“I do. Of course I do. But right now the case is coming together in an ideal way. I don’t want your obsession with tiny loose ends derailing your thinking or creating problems with White River PD. Stay with the big picture, is all I’m saying. Avoid unnecessary disputes. Let’s move this investigation to a smooth conclusion.”

24

When Torres came out of Gloria Fenwick’s house he filled Gurney in on the few bits of additional information he’d gotten from her.

The Corolla that backed out of the driveway and sped away was, in her words, “shamefully dirty.”

During that year’s March and early April snowfalls, the driveway had not been plowed.

In the months since the owners had moved away and consigned the place to its current renters, she’d never seen a window open or a light on.

Apparently all of the owners’ mail was being forwarded, and the renters were receiving none, since the postman, a very nice man, never stopped there.

The failure to maintain the property, particularly the failure to mow the grass, was, in her opinion, an insult to the residents of Bluestone and typical of the slovenly ways of “the Grinton element.”

“And,” Torres concluded, “she’s absolutely certain about the presence of that car. How sure was the guy on the other side of the house about the motorcycle?”

“Totally.”

“So they’re each positive about one vehicle, and neither was aware of the second. Strange.”

Gurney thought about that. “Not really. In the sniper house, there’s a bathroom by the back door and a living room in the front. The Fenwick and Vitter houses have the same basic design. Vitter says he heard the motorcycle—which was in back of the sniper house—through his bathroom window. Gloria Fenwick was at her living room window. The driveway the car used is on her side of the sniper house. They each noticed what they were closest to.”

Torres looked unconvinced. “I get why Vitter might not have heard the car. But motorcycles can be pretty loud. Shouldn’t she have heard it?”

“Theoretically. But suppose there was a delay of a minute or two between the car leaving and the motorcycle leaving. I doubt she stayed by her window after the car left. She may even have closed it. If there was another engine sound a couple of minutes later down by that back slope, there’s no reason it would have meant anything to her.”

“Wouldn’t she have at least heard it?”

“We hear sounds constantly, but unless they have some significance to us, our brains discard them. Like a spam filter on email. You probably heard hundreds of sounds earlier today—at home, on your way here, down on Oak Street—but I bet you’d have trouble remembering more than a few of them.”

“That may be true, but—”

He was interrupted by a contralto voice. “Either of you have a little spare time?”

It was Shelby Towns, the female half of the evidence-collection team, speaking as she emerged from the front door of the sniper house, facial studs shining in the afternoon sun, white coveralls concealing her GENDERBENDER tee shirt.

“Garrett figures he’ll be tied up inside for another hour or so,” she continued as she approached them, “and I need to lay out a search grid in back. Two people working together can do that four times faster than one. How about it?”

Checking his watch, Torres explained that he was late for a follow-up with the men he’d assigned to canvass the neighborhood.

Gurney offered to give her a hand, motivated less by a spirit of helpfulness than by the curiosity he always felt at crime scenes.

She pointed to the evidence van. “Suit, gloves, booties—right inside the door. You’ve done this before, right?”

Before Gurney could answer, Torres said, “Jesus, Shel, you’re talking to the man who holds the NYPD record for solved homicides. He’s probably been at more major crime scenes than everyone in our department put together.” He got into the Crown Vic, pulled away from the curb, and was gone.

Shelby Towns gave Gurney a look. “Is that true—the record for solved homicides?”

“They gave me a medal with those words on it. I have no idea whether it’s true.”

Something about her wide-eyed look made him burst out laughing. Before she could ask what he found so funny, he asked how she wanted to set up the grid.

The backyard was only about twice the width of the house, but it was over a hundred feet deep, extending back behind both the house and the detached garage. The downward slope beyond that added about fifty feet of weeds and briars between the overgrown lawn and the street below.

Working together, they’d managed in half an hour to lay out a string grid composed of nearly two hundred six-foot squares covering the lawn and most of the slope. A careful eyes-to-the-ground walk-through took another half hour.