“Both, but mainly the period when Jillian Perry was a student.”

Kale licked his lips thoughtfully, seemed to be savoring the question. “I’d sum it up this way: For eighteen of the twenty years I taught at Mapleshade, it was an effective therapeutic environment for the amelioration of a wide range of mild to moderate emotional and behavioral problems. Scott Ashton arrived on the scene five years ago with great fanfare, a celebrity psychiatrist, a cutting-edge theoretician, just the thing to nudge the school into the premier position in the field. Once he had a foothold, however, he began shifting the focus of Mapleshade to sicker and sicker adolescents—violent sexual predators, manipulative abusers of other children, highly sexualized young women with long histories of incest as both victims and perpetrators. Scott Ashton turned our school, with its broad history of success with troubled kids, into a disheartening repository for sex addicts and sociopaths.”