LITMIR.BIZ

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“Does anyone know the content of those?”

      Hardwick shook his head. “The other police departments are keeping whatever details they have under wraps. Which brings me to the final big piece of the puzzle. After a BCI press relations officer disclosed the details surrounding Gall’s death, a detective from Floral Park down on Long Island got in touch with BCI to let them know he had a two-week-old suicide on his hands with the same history—a hypnotherapy session with Dr. Hammond followed by bad dreams and sliced wrists. He hadn’t bothered to contact Hammond, apparently because he didn’t give the hypnosis aspect of the situation much weight. Seems odd he’d overlook that, but odd shit happens all the time. Anyway, his dead guy was a twenty-six-year-old by the name of Steven Pardosa. That’s when Fenton went all out with his hypnosis-nightmare-suicide narrative—big press briefing, lots of nasty innuendo, practically accusing Hammond of murder, sending the media hyenas into a feeding frenzy.”

      “Just a second. How did the Long Island detective know about Pardosa’s contact with Hammond, or about his bad dreams?”

      “Pardosa told his chiropractor; and when the chiropractor saw Pardosa’s obit in Newsday, he called the cops.”

      “So, we’ve got three males in their mid twenties, plus Ethan Gall. How old was he?”

      Hardwick looked at Jane.

      She shrugged. “Early to mid thirties? His younger brother, Peyton, is in his late twenties, and there was five years between them.”

      There was something sour about the way she’d said the brother’s name that caught Gurney’s attention. He was about to ask about it, but Hardwick started speaking first.

      “After the Pardosa thing surfaced, everything clicked into place in Fenton’s head. He had four dead people—people he started referring to as ‘victims’—who’d all suffered from bad dreams after being treated by Richard Hammond—a doctor known for his experiments in hypnosis. Fenton made Hammond sound like some kind of mad scientist.”

      “Speaking of which,” said Jane, “I have printouts of the horrible news stories that were published after his outrageous press conferences.” She stood up and started toward the door. “They’re in the car.”

      Gurney stopped her with a question he felt was overdue. “What does Richard’s lawyer have to say about all this?”

      “Richard doesn’t have a lawyer.”

      “Even with everything that’s going on?”

      “That’s right.” She fell silent for several seconds. “It’s a long story. I’m not sure I know how to tell it.” She shook her head. “I’ll get the file.”

      “I’ll join you,” said Madeleine. “I need some air.” As she stood up to follow Jane, she gave Gurney a look in which he read a clear message:

      This is your chance to find out from Hardwick what on earth is going on here.

       CHAPTER 4

      The side door closed with a solid thump.

      Hardwick looked across the table at Gurney. His pale Malamute eyes, which usually exuded little warmth, showed signs of amusement. “So what do you think, Sherlock? The case does raise a few interesting questions, wouldn’t you say?”

      “I’ve got about ten of them on my mind right now.”

      “For instance?”

      “Why the hell doesn’t Hammond have a lawyer?”

      “He insists the reason he doesn’t want a lawyer is because he doesn’t need a lawyer. He’s so totally innocent that the wild accusations against him will collapse under the weight of their own absurdity.”

      “That’s what he told you?”

      “That’s what he told the world in his one and only press release. There’s a copy in Jane’s media file.”

      “What’s your gut feeling about him?”

      “Arrogant, brittle, secretive—with an odd vibe that makes me want to kick him in the balls. He also strikes me as a frightened man trying to sound cool. But I have no fucking idea why he doesn’t want a lawyer.”

      “How did you get connected with his sister?”

      “She tried to hire a lawyer to represent Richard’s interests without him knowing about it. The law firm turned her down, because that kind of arrangement falls somewhere between unethical and impossible. But they did suggest that she might hire a private investigator to look into the case, strictly on her behalf, and she could then do as she saw fit with whatever information was uncovered. Naturally, they recommended me.”

      “Why would they do that?”

      “Obviously because I have a hard-earned reputation for upsetting law enforcement’s apple cart, securing justice for the falsely accused, and pissing on authority in general.” Hardwick’s grin flashed for a split second like the ice crystals in the sunlight.

      “Why did you bring this woman—?”

      Hardwick broke in. “Why did I bring the desperate Jane Hammond to you? A woman who carries a lifetime of worry in her eyes? A woman whose little brother has always been the rose and the thorn in her life, and who is now in a shitstorm of trouble? A woman who I suspect has no sex life, no peace, no interests of her own? Is that what you were about to ask me?”

      “Yes.”

      He paused, sucked thoughtfully at his teeth before speaking. “There’s something particularly odd about this case, and something disturbingly off-center about the good doctor himself. The whole situation seems . . . foggy . . . to me. Almost eerie. And you’re better at eerie than I am. So I’d like you to sniff around a bit, get the lay of the land, talk to this guy, find out what you can—especially about that guilty vibe he exudes like last night’s garlic—and let me know what you think. Look, nine times out of ten I know what I’m looking at. But this is that one out of ten that I can’t figure.”

      “You’re telling me that this is a matter of investigative competence? That you want to pass the baton along to a man with sharper skills than yourself? What kind of bullshit is that?”

      “It’s the truth. Honest. But . . . to be completely honest . . . it’s not the only reason.”

      “I didn’t think so.”

      “Do you believe in divine providence?”

      “Do I believe in what?”

      “Serendipity.”

      “What the hell are you talking about?”

      “A grand coincidence. At the very moment that Jane Hammond was sitting in my modest home office describing her brother’s desperate situation, describing her desperate need for help, you called.”

      Gurney said nothing.

      “So there you are—David Gurney, detective first grade, NYPD Homicide, most decorated officer in the history of the department—planning to surveil a porcupine. A brain fit to confront the greatest criminal minds on earth—focused on a quill ball in a tree. Now tell me, if that isn’t fucked up, what is?”

      Gurney said nothing.

      “So here we are, with a major opportunity that benefits everyone. I get your help in piercing the fog wrapped around this case. Jane gets the investigatory assistance she so badly needs to help her brother. You get to apply your God-given talent to a worthy challenge.”

      Gurney found the logic of this appeal almost convincing.

      The problem was, he knew Hardwick too well.

      “Very smooth sales presentation, Jack. I’m almost ready to test-drive the car. There’s just one thing missing.”

      “Missing?”

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