Fred Tully’s career had been less than shining for a long time. He sat at his desk in the offices of the Washington Star, a page of copy to proofread in one hand and a slice of congealed pizza in the other. He looked at the round clock hanging on the far wall. Midnight. He’d rather be somewhere else, anywhere rather than here, where he felt his life getting dimmer by the day. He thought of his wife at home, watching cable and not missing him.
The intern dropped an envelope on his desk, startling Tully almost off his chair.
“Wear shoes people can hear, will ya?” he snapped without turning.
It was a rigid white envelope. His name was printed on a small label—there was no other writing. Tully looked around the room; he wasn’t the kind of guy who got hand-delivered mail in the middle of the night—hadn’t been for a while.
He tore the flap with his index finger. Some son of a gun was going to get his butt kicked if this was a joke. Inside was a sheet of paper and a smaller envelope.
Tully read the short paragraph once. He bit into what was left of the pizza and held it in his mouth as he opened the smaller envelope and took out a photograph.
It was color, taken indoors with a flash. A lamp in the foreground and what looked like part of the headboard of a bed. Tully didn’t know what he was looking at. He read the paragraph, stared at the picture, reread the paragraph, stared at the picture.
Greg Salomon, editor of the Star, didn’t look up when Tully strode into his office. “What’s up?”
Tully closed the door. He put the photograph on the desk. Salomon pushed up his glasses and picked it up.
“What am I looking at?”
“The Blue Ridge crime scene.”
There was a beat of silence between them.
“How did you get this?”
Tully smiled.
“I mean it, how did you get this?”
“Somebody out there loves me. I just got it.”
“Did you have to pay for it?”
“Not one dollar.”
There was a magnifier under a stack of papers. Salomon found it and examined the picture.
“You can’t see too much but enough to know what you’re looking at. The real thing?”
“You bet. This came with it.” Tully handed him the sheet of paper.
I’ll be in touch.
“What do you think?”
“It’s not for publication—we’d get our butt chewed by the police and the DA’s office. It’s something to tell us he’s close to the investigation. I’m thinking, cop,” Tully said.
“Yeah, he’s just getting us interested. The next time he’s going to want money. Thank God for government salaries.”
“Amen to that.” Tully scribbled on his pad. “I’m calling the primary. We can confirm the positioning of the bodies, the blindfolds . . .”
He looked over at the picture. The dark crosses were out of focus but perfectly visible. That was all he could see—heads on pillows from the side.
“Could this be one of your regular sources?” Salomon asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to have to call Kramer; he’s working the story.”
“This is mine, Greg.”
“I know. We’ll sort something out.”
We’d better, Tully thought.
At 5:45 a.m., Madison was suddenly awake. The digital clock glowed on her bedside table. Only three hours earlier she had awoken on the sofa downstairs. The film had finished, and, in a daze, she had switched the television off and dragged herself upstairs and into bed.
At 5:46 a.m., Madison got up and walked to the kitchen in her bare feet, turning on lights as she went. She poured water into the bottom half of the Italian stove-top percolator, measured coffee for the middle filter, screwed the top back on, and put it on the ring.
She could perform those actions automatically and without being fully conscious; indeed, she had done so many times, getting up for a tour after two hours’ sleep. By 6:30 a.m. Madison had left the house.
She drove to Blue Ridge and pulled in next to the blue-and-white parked by the Sinclairs’ front door.
The two uniforms looked up, the long, cold hours all over their faces. She had never seen them before. Madison rolled down her window and showed her badge.
“Madison, Homicide. How are you doing?”
The older of the two just nodded.
“Quiet night?”
“A couple of jerks tried to steal some crime-scene tape.” He pointed at the yellow ribbon on the ground by the side door.
The house already had an empty look to it, as if people hadn’t slept and cooked and walked around inside it for a long time.
Madison hit the commuter traffic driving into town; in the thin sunlight, glass, metal, and water shimmered in the distance.
She turned the car radio on, instantly regretted it, and turned it off. It hadn’t been such a good idea to stop by the house. She had felt almost compelled to go in and make her way through it, top to bottom, attic to basement. Now that search would have to wait for hours. The killer had chosen the house to set his stage; that stage was how he would reveal himself to them.
Nathan Quinn would not be pleased: they were going to need a warrant to sieve through Sinclair’s financial affairs, work files, cases. He probably took work home—half the check had been found in the study.
There it was: a paltry $25,000 had likely cost four people their lives and was likelier going to bring down, once and for all, a pretty nasty piece of work who should have known better.
The rec room was cramped, but it was the only private space that would contain all of them at the same time. The detectives sat around the table. The case file, between the polystyrene cups and notebooks, was already inches thick.
Brown was running the briefing, with Madison to back him up. He checked his watch. Spencer and Dunne had brought in the blackboard with floor plans of the Sinclairs’ house. Lieutenant Fynn had come in with copies of the morning papers wedged under his arm: in two hours he was going to meet a woman from the department’s Public Affairs Office. He’d rather have a root canal.
They had Spencer, Dunne, and Kelly for another forty-eight hours. After that, Brown and Madison would be on their own—the others would move to new cases and help with the legwork whenever they could.
Madison noticed that Chris Kelly was wearing his dark blue suit, tight across his ex-linebacker shoulders but still smart, and a garish purple tie. It was his court outfit—they were going to lose him in the afternoon to a year-old robbery-murder just come to trial.
They had all been at the Sinclair crime scene, had smelled the thirty-six hours dead on their clothes. Brown went straight to the point.
“We have the ME’s preliminary autopsy notes. I’ll get to those in a minute. While you gentlemen were getting trench foot on the canvass, Lauren and Joyce found half of a torn check in the seat of a chair in the study, the other half in the kitchen bin.”
Madison, her legs stretched long under the table, sipped her coffee and waited for Brown to drop the bomb. Fynn had already been told.
“The check is a dud,” Brown continued. “The signature is a forgery, the prints on it are Sinclair’s, the forged signature name is John Cameron.”
Any rustling of paper, feet-shuffling, or note-taking stopped dead right then. Kelly put down his pen.
Dunne smiled wide. “I guess this is what some people might call a ‘lead.’”
Brown checked his watch again. “So far, so good. Sinclair and Cameron go way back—they were two of the Hoh River boys.” There were flashes of recognition around the room. “We know they knew each other. If Sinclair tried to steal from Cameron, anything’s possible.”
“For years I’ve been waiting for that piece of shit to resurface. I swear to God, I knew he would,” Kelly said as he played with the knot in his tie.
“What have we got?” Lieutenant Fynn asked.
“We have hairs from the ligature knot around Sinclair’s hands. Fellman is working on them; he says he can get DNA. It looks like they might belong to the intruder,” Brown said. “Toxicology confirmed chloroform on the father’s blindfold.”
Madison felt the shift in perception around the room like an icy draft: five minutes ago James Sinclair was the victim of a brutal murder; now he was quite possibly a greedy son of a bitch who’d gotten his family killed.
Brown took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.
“Let’s all hang on a minute here. One, we do not have a murder weapon—and, by the way, Ballistics says it was a twenty-two. Two, we don’t even have an entry point yet.”
“Doors and windows?” Spencer asked.
“Locked and clean. No footprints around the outside and no forced-entry marks.”
“What, he beamed in?” Dunne said.
“Looks like it.”
“What about ‘thirteen days’?” Spencer asked.
“Nothing solid. If it’s a message, we don’t even know who the message is for. We can presume it was for us to see, but as for its meaning, nothing yet.”
The telephone rang, and Brown picked up. It was Bob Payne. They talked for less than a minute. When Brown hung up, he stared at the receiver for almost as long.
Around him, Dunne was asking Madison about the meeting with Nathan Quinn, while Lieutenant Fynn and Spencer went over the newspapers’ headlines.
Madison’s eyes met Brown’s across the room. He looked as if he had just been told that the sun would rise from the west from now on.
“What?” she mouthed to him.
Brown blinked twice and came back to himself.
“That was Payne. The glass found in the kitchen by the sink. He made a match. John Cameron’s prints are on it. Three prints, twelve points of similarity.”
Juries had convicted with less. There was a moment of silence in the room. Madison, who had been to countless Sonics games, when there were games, thought they collectively looked like the guy from the audience who’s just been told he’s going to shoot the basket at halftime. It’s a great opportunity, and, sure, he could win some serious goodies, but he’ll be shooting from the middle of the court, everybody he knows in the world will be watching, and nobody will ever forget he missed.
Lieutenant Fynn had enough to help him survive his meeting with the PA person. He stood up, said a few private words to Brown, and left everyone to get on with their job, which in this instance, as Dunne put it, was pretty much like nailing Jell-O to the wall.
There was much to do. Madison vaguely remembered that they still had not interviewed Anne Sinclair’s colleagues at the primary school. It was strange: from the first moment she had stepped into the crime scene, it had felt as if the energy of the intruder had been centered on the father. Twenty-four hours on, given the evidence they had, nothing had yet contradicted that first impression.
“Have you seen Klein?” Brown asked her.
“She’s in the building; I saw her earlier.”
“I’ll page her.”
Sarah Klein was the Assistant County Prosecutor on call. Not exactly Madison’s favorite—that was Georgia Wolf, a litigious attorney in her mid-thirties with an attitude to match her name.
Madison started a system search for any DMV records she could dredge up on John Cameron: all the vehicles he’d ever owned, all the addresses he’d ever lived at. Her right hand bet five dollars with her left that they would find nothing more recent than what they had on that twenty-year-old arrest sheet. Say what you like, Madison considered. You’ve got to hand it to him; the creep had been careful.
Sarah Klein leaned on Madison’s desk. She had dark, shiny hair in a boyish cut and a sharp gray suit with a silk shirt. Madison always expected her to wipe a surface before leaning on it, but Klein never had.
“I heard you picked a real winner,” she said.
Madison brought her up to speed, and Klein listened in silence.
“The hairs are good only if Fellman can get DNA from them,” Klein said finally.
“He said he can,” Madison replied.
“I trust him. The check and the glass together—you’ve got something there, but you’re on thin ice.”
“Meaning?”
“The glass gives you a name. The check might link the name to a motive. Forget the personal relationship between them, and follow the money. You have probable cause to believe there was financial impropriety.”
“I’m calling the IRS next.”
“It’s a start. If Sinclair was Cameron’s tax lawyer, you can probably get a warrant to go through his file. But his firm is not going to make it easy for you.”
“Brown is working on the affidavit right now.”
“Which judge?”
“Hugo.”
“Not today. I spoke with him earlier; he’s in a foul mood.”
“Then Martin.”
“Okay, what else?”
“Once we find Cameron”—Madison let herself be optimistic about it—“what are our chances to get a court order for a DNA comparison with the hairs from the scene?”
“With what you have right now, short of getting him to bite you or spit on you, pretty much nil.”
“Great. Next, the house.”
“What about it?”
“We need the whole structure considered ‘crime scene.’ We don’t know where the intruder might have been. We need access to every scrap of paper in every drawer in every room.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Every nail in the garage, every box in the attic.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Every file in Sinclair’s computer in the study.”
“Everything but his work files.”
“That is less than helpful.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“Something else: Sinclair’s ICE, possibly the executor of his will, is Nathan Quinn.”
Klein sighed.
“Tell Brown to make that warrant tighter than airtight. So tight it practically squeaks. Quinn is not going to be delighted to find out one of his tax attorneys might have been an embezzler. Clients tend to resent that.”
“They were old friends.”
“Whatever. Money’s what brought down Capone.”
“Taxes?”
“Taxes.”
Klein turned as she was leaving. Madison had already picked up the receiver to dial out. The attorney held out her right thumb and index finger a fraction of an inch apart.
“Thin ice,” she said.
Neither of them was thinking about warrants.
Ten minutes later Madison returned to her desk with the printout from the DMV. Her eyes went to the photograph first: as old as the one on the arrest sheet—a serious-looking young man in a sheepskin coat.
There was an address, the same they already had from his drunk-driving charge. How good that was going to be twenty years later, they would soon find out. Apparently John Cameron had owned a series of identical black Ford pickup trucks. Brownie points for loyalty there.
Madison dropped the pages onto Brown’s desk—he was on the phone. Before him, the affidavit was almost complete.
The clerk from the IRS called Madison back. By the time they finished talking, she realized she had filled three pages of her notebook.
“Things are a tad more complicated than we thought,” Madison said.
“Did the IRS come through?”
“It sure did. Except that now we have more questions than answers.”
“Go on.”
“Sinclair was Cameron’s tax attorney. And quite scrupulous, too. He filed a tax return for him every year since forever.”
“How very proper of him. Where, exactly, is Cameron’s income coming from?”
“That’s the kicker. Their fathers owned a restaurant together, The Rock, on Alki Beach, and some real estate around it, and they left it to their sons.”
“Left it to Cameron and Sinclair.”
“Nope. To Cameron, Sinclair, and Quinn. Their fathers started the restaurant together in the early 1960s. I checked with the State Licensing Board; they hold the license. Somebody runs it for them, but they still own it.”
“And pay taxes on it.”
“Like clockwork. They’re going to send us a copy of the file.”
“Well, what do you know.” Brown stood up and picked up the affidavit. “Judge Martin is in chambers now; let’s go ruin her day. Where’s Quinn?”
As they walked past the desk sergeant downstairs, he motioned Brown with his head, his hand covering the receiver.
“Fred Tully from the Star,” he said.
Brown shook his head.
“Sorry, Fred, he’s not in the building.” Jenner rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Third time today,” Brown said.
Outside, the sunlight was unsure of itself. A photographer, waiting on the steps for somebody else, recognized Brown and Madison from the recent television footage and snapped them once, the flash brighter than the sun.