Shut Your Eyes Tight by John Verdon Page A

waited.
    “Are you asking me how much he’s willing to pay?” Anger twisted some of the beauty out of her face.
    Gurney shook his head. “It’s not that.”
    She seemed not to hear him. “I
told
you money was not an issue. I told you we have a shitload of money—a
shitload
, Mr. Gurney, a
SHITLOAD
—and I’ll spend whatever it takes to get done what I want to get done!”
    Cherry splotches were appearing on her vanilla skin, the words rushing out contemptuously. “My husband is the fucking highest-paid fucking neurosurgeon in the fucking world! He makes over forty fucking million dollars a year! We live in a fucking twelve-million-dollar house! You see this fucking thing on my finger?” She glared furiously at her ring, as though it were a tumor on her hand. “This shiny lump of shit is worth two million fucking dollars! For fucking Christ’s sake, don’t ask me about money!”
    Gurney was sitting back, his fingers steepled under his chin. Madeleine had returned and was standing quietly at the edge of the patio. She came over to the table.
    “You all right?” she asked, as though the meltdown she’d just witnessed had no more significance than a bad fit of sneezing.
    “Sorry,” said Val Perry vaguely.
    “You want some water?”
    “No, I’m fine, I’m perfectly … I’m … No, actually, yes, water would be good. Thank you.”
    Madeleine smiled, nodded pleasantly, and went into the house through the French doors.
    “My point,” said Val Perry, nervously straightening her blouse, “my point, which I … overstated … My point is simply that moneyis not an issue. The goal is the important thing. Whatever resources are needed to reach the goal … the resources are available. That’s all I was trying to say.” She pressed her lips together as if to ensure no further outburst.
    Madeleine returned with a glass of water and laid it on the table. The woman picked it up, drank half, and put it down carefully. “Thank you.”
    “Well,” said Madeleine, with a malicious twinkle in her eye as she went back into the house, “if you need anything else, just holler.”
    Val Perry sat erect and motionless. She seemed to be reassembling her composure through an act of will. After a minute she took a deep breath.
    “I’m not sure what to say next. Maybe there’s nothing to say, other than to ask for your help.” She swallowed. “Will you help me?”
    Interesting. She could have said, “Will you take the case?” Did she consider that way of saying it and realize that this was a better way, a way that would be harder to reject?
    However she asked, he knew he’d be crazy to say yes.
    He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”
    She didn’t react, just sat there, holding on to the edge of the table, looking into his eyes. He wondered if she’d heard him.
    “Why not?” she asked in a tiny voice.
    He considered what to say.
    For one thing, Mrs. Perry, you seem a bit too much like your descriptions of your daughter. My inevitable collision with the official investigating agency could turn into a major train wreck. And Madeleine’s potential reaction to my immersion in another murder case could redefine marital trouble
.
    What he actually said was, “My involvement could disrupt the ongoing police efforts, and that would be bad for everyone involved.”
    “I see.”
    He saw in her expression no real understanding or acceptance of his decision. He watched her, waiting for her next move.
    “I understand your reluctance,” she said. “I’d feel the same way in your place. All I ask is that you keep an open mind until you see the video.”
    “The video?”
    “Didn’t Jack Hardwick mention it?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Well, it’s all there, the whole … event.”
    “You don’t mean a video of the reception where the murder took place?”
    “That’s exactly what I mean. The whole thing was recorded. Every minute of it. It’s all on a neat little DVD.”

Chapter 8
The