yes. When I set up our appointment and told him you’d be coming with me, I gave him the website link to Connie’s article.”
Gurney said nothing.
“Are you annoyed at me for doing that?”
“I feel like I’m in the middle of an archaeological dig.”
“What do you mean?”
“Little bits and pieces of the situation keep emerging. I’m wondering what’s next.”
“There’s nothing ‘next.’ Nothing I can think of. Is that what your job was like?”
“Like what?”
“An archaeological dig.”
“In some ways, yes.”
In fact, it was an image that had occurred to him often: uncovering the puzzle pieces, laying them out, studying the shapes and textures, fitting them together tentatively, searching for patterns. Once in a while, you could take your time. More frequently you had to move swiftly—in an ongoing serial-murder case, for example, when delays in finding and interpreting the pieces could mean more murders, more horror.
Kim took out her cell phone, looked at it, looked at Gurney. “You know, I’m thinking, since it’s not even three o’clock yet … Would you possibly be up for one more meeting before I drive you home?” Before he could answer, she added quickly, “It would be on the way, so it wouldn’t take much extra time.”
“I need to be home by six.” This wasn’t entirely true, but he wanted to create a boundary.
“I don’t think that’s a problem.” She tapped in a number, then held the phone to her ear, waiting. “Roberta? It’s Kim Corazon.”
A minute later, after the briefest of conversations, Kim expressed her thanks, and they were on their way.
“That sounded easy,” said Gurney.
“Roberta’s been hot on the documentary idea ever since I first got in touch with her. She’s not shy about her feelings—or her opinions. With the possible exception of Jimi Brewster, she’s the most aggressive participant.”
Roberta Rotker lived just outside the village of Peacock in a brick house that looked like a fortress. It was set squarely in the middle of a farm field. The field had been rough-mowed to resemble a lawn. There were no trees, no shrubs, no foundation plantings of any kind. The property was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence. Security cameras were mounted on posts at regular intervals inside the fence. The heavy-duty entrance gate was of the sliding variety on rollers, electrically operated from the house.
As they arrived in front of it, the gate opened. A straight macadam driveway led to a macadam parking area in front of a three-car brick garage. The place had an institutional aura, like some sort of safe house operated by a government agency. Gurney counted four additional security cameras: two on the front corners of the garage, two under the eaves of the house.
The woman who opened the front door looked as businesslike as the building. She wore a plaid work shirt and dark twill pants. The unflattering style of her short, sandy hair emphasized her apparent disinterest in her appearance. The gaze she fixed on Gurney was uninviting and unblinking. She reminded him of a cop—an impression reinforced by the nine-millimeter SIG Sauer pistol in a quick-draw holster affixed to her belt.
She shook hands with Kim in that determinedly firm way often adopted by women working in traditionally male professions. When Kim had introduced Gurney and explained his presence as an “adviser” on the project, Roberta Rotker gave him a short nod, stepped back, and waved them into the house.
Structurally, it was a traditional center-hall Colonial, but the center hall itself was completely bare—an empty passageway that led from the front door to the back door. On the left were two doors and a staircase; on the right were three doors, all closed. This was not a house that divulged information casually.
As Gurney and Kim were led through the first door on the right into a minimally furnished living room, he asked, “Are you in law enforcement?”
Roberta Rotker didn’t answer until she’d closed the door firmly behind them. “Very definitely,” she said.
It was an unusual response. “What I meant was, are you employed by a law-enforcement agency?”
“Why is my employment a matter of interest to you?”
Gurney smiled blandly. “Just curious whether the sidearm is a job requirement or a personal preference.”
“That’s a distinction without a difference. The answer is, all of the above. Make yourself comfortable.” She pointed to a hard-cushioned couch that reminded Gurney of the one in the waiting room at the clinic where Madeleine worked three days a week. When he and Kim were seated, Rotker continued. “It’s a personal preference because it makes