Professional Documents
Culture Documents
ISBN 978-0-307-71789-4
eISBN 978-0-307-71791-7
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First Edition
He stood in front of the mirror and smiled with deep satisfaction at his
own smiling reflection. He could not at that moment have been more
pleased with himself, with his life, with his intelligence—no, it was
more than that, more than mere intelligence. His mental status could
more accurately be described as a profound understanding of every-
thing. That was precisely what it was—a profound understanding of
everything, an understanding that went far beyond the normal range
of human wisdom. He watched the smile on his face in the mirror
stretching wider at the aptness of the phrase, which he had italicized
in his mind as he thought it. Internally he could feel—literally feel—
the power of his insight into all things human. Externally, the course
of events was proof of it.
First of all, to put it in the simplest terms, he had not been caught.
Almost twenty-four hours had passed, almost to the minute now, and
in that nearly complete revolution of the earth he had only grown
safer. But that was predictable; he had taken care to ensure that there
would be no trail to follow, no logic that could lead anyone to him. And
in fact no one had come. No one had found him out. Therefore it was
reasonable to conclude that his elimination of the presumptuous bitch
had been a success in every way.
Everything had gone according to plan, smoothly, conclusively—
yes, conclusively was an excellent word for it. Everything occurred as
anticipated, no stumbles, no surprises . . . except for that sound. Carti-
lage? Must have been. What else?
Such a minor thing, it made no sense that it would create such a
lasting sensory impression. But perhaps the strength, the durability
The Mexican
Gardener
T
here was a stillness in the September-morning air that was
like the stillness in the heart of a gliding submarine, en-
gines extinguished to elude the enemy’s listening devices.
The whole landscape was held motionless in the invisible grip of a
vast calm, the calm before a storm, a calm as deep and unpredictable
as the ocean.
It had been a strangely subdued summer, the semi-drought
slowly draining the life out of the grass and trees. Now the leaves
were fading from green to tan and had already begun to drop si-
lently from the branches of the maples and beeches, offering little
prospect of a colorful autumn.
Dave Gurney stood just inside the French doors of his farm-style
kitchen, looking out over the garden and the mowed lawn that sepa-
rated the big house from the overgrown pasture that sloped down to
the pond and the old red barn. He was vaguely uncomfortable and
unfocused, his attention drifting between the asparagus patch at the
end of the garden and the small yellow bulldozer beside the barn.
He sipped sourly at his morning coffee, which was losing its warmth
in the dry air.
To manure or not to manure—that was the asparagus question.
Or at least it was the first question. If the answer turned out to be
yes, that would raise a second question: bulk or bagged? Fertilizer, he
had been informed by various websites to which he’d been directed
by Madeleine, was the key to success with asparagus, but whether
he needed to supplement last spring’s application with a fresh load
now was not entirely clear.
very little about how she looked. She came over and stood next to
him, surveying the outdoors.
“The deer have been at the birdseed,” she said, sounding more
amused than annoyed.
Across the lawn three shepherd’s-crook finch feeders had been
tugged far out of plumb. Gazing at them, he realized that he shared,
at least to some extent, Madeleine’s benign feelings toward the deer
and whatever minor damage they caused—which seemed peculiar,
since his feelings were entirely different from hers concerning the
depredations of the squirrels who even now were consuming the seed
the deer had been unable to extract from the bottoms of the feed-
ers. Twitchy, quick, aggressive in their movements, they seemed mo-
tivated by an obsessive rodent hunger, an avariciously concentrated
desire to consume every available speck of food.
His smile evaporating, Gurney watched them with a low-level
edginess that in his more objective moments he suspected was be-
coming his reflexive reaction to too many things—an edginess that
arose from and highlighted the fault lines in his marriage. Mad-
eleine would describe the squirrels as fascinating, clever, resource-
ful, awe-inspiring in their energy and determination. She seemed
to love them as she loved most things in life. He, on the other hand,
wanted to shoot them.
Well, not shoot them, exactly, not actually kill or maim them,
but maybe thwack them with an air pistol hard enough to knock
them off the finch feeders and send them fleeing into the woods
where they belonged. Killing was not a solution that ever appealed
to him. In all his years in the NYPD, in all his years as a homicide
detective, in twenty-five years of dealing with violent men in a vio-
lent city, he had never drawn his gun, had hardly touched it outside
a firing range, and he had no desire to start now. Whatever it was
that had drawn him to police work, that had wed him to the job for
so many years, it surely wasn’t the appeal of a gun or the deceptively
simple solution it offers.
He became aware that Madeleine was watching him with that
curious, appraising look of hers—probably guessing from the tight-
ness in his jaw his thoughts about the squirrels. In response to her
apparent clairvoyance, he wanted to say something that would
justify his hostility to the fluffy-tailed rats, but the ringing of the
phone intervened—in fact, the ringing of two phones intervened
simultaneously, the wired phone in the den and his own cell phone
on the kitchen sideboard. Madeleine headed for the den. Gurney
picked up the cell.
J
ack Hardwick was a nasty, abrasive, watery-eyed cynic who
drank too much and viewed just about everything in life as
a sour joke. He had few enthusiastic admirers and did not
readily inspire trust. Gurney was convinced that if all of Hard-
wick’s questionable motives were removed, he wouldn’t have any
motives left.
But Gurney also considered him one of the smartest, most in-
sightful detectives he’d ever worked with. So when he put the phone
to his ear and heard that unmistakable sandpaper voice, it generated
some mixed feelings.
“Davey boy!”
Gurney winced. He was not a Davey-boyish kind of guy, never
would be, which he assumed was the precise reason Hardwick had
chosen that particular sobriquet.
“What can I do for you, Jack?”
The man’s braying laugh was as annoying and irrelevant as
ever. “When we were working on the Mellery case, you used to brag
about getting up with the chickens. Just thought I’d call and see if
it was true.”
There was a certain amount of banter one always had to endure
before Hardwick would deign to get to the issue at hand.
“What do you want, Jack?”
“You got any actual live chickens on that farm of yours, running
around clucking and shitting, or is that ‘up with the chickens’ just
some kind of folksy saying?”
“What do you want, Jack?”
“Why the hell would I want anything? Can’t one old buddy just
call another old buddy for old times’ sake?”
“Shove the ‘old buddy’ crap, Jack, and tell me why you’re
calling.”
Again the braying laugh. “That’s so cold, Gurney, so cold.”
“Look. I haven’t had my second cup of coffee yet. You don’t get
to the point in the next five seconds, I hang up. Five . . . four . . .
three . . . two . . . one . . .”
“Debutante bride got whacked at her own wedding. Thought
you might be interested.”
“Why would I be interested in that?”
“Shit, how could an ace homicide detective not be interested?
Did I say she got ‘whacked’? Should’ve said ‘hacked.’ Murder weapon
was a machete.”
“The ace is retired.”
There was a loud, prolonged bray.
“No joke, Jack. I’m really retired.”
“Like you were when you leaped in to solve the Mellery case?”
“That was a temporary detour.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Look, Jack . . .” Gurney was losing patience.
“Okay. You’re retired. I got it. Now give me two minutes to ex-
plain the opportunity here.”
“Jack, for the love of Christ . . .”
“Two lousy minutes. Two. You’re so fucking busy massaging your
retirement golf balls you can’t spare your old partner two minutes?”
The image triggered the tiny tic in Gurney’s eyelid. “We were
never partners.”
“How the hell can you say that?”
“We worked on a couple of cases together. We weren’t partners.”
If he were to be completely honest about it, Gurney would have
to admit that he and Hardwick did have, in at least one respect,
a unique relationship. Ten years earlier, working in jurisdictions a
hundred miles apart on different aspects of the same murder case,
they had individually discovered separate halves of the victim’s sev-
ered body. That sort of serendipity in detection can forge a strong, if
bizarre, bond.