another few miles, Kim’s GPS directed them off Route 28 at the Boiceville exit. They drove alongside a cascading white-water stream, swollen from snowmelt, until they came to Mountainside Drive, an ascending switchback road through a steep evergreen forest. That brought them to Falcon’s Nest Lane. The addresses on the lane were posted next to driveways that led back to homes shielded from view by thick evergreens or high stone walls. Each driveway occurred at an interval Gurney estimated to be no less than a quarter mile from its nearest neighbor. The final address on the lane was
Twelve
—etched in cursive script on a brass plaque affixed to one of the two fieldstone pillars that bracketed the entrance to the driveway. Atop each of the pillars was a round stone the size of a basketball, and atop each of these was perched a sculpted stone eagle with wings spread aggressively and talons extended.
Kim turned in to the elegant Belgian-block driveway and drove slowly ahead through a virtual tunnel of massive rhododendrons. Then the tunnel opened, the driveway widened, and they were infront of Rudy Getz’s home—an angular glass-and-concrete affair, hardly homey.
“This is it,” said Kim with nervous excitement as she came to a stop in front of cantilevered concrete steps leading up to a metal door.
They got out of the car, climbed the steps, and were about to knock when the door opened. The man who greeted them was short and stocky, with pale skin, thinning gray hair, and hooded eyes. He was dressed in black jeans, black T-shirt, and an off-white linen sport jacket. He held a colorless drink in a short, fat glass. He reminded Gurney of a porno-film producer.
“Hey, nice to see you,” he said to Kim with the cordiality of a drowsy Gila monster. He eyed Gurney, his mouth stretching into an emotionless grin. “You must be her famous detective adviser. Pleasure. Come in.” He stepped back, gesturing them into the house with his glass. He squinted at the gray sky. “Fucking inclement weather, you know?”
The interior of the house was as aggressively modern and angular as the outside—mostly leather, metal, glass, cold colors, white oak floors.
“What are you drinking, Detective?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing. Right. And for you, Ms.
Corazon
?” He gave the name an exaggerated Spanish inflection that, combined with his smile, was like a lewd caress.
“Maybe just some water?”
“Water.” He nodded, repeating the word as though it were an interesting comment she’d made, rather than a request. “So. Come in, sit down.” He gestured with his glass toward a seating area in front of a cathedral-size window. As he spoke, a young woman in a skintight black leotard flew across the expansive room on eerily silent Rollerblades and disappeared through a doorway in the far wall.
Getz led the way to a set of six brushed-aluminum chairs around an oval acrylic coffee table, his mouth widening into a smile-like expression, shocking in its lack of warmth.
After they’d seated themselves at the low table, the Rollerblader flew back across the room, disappearing into another doorway. “Claudia,”Getz announced with a wink, as though revealing a secret. “She’s cute, eh?”
“Who is she?” asked Kim, who seemed taken aback by the display.
“My niece. She’s staying here for a while. She likes to skate.” He paused. “But we’re here for business, right?” The smile evaporated, as though the time for small talk had passed. “So I have some great news for you.
Orphans of Murder
got a top score in our audience polling.”
Kim looked more confused than pleased. “Polling? But how did you—”
Getz interrupted her. “We have a proprietary system for evaluating program concepts. We create a representative slice of the show, expose it via podcast to a statistically representative audience sample, and get real-time online feedback. Turns out to be super predictive.”
“But what material did you use? My
Twelve
—etched in cursive script on a brass plaque affixed to one of the two fieldstone pillars that bracketed the entrance to the driveway. Atop each of the pillars was a round stone the size of a basketball, and atop each of these was perched a sculpted stone eagle with wings spread aggressively and talons extended.
Kim turned in to the elegant Belgian-block driveway and drove slowly ahead through a virtual tunnel of massive rhododendrons. Then the tunnel opened, the driveway widened, and they were infront of Rudy Getz’s home—an angular glass-and-concrete affair, hardly homey.
“This is it,” said Kim with nervous excitement as she came to a stop in front of cantilevered concrete steps leading up to a metal door.
They got out of the car, climbed the steps, and were about to knock when the door opened. The man who greeted them was short and stocky, with pale skin, thinning gray hair, and hooded eyes. He was dressed in black jeans, black T-shirt, and an off-white linen sport jacket. He held a colorless drink in a short, fat glass. He reminded Gurney of a porno-film producer.
“Hey, nice to see you,” he said to Kim with the cordiality of a drowsy Gila monster. He eyed Gurney, his mouth stretching into an emotionless grin. “You must be her famous detective adviser. Pleasure. Come in.” He stepped back, gesturing them into the house with his glass. He squinted at the gray sky. “Fucking inclement weather, you know?”
The interior of the house was as aggressively modern and angular as the outside—mostly leather, metal, glass, cold colors, white oak floors.
“What are you drinking, Detective?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing. Right. And for you, Ms.
Corazon
?” He gave the name an exaggerated Spanish inflection that, combined with his smile, was like a lewd caress.
“Maybe just some water?”
“Water.” He nodded, repeating the word as though it were an interesting comment she’d made, rather than a request. “So. Come in, sit down.” He gestured with his glass toward a seating area in front of a cathedral-size window. As he spoke, a young woman in a skintight black leotard flew across the expansive room on eerily silent Rollerblades and disappeared through a doorway in the far wall.
Getz led the way to a set of six brushed-aluminum chairs around an oval acrylic coffee table, his mouth widening into a smile-like expression, shocking in its lack of warmth.
After they’d seated themselves at the low table, the Rollerblader flew back across the room, disappearing into another doorway. “Claudia,”Getz announced with a wink, as though revealing a secret. “She’s cute, eh?”
“Who is she?” asked Kim, who seemed taken aback by the display.
“My niece. She’s staying here for a while. She likes to skate.” He paused. “But we’re here for business, right?” The smile evaporated, as though the time for small talk had passed. “So I have some great news for you.
Orphans of Murder
got a top score in our audience polling.”
Kim looked more confused than pleased. “Polling? But how did you—”
Getz interrupted her. “We have a proprietary system for evaluating program concepts. We create a representative slice of the show, expose it via podcast to a statistically representative audience sample, and get real-time online feedback. Turns out to be super predictive.”
“But what material did you use? My
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