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  He paused, as if to give “untimely death” extra emphasis. “Some of the Great Camps, with their huge upkeep costs, started collapsing with the stock market crash. Some became museums celebrating the lives of the greedy scumbags who built them. Some got converted into educational centers where nature fanatics could study the ecology of the frilly-frond fern.”

  This jab at outdoorsiness provoked a narrow-eyed glance from Madeleine, who was preparing a pot of coffee at the sink island.

  Hardwick went on, “Some of the camps continued to be maintained by the descendants of the original owners, usually by turning them into conference centers or upscale inns. Ethan Gall, great-grandson of Dalton, embraced the fancy-inn concept and added a few extras for the bored and restless wealthy. Learn while you’re being pampered—that kind of horseshit. French-Vietnamese cooking secrets. Nepalese serenity secrets. Secrets are always in demand. And since even the most privileged have bad habits they’d rather not have, Ethan hired world-renowned psychologist Richard Hammond to provide unique hypnotic solutions. So the place wasn’t just any old thousand-dollar-a-day Adirondack inn. It was the one where you got to have a therapeutic chat with none other than Richard Hammond—a chat you could regale your friends with at your next dinner party.”

  Jane Hammond had been anxiously squeezing her used tissue into a tighter and tighter ball. “I have to say something here. I don’t want Mr. Gurney to get the wrong impression of my brother. I can’t comment on Ethan Gall’s motives. But I can assure you that Richard’s motives were pure. His life is his work, and he takes it very seriously. Which is another reason why these accusations are so . . . so offensive!” She looked down with dismay at the crushed tissue in her hand.

  Hardwick resumed his narration. “So. Whatever Ethan Gall’s motives might have been, he gave Dr. Hammond a generous two-year contract, which, among other perks, included the use of a private chalet on the property. All went well until one evening approximately two months ago when Dr. Hammond got a call from a detective in Palm Beach.”

  “Florida,” added Jane.

  “Right. A twenty-seven-year-old male by the name of Christopher Wenzel had committed suicide a few days earlier. Cut his wrists sitting in his million-dollar condo on the Intracoastal. No indication of anything requiring special police attention. However, after the suicide was reported in the local news, a minister showed up at Palm Beach PD with an interesting story. Wenzel had come to see him a couple of days before he offed himself, complaining he hadn’t been able to sleep right for a whole week. Whenever he’d doze off he’d have this terrible nightmare—same nightmare every time. Said it was making him want to die.”

  Hardwick paused, as if to let the implications of this sink in.

  Gurney felt he was missing something—beyond the question of why this conversation with Jack Hardwick and Jane Hammond was occurring at all. “This information about the suicide was passed along to Dr. Hammond in a phone call by a Palm Beach detective?”

  “Right.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Wenzel told the minister that his nightmares had started after he’d been hypnotized by Dr. Richard Hammond to help him stop smoking. So the detective called Hammond, asked if he’d treated the deceased. Richard said that was confidential, HIPAA regulations, blah-blah-blah, but what was the problem? The detective explained the situation, asked if suicides or nightmares were ever side effects of hypnosis. Richard said he’d never heard of such a reaction. And that was pretty much the end of that . . . until a week later. That’s when he got another call—this one from a detective in Teaneck, New Jersey.”

  Gurney said nothing, just waited.

  Madeleine’s eyes widened.

  Hardwick went on. “Another wrist-cutting suicide. Leo Balzac, age twenty-eight. When the Teaneck detective checked the deceased’s smartphone calendar, he saw that he’d had an appointment with a local therapist two days before he killed himself. So the detective paid a visit to the therapist, more dancing around the HIPAA bullshit, but eventually he found out Balzac had come to the therapist for a problem he’d been having with nightmares—ever since a certain Dr. Hammond had hypnotized him to help him stop smoking.”

  Gurney was intrigued. “This second detective got in touch with Hammond to ask about the hypnosis session, the same as the first one did?”

  “Right. And Hammond gave him the same answer.”

  Jane looked up from the table. “It wasn’t exactly the same. In addition to insisting that his therapy sessions couldn’t cause nightmares, Richard told the second detective about the call he’d gotten from the first detective. It was clear to him that something strange was going on, and he wanted both detectives to have the whole picture. You see how important that is?”

  When neither Gurney nor Hardwick responded, she explained. “If Richard hadn’t done that—if he hadn’t been as helpful as he was—the police in Florida and the police in New Jersey never would have connected the two suicides. It was Richard who innocently volunteered that information. Which proves he had nothing to hide.”

  Gurney and Hardwick exchanged skeptical glances.

  “But,” interjected Madeleine, “if I remember the news reports, there was more to the story, wasn’t there?”

  “A shitload more,” said Hardwick. “The really god-awful mess was yet to come.”

  Before Hardwick could proceed, Madeleine went to the sink island and brought back four mugs of coffee on a tray with spoons, milk, and sugar.

  Jane took the mug nearest her and thanked Madeleine for it, then looked her over frankly, as if evaluating her slim, athletic figure—still elegantly sexy at forty-seven—concluding with a smile, “You’re so much younger than I’d been picturing on the drive here.”

  “Younger?”

  “Jack told me that Dave was retired from the police department. The word ‘retired’ conjured up the image of a gray-haired couple puttering in the garden. And you turn out to be . . . well . . . like this. You look about thirty-five, and your husband looks like Daniel Craig.”

  Madeleine uttered a small laugh. “He may look a bit like Daniel Craig, but it’s quite a few years since I was anything close to thirty-five. You’re very kind.”

  Gurney explained, “Most cops qualify for their pensions after twenty-five years on the job. So it’s a natural time to get out, you know . . . and . . . and move on to something else.” His words trailed off with a descending energy that revealed more about his general feeling of indecision than he’d intended.

  “So,” said Hardwick, the short syllable functioning like the tap of a gavel to bring them back to the subject at hand. “After Teaneck PD got talking to Palm Beach PD, it was obvious the next step was to pull the New York State Police into the loop, since the common factor between the two suicides, Richard Hammond, resided on NYSP turf. Which is how this bizarre case ended up on the desk of Senior Investigator Gilbert Fenton.”

  “A real son of a bitch,” said Jane.

  Hardwick nodded his agreement.

  “You know him?” asked Gurney.

  “Yeah, I know him. As soon as the situation was dropped in Fenton’s in-box, he took a drive out to the Gall estate to interview Dr. Hammond, find out what he could about this hypnosis business, see if the two suicides were caused by anything that would be of interest to law enforcement.”

  Hardwick leaned forward, his muscular forearms resting on the table. “Fenton’s an organization guy, very oriented to hierarchy. So, before talking to Hammond, he wanted to talk to the man in charge—namely, Ethan Gall. But nobody knew where Ethan was. Nobody had seen him for two days. You get where this is going, right?”

  Gurney shrugged. “Tell me anyway.”

  “Four days after Fenton’s visit, Ethan’s body was found in one of the estate’s cabins, about half a mile from the main house. This particular cabin was not very secure. Some animals had gotten in . . .”

  Hardwick paused, letting the visual possibilities register. “The ID process took some ti
me. Dental records, then DNA. Enough of the body was intact to determine that at least one wrist had been cut. There was also a knife present with his blood and fingerprints on it.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  “I know some people who know some people.”

  “How did BCI treat the death?”

  “The ME’s report was inconclusive—apart from noting that the evidence was consistent with a suicide. A lot of the body had been devoured or dragged off. But the wrist cutting—and the common factor of contact with Richard Hammond—convinced Gil Fenton that this was the third in a series of suspicious suicides.”

  “You mean ‘suspicious’ as in possible homicides?”

  Hardwick looked like he had acid reflux. “Because of their similarities, the three suicides came to be regarded as ‘suspicious’ in the legally uncharted sense of being brought about by forces other than the independent decisions of self-destructive individuals.”

  Gurney frowned. “Meaning what?”

  “In Fenton’s public statements, he keeps suggesting that the suicides were not only influenced by Richard Hammond, but may have been orchestrated by him—in effect, that he may have forced these people to kill themselves.”

  “Forced them?” Gurney cocked his head incredulously. “How? Through hypnotic suggestion?”

  “Hypnotic suggestion . . . and nightmares.”

  “Are you serious? Hammond is supposed to have given these people nightmares that made them kill themselves?”

  “That’s Fenton’s theory, which he’s pushing every time he talks to the press.” Hardwick paused, eyeing Gurney speculatively. “What do you think of that?”

  “I think it’s ridiculous.”

  Jane Hammond slapped her hand on the table. “Thank you for saying that! That’s what I’ve been saying myself from the beginning—that it’s ridiculous to even think that Richard would do something like that.”

  Gurney asked, “Was Ethan Gall ever hypnotized by your brother?”

  “Yes. In fact, Richard helped him break a lifelong smoking habit.”

  “And their session was when?”

  “Oh, maybe three . . . well, at least two months ago.”

  “Do you know if Ethan ever complained about nightmares?”

  Jane blinked nervously. “There’s some confusion about that. Fenton has a handwritten document in which Ethan supposedly described a nightmare he’d been having. But Ethan never said a word about any nightmare to Richard.”

  “How about the nightmares the other individuals had?” asked Gurney. “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?”

  “The truth. Give me the real reason, and I’ll tell you whether I’m interested.”