shit Klemper told him to say.”
“Did you ask an ex-con by the name of Jimmy Flats to kill your husband?”
“No.”
“So his story at the trial was a fabrication too?”
“Yes.”
“Klemper’s fabrication?”
“I assume so.”
“Were you in that building where the shot came from, either the day of the shooting or any time prior to that?”
“Definitely not on the day of the shooting.”
“So the eyewitness testimony that you were there in the building, in the actual apartment where the murder weapon was found—that’s also a fabrication?”
“Right.”
“If not on that particular day, then how long before?”
“I don’t know. Months? A year? Maybe I was there two or three times altogether—occasions when I was with Carl when he stopped to check on something, work being done, something like that.”
“Most of the apartments were vacant?”
“Yes. Spalter Realty paid next to nothing to buy buildings that needed major renovations.”
“Were the apartments locked?”
“Generally. Squatters would sometimes find ways in.”
“Did you have keys?”
“Not in my possession.”
“Meaning?”
Kay Spalter hesitated for the first time. “There was a master key for each building. I knew where it was.”
“Where was it?”
She seemed to shake her head—or, again, maybe it was just an infinitesimal tremor. “I always thought it was silly. Carl carried his own master key for all the apartments, but he kept an extra one hidden in each building. In the utility room in each basement. On the floor behind the furnace.”
“Who knew about the hidden keys, besides you and Carl?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are they still there, behind the furnaces?”
“I assume so.”
Gurney sat quietly for several seconds, letting this curious fact sink in before going on.
“You claimed that you were with your boyfriend at the time of the shooting?”
“Yes. In bed with him.” Her gaze, locked on Gurney, was neutral and unblinking.
“So when he testified he was alone that day—that was one more fabrication?”
“Yes.” Her lips tightened.
“And you believe that Detective Klemper manufactured and directed this elaborate web of perjury … why? Just because you reminded him of his ex-wife?”
“That’s your friend’s theory,” she said, indicating Hardwick. “Not mine. I don’t doubt that Klemper’s a woman-hating asshole, but I’m sure there’s more to it.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe my conviction was convenient for someone beyond Klemper.”
“Who, for example?”
“The mob, for example.”
“You’re saying that organized crime was responsible for—?”
“For the hit on Carl. Yes. I’m saying that it makes sense. More sense than anything else.”
“
For the hit on Carl
. Isn’t that a pretty cold—”
“A pretty cold way of discussing my husband’s death? You’re absolutely right, Mr. Supercop. I’m not going to shed sweet public tears to prove my innocence to a jury, or to you, or to anyone else.” She eyed him shrewdly. “That makes it a little harder, doesn’t it? Not so easy to prove the innocence of a coldhearted bitch.”
Hardwick drummed his fingers on the table to get her attention. Then he leaned forward and reiterated with slow intensity, “We don’t have to prove you didn’t do it.
Innocence is not the issue
. All we have to prove is that your trial was seriously, purposely fucked up by the chief investigator on the case. Which is exactly what we will do.”
Again Kay ignored Hardwick and kept her gaze fixed on Gurney. “So? Where do you stand? You have an opinion yet?”
Gurney responded only with another question. “Did you take shooting lessons?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I might have to shoot someone.”
“Who?”
“Maybe some mob guys. I had a bad feeling about Carl’s relationship with those people. I saw trouble coming and I wanted to be ready.”
Formidable
, thought Gurney, searching for a word to
“Did you ask an ex-con by the name of Jimmy Flats to kill your husband?”
“No.”
“So his story at the trial was a fabrication too?”
“Yes.”
“Klemper’s fabrication?”
“I assume so.”
“Were you in that building where the shot came from, either the day of the shooting or any time prior to that?”
“Definitely not on the day of the shooting.”
“So the eyewitness testimony that you were there in the building, in the actual apartment where the murder weapon was found—that’s also a fabrication?”
“Right.”
“If not on that particular day, then how long before?”
“I don’t know. Months? A year? Maybe I was there two or three times altogether—occasions when I was with Carl when he stopped to check on something, work being done, something like that.”
“Most of the apartments were vacant?”
“Yes. Spalter Realty paid next to nothing to buy buildings that needed major renovations.”
“Were the apartments locked?”
“Generally. Squatters would sometimes find ways in.”
“Did you have keys?”
“Not in my possession.”
“Meaning?”
Kay Spalter hesitated for the first time. “There was a master key for each building. I knew where it was.”
“Where was it?”
She seemed to shake her head—or, again, maybe it was just an infinitesimal tremor. “I always thought it was silly. Carl carried his own master key for all the apartments, but he kept an extra one hidden in each building. In the utility room in each basement. On the floor behind the furnace.”
“Who knew about the hidden keys, besides you and Carl?”
“I have no idea.”
“Are they still there, behind the furnaces?”
“I assume so.”
Gurney sat quietly for several seconds, letting this curious fact sink in before going on.
“You claimed that you were with your boyfriend at the time of the shooting?”
“Yes. In bed with him.” Her gaze, locked on Gurney, was neutral and unblinking.
“So when he testified he was alone that day—that was one more fabrication?”
“Yes.” Her lips tightened.
“And you believe that Detective Klemper manufactured and directed this elaborate web of perjury … why? Just because you reminded him of his ex-wife?”
“That’s your friend’s theory,” she said, indicating Hardwick. “Not mine. I don’t doubt that Klemper’s a woman-hating asshole, but I’m sure there’s more to it.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe my conviction was convenient for someone beyond Klemper.”
“Who, for example?”
“The mob, for example.”
“You’re saying that organized crime was responsible for—?”
“For the hit on Carl. Yes. I’m saying that it makes sense. More sense than anything else.”
“
For the hit on Carl
. Isn’t that a pretty cold—”
“A pretty cold way of discussing my husband’s death? You’re absolutely right, Mr. Supercop. I’m not going to shed sweet public tears to prove my innocence to a jury, or to you, or to anyone else.” She eyed him shrewdly. “That makes it a little harder, doesn’t it? Not so easy to prove the innocence of a coldhearted bitch.”
Hardwick drummed his fingers on the table to get her attention. Then he leaned forward and reiterated with slow intensity, “We don’t have to prove you didn’t do it.
Innocence is not the issue
. All we have to prove is that your trial was seriously, purposely fucked up by the chief investigator on the case. Which is exactly what we will do.”
Again Kay ignored Hardwick and kept her gaze fixed on Gurney. “So? Where do you stand? You have an opinion yet?”
Gurney responded only with another question. “Did you take shooting lessons?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I might have to shoot someone.”
“Who?”
“Maybe some mob guys. I had a bad feeling about Carl’s relationship with those people. I saw trouble coming and I wanted to be ready.”
Formidable
, thought Gurney, searching for a word to
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