White River Burning. John Verdon

out of hand.”

      “Jesus.”

      “Jesus. Goddamn right.”

      “This happened at a Black Defense Alliance demonstration?”

      “Naturally.”

      “I thought they were a nonviolent group.”

      “Hah!”

      “The cop who was shot. Was he white?”

      “Of course.”

      “How—?”

      “Sniper. Fatal head shot. Somebody out there knew exactly what the hell he was doing. This was no coked-up idiot with a Saturday-night special. This was planned.” Kline ran his fingers nervously back through his short dark hair.

      Gurney was struck by the emotional intensity of the district attorney’s reaction—natural in most people but noteworthy in such a coldly calculating politician, a man Gurney had come to believe evaluated every event by how it might facilitate or obstruct his own ambitions.

      There was the obvious question—which Kline addressed on cue as Gurney was about to ask it. “You’re wondering why I’m bringing this problem to you?” He shifted on the edge of his chair to face Gurney squarely, as though he believed that direct eye contact was essential to communicating an attitude of forthrightness. “I’m here, David, because I want your help. In fact, I need your help.”

      3

      Sheridan Kline stood silently at the open French doors, watching as Gurney prepared two mugs at the coffee machine in the kitchen. Neither man spoke again until they were back outside on their chairs—the district attorney still looking stiff and uncomfortable, but perhaps feeling assured from his own observation of the coffee-making that Gurney hadn’t taken the opportunity to slip a recording device into his pocket. He took a few sips from his mug, then set it down on the flat wooden arm of the chair.

      He took the deep breath of a man about to dive into a cold pool. “I’ll be perfectly frank with you, David. I have a huge problem. The situation in White River is explosive. I don’t know how closely you’ve been following it, but there’ve been outbreaks of looting and arson all this past week down in the Grinton district. Constant stink of smoke in the air. Sickening. And it could get a hell of a lot worse. Keg of dynamite, and these BDA people seem to be trying to set it off. Like this latest attack. Cold-blooded assassination of a police officer.” He fell silent, shaking his head.

      After a few moments Gurney tried to nudge him toward explaining his visit. “You said that you drove here directly from a meeting with the White River chief of police?”

      “Dell Beckert and his number two, Judd Turlock.”

      “About how to respond to the shooting?”

      “Among other things. A discussion of the whole situation. All the implications.” Kline made a face as if he were regurgitating something indigestible.

      “Is there some connection between that meeting and your coming here?”

      Another pained expression. “Yes and no.”

      “Tell me more about the ‘yes’ part.”

      Before answering, Kline reached for his cup, took a long sip from it, and replaced it carefully on the chair arm. Gurney noted a tremor in his hand.

      “The situation in White River is delicate. Feelings are running way too high on all sides. I called it a keg of dynamite, but that’s not right. It’s more like pure nitroglycerin—tricky to handle, unpredictable, unforgiving. Stumble, whack against it the wrong way, and it could blow us all to pieces.”

      “I get that. Racial sensitivities. Ugly emotions. Potential for total chaos. But—”

      “But how do you fit into this?” He flashed an anxious politician’s smile. “David, never in my career have I encountered a greater need to marshal all our available resources. I’m talking about brains—the right kind of brains. The need to understand the angles. See around the corners. I don’t want to get blindsided because we didn’t look into things closely enough.”

      “You think Beckert’s department might not be up to the job?”

      “No, nothing like that. You won’t hear any criticism of Beckert from me. The man’s a law-and-order icon. Hell of a record of achievement.” He paused. “There’s even a rumor about a run in the special election for state attorney general. Nothing definite, of course.” Another pause. “He could be the perfect candidate, though. Right image. Right connections. Not everyone knows this, he certainly doesn’t advertise it himself, but his current wife happens to be the governor’s cousin. Right man in the right place at the right time.”

      “Assuming that everything goes well. Or at least that nothing goes terribly wrong.”

      “That goes without saying.”

      “So what exactly do you want from me?”

      “Your investigative instincts. Your nose for the truth. You’re very good at what you do. Your NYPD homicide record speaks for itself.”

      Gurney gave him a puzzled look. “Beckert’s got the whole White River Police Department at his disposal. You’ve got your own investigative staff. If that’s not enough, you could leverage the racial element of the situation and bring in the FBI.”

      He shook his head quickly. “No, no, no. Once the FBI comes in, we lose control. They talk a cooperative game, but they don’t play one. They’ve got their own agenda. Christ, you ought to know how the feds operate. Last thing we want to do is lose our ability to manage the process.”

      “Okay, forget the FBI. Between your staff and Beckert’s, you’ve still got plenty of manpower.”

      “Might seem like we do, but the fact is my staff is at an all-time low. My right-hand guy, Fred Stimmel, hit his magic pension number six months ago and headed for Florida. My two female investigators are both on maternity leave. And the rest of the crew are locked into assignments I can’t pull them away from—not without a major prosecution going down the tubes. You may think I’ve got ample staff. Fact is I’ve got zip. I know what you’re thinking. That the investigation belongs to the White River PD in any event, not the county DA. The ball is in Beckert’s court, so let him handle it through his own famously effective detective bureau. Right? But I’m telling you there’s way too much at stake to play this game with anything other than a full-court press. That means with all I can muster on my side as well as Beckert’s—period!” A small vein in Kline’s temple was becoming more prominent as he spoke.

      “You’d like me to join your staff as some sort of adjunct investigator?”

      “Something like that. We’ll work out the details. I have the authority and contingency funds. We’ve worked together before, David. You made huge contributions to the Mellery and Perry cases. And the stakes in this case are sky-high. We need to get to the bottom of this police killing fast—and we need to get it right, so nothing comes back later to bite us in the ass. Get it wrong and it’s chaos time. What do you say? Can I rely on you?”

      Gurney leaned back in his chair, watching the vultures soaring lazily above the north ridge.

      Kline’s smile tightened into a grimace. “Do you have any concerns?”

      “I need to sleep on this, discuss it with my wife.”

      Kline chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Okay. Just let me repeat that there’s a hell of a lot at stake here. More than you might think. The right outcome could be enormously beneficial for all concerned.”

      He got up from his chair, straightened his tie, and put on his jacket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to Gurney. The politician’s smile reappeared in full force. “My personal cell number is on the card. Call me tomorrow. Or tonight if you can. I know you’ll do the right thing—for all of us.”

      Two