Murder One

by Robert Dugoni

  “Briefly.”

  “What about?”

  “What do two people with nothing to say to each other talk about? It was small talk. It wasn’t comfortable.”

  Rowe waited.

  “As I said, it got ugly. He was showing up at my office and at home, making all kinds of wild accusations.”

  The domestic-violence unit was located in the same building. Getting reports to confirm the allegations would not be difficult.

  “Anyone else you can think of who could have had access to your home?”

  “I didn’t say my ex had access to my home, Detective.”

  “I meant can you think of anyone else besides your ex?”

  She shrugged.

  “What about Mr. Sloane?”

  “What about him?”

  “He was in your home tonight; has he been in your home before?”

  She looked bemused again and fingered the gold chain around her neck, her eyes finding his. “Yes.”

  Rowe forced himself to maintain eye contact. “Did he know you had a gun?”

  Reid didn’t answer immediately. She sat back. It was the first time she seemed reluctant. “He commented on it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he saw the gun box in the closet that morning.”

  “What morning?”

  “Tuesday morning.” She looked about to say something more, then stopped.

  “Something you want to add?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “You looked like you wanted to say something.”

  She smiled. “I’m a lawyer; I always look like I want to say something.”

  “Who would know the code for the gun box?”

  “Just me, but it wouldn’t really matter; I don’t lock it.”

  “You don’t lock the box?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said, I’m the only one there to worry about, and I didn’t want to be fumbling with numbers in the dark if I needed to get to it in a hurry.”

  “What’s your relationship with Mr. Sloane?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “And you asked him to file a civil action against Mr. Vasiliev?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “I had a case against him last year. He won. I don’t lose, Detective. For someone to beat me, he has to be good. He’s also quite prominent. I hoped his notoriety would help my ‘crusade.’” She used her fingers to demonstrate quotations.

  “How long ago did you retain him?”

  “I talked to him about it that same day.”

  “What day?”

  “Tuesday. We met for lunch in his office, and I asked him if he would consider it.”

  “And did he agree?”

  “Not right away. He wanted to talk to the U.S. attorney who had handled the criminal case.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I knew we would get around to that question sooner or later. You mean my alibi? I don’t have one, unless you consider reading in bed alone an alibi.”

  “When did you arrive home?”

  “I left the office around four to get in a bike ride.”

  “Where’d you go on your ride?” Reid provided Rowe with what she called “her normal route,” and he commented, “That’s a long way.”

  “About twenty-five miles, round-trip.”

  “You always ride that far?”

  “Farther on the weekend.”

  “And judging from the shoes piled by your front door, can I assume you also run?”

  “And swim. I’m in training for triathlons. I’m hoping to do my first Ironman next year.”

  “That’s what, running, biking, and swimming?” Rowe asked.

  “Reverse order. It’s swimming, biking, and running. I did a run tonight,” Reid said.

  “How far did you go?”

  “Seven and a half miles.”

  “You usually run farther?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And when you swim, how far do you usually go?”

  “As much as I can stomach; I like it the least.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I bore easily, Detective.”

  “When did you get back to the house after your bike ride Tuesday night?”

  She shrugged and showed him the ACE bandage wrapped around her wrist. “I didn’t have a watch. Dusk. So I would guess about eight or eight-thirty. Give or take a half hour.”

  “What happened to your wrist?”

  “My hand, actually. I cut it on a piece of glass.”

  “And you still went for a ride?”

  She shrugged. “The back tire brake is applied with the right hand.”

  “Did you ride with anyone?”

  “No, by myself.”

  “Stop anywhere along the way?”

  “If I stop, Detective, I’m liable not to start again.”

  “And what did you do after you got home?”

  “Nothing.” She drew the word out, smiling as she said it. “I try to make my evenings my time. It’s really the only time I have to myself. If I kept to routine, I made a protein shake, watched a little television, climbed in bed, and read until I fell asleep, which usually doesn’t take long.”

  Rowe looked at his notes. “Did you make any phone calls that night, talk to anyone?”

  Reid thought for a moment, shaking her head. “I don’t remember if I did or not, but I’m sure you could subpoena my phone records if that becomes necessary.”

  “What about Mr. Sloane? Did you and he talk?” Rowe had been taking notes. When the answer did not come as quickly as the others, he looked up. It was the second time she had hesitated. Both questions involved David Sloane. “Did you hear the question?”

  “I talked to David.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Rowe sensed sudden reticence. “Do you remember what you talked about?”

  “He was upset.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Two of Vasiliev’s men had staged a car accident and forcibly escorted him to Vasiliev’s car dealership in Renton.”

  “Did he say what happened?”

  She paused. “He said Vasiliev threatened him, threatened to hurt his son.”

  Rowe sat back, watching her. “Has Mr. Sloane ever been in your bedroom when you weren’t present?”

  She bit the lip again. “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “That same morning.”

  “Tuesday morning?”

  “Yes.”

  The day before Vasiliev was killed.

  THREE TREE POINT

  BURIEN, WASHINGTON

  If the trigger pull on the Glock had been any less, Sloane would have shot him in the head.

  He slid his finger back along the barrel and lowered the gun, breathing heavily. Light-headed, he reached for the door frame. Realizing this would not keep him upright, he took two steps backward and slumped to a sitting position on the edge of his desk, his eyes closed. He felt a chill.

  “You okay?” Charles Jenkins descended the remaining stairs and stood before him. At the sound of Sloane yelling “Freeze!” Jenkins had fallen backward against the railing, hands raised, eyes wide.

  “No, I’m not okay. What the hell are you doing here? I told you I wouldn’t be home tonight.” A thought came to him. “Where’s your car?” Jenkins’s eyes shifted to the gun in Sloane’s hand. “What?” Sloane asked.

  “Did you do it?”

  Sloane tilted his head, uncertain. “Do what?”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It was on the news.”

  “I know.”

  “I made a call; the bullet was a thirty-eight.”

  “You have to ask me that question?” When Jenkins didn’t respond, Sloane said, “You were there. I could have blown Stenopolis’s head off.”

  When Jenkins still didn�
��t respond, Sloane held out the gun. Jenkins took it and sniffed the barrel for gunpowder residue. Sloane walked past him into the living room and pulled a bottle of Scotch from the antique cupboard that served as a hard-liquor cabinet. “You want one?” Jenkins shook his head. Sloane fought to steady his hand as he poured the amber liquid and took a drink. He went out on the covered porch, facing the plate-glass windows.

  Jenkins followed him. “So why are you home?”

  “The police came. She owns a thirty-eight revolver. It’s missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “She keeps it in a gun box in her closet. It isn’t there. They asked her to go with them for questioning.”

  “You didn’t go with her?”

  “She wouldn’t let me.” The sun had set, just a faint glow above the Olympic Mountain peaks. He heard Jenkins’s boots on the wooden porch behind him. Sloane didn’t turn from the view. “She didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sloane shrugged, turned from the view. Jenkins leaned against the door frame. “I just do,” Sloane said.

  “Who, then?” Jenkins asked.

  “I don’t know.” He felt the Scotch burn the back of his throat.

  “You said you were tired of people threatening you; tired of people threatening the people you love,” Jenkins said, as if to explain.

  “I am tired. Damn tired.”

  Before Jenkins could respond, someone knocked on the front door.

  THE JUSTICE CENTER

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  His adrenaline normally continued to pump long after an interrogation, but after an hour with Barclay Reid, Rowe left the room feeling fatigued. It’d been a long day, and it would be an even longer next couple of days. He wondered if he was coming down with something, a flu or a cold. One of his kids had been sick earlier in the week, throwing up, a twenty-four-hour stomach thing.

  Crosswhite and Cerrabone turned from the window as he walked in. Rowe shrugged, the universal gesture: What do you think?

  Crosswhite said, “We were just asking each other the same thing. I don’t know. Something’s not right. She’s too calm.”

  Rowe slumped onto a plastic chair. “Maybe it’s like she said. Maybe she has nothing to hide.”

  Crosswhite gave an emphatic shake of the head. “All the more reason to be concerned, Sparrow; most people would be shitting bricks sitting in that room, especially if they didn’t do it.”

  “I don’t think she’s most people,” he said.

  “Exactly. She knows the legal system.”

  “You think that’s why she offered to take a polygraph?”

  Reid had made the offer out of the blue. She said she wanted to get the matter resolved.

  “She’s a lawyer,” Crosswhite said. “She probably knows it’s not admissible. It’s a hollow gesture.”

  “Not if she fails.”

  Crosswhite paced. “Something doesn’t add up, her reactions . . . She was flirting with you.”

  Rowe scoffed. “She didn’t flirt with me.”

  Crosswhite rolled her eyes. “Please. Every man in the world thinks every woman in the world is flirting with him. Now you have one who is, and you don’t recognize it?”

  Rowe looked to Cerrabone. “What did you think?”

  Cerrabone raised a hand. “I’ve been married so long I wouldn’t know flirting if a woman took off her top in front of me.”

  “Yeah? That ever happen?” Rowe asked.

  “Not when I was single, and definitely not since I’ve been married.”

  Crosswhite’s voice rose. “Come on. She touched your forearm.” She softened her voice. “ ‘Is that a bird?’ What type of a question is that? She’s being questioned about a murder, and she’s acting like she’s having coffee at the local Starbucks.”

  Rowe looked to the window. Reid had pushed her chair away from the table to cross her legs, the index finger and thumb of her right hand kneading the gold cross. As his gaze found the soft outline of her breasts, her head turned, as if she had sensed him, and despite the glass, she seemed to make eye contact.

  “Sparrow?”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you think?” From her tone, he knew he’d missed the question.

  “About what?”

  “Let’s call her on it,” Cerrabone said. “Let’s have her take the polygraph. What, does she think she can beat it?”

  “Can we get somebody now?” Rowe asked.

  “Have her come back tomorrow,” Cerrabone said.

  Rowe stood, pulled the keys from his pocket. “I’ll thank her for coming in, drive her home.”

  Cerrabone said, “Have a patrol car take her home.” Rowe looked over at him. “In case she’s right,” he said, giving a nod to Crosswhite.

  Crosswhite stood and stepped past him. “Forget it. I’ll let her know.”

  THREE TREE POINT

  BURIEN, WASHINGTON

  The front door of Sloane’s home faced SW 170th Place, but it was not visible from the street behind the laurel hedge, a freestanding single-car garage, and twenty feet of lawn. People who knew him used one of the two gates off the easement, which led to the porches outside the kitchen and the backyard. Only solicitors knocked on Sloane’s front door, but it was late, even for the most brazen and persistent. Sloane had a hunch whom he’d find even before he looked through the peephole.

  Detectives Rowe and Crosswhite weren’t selling anything.

  “Sorry to call on you so late,” Rowe said, though he didn’t sound like it. “May we come in?”

  Sloane followed them into the living room, where Charles Jenkins stood as big and imposing as the darkened view out the plate-glass windows. Sloane introduced them.

  “What can I help you with?” Sloane asked.

  “We’d like to ask you a few things, get some time lines straight.”

  “You’ve spoken to Barclay?”

  “We’re just trying to corroborate a few things. Would you mind?”

  Sloane knew they hadn’t made the drive to corroborate anything. “No, I don’t mind.”

  They sat in the living room, Sloane on the leather sofa, Rowe and Crosswhite across the glass coffee table in two matching chairs. Jenkins remained standing.

  Rowe started. “Could you tell us the nature of your relationship with Ms. Reid?”

  “She’s a colleague and friend.”

  “That friendship has been recent?”

  “Yes, though we had a case against each other about a year ago.”

  “But that did not develop into a relationship?”

  “I was married at the time, Detective. My wife died about fourteen months ago. She was murdered. I haven’t been in any shape for a relationship.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rowe said. “Was her murder ever resolved?”

  Sloane had a sense Rowe knew it had not been, at least not as far as a police investigation would ever reveal. “How is this related to Barclay?”

  “How well do you know Ms. Reid?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve spent the night at her home?”

  “Is this relevant?”

  “Were you with her last night? The night Mr. Vasiliev was killed?”

  “No.”

  “She indicated you spent Monday night together at her home.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Rowe flipped a page in his notebook. Sloane got the impression it was for show. “And it was the next day, Tuesday I believe, that she came to you with this idea of suing Mr. Vasiliev in a civil case?”

  “That’s right. She wanted to sue him for the wrongful death of her daughter. I told her I wanted to speak to the U.S. attorney first and find out what information she had that could link Vasiliev to the drugs that killed Carly. Barclay set up the meeting.”

  “And what chance of success did you give Ms. Reid’s case?”

  “It hadn’t really gotten that far, Detective. I wanted to talk to the U.S. attorney first.”

 
Crosswhite asked, “Has a wrongful-death case against a suspected drug dealer ever been successful, to your knowledge?”

  Sloane shrugged. “Again, everything was preliminary. Barclay was excited about the prospect; she thought it could help with her efforts to lobby the legislature to pass a drug dealer liability act.”

  “Had Ms. Reid ever displayed any anger over her daughter’s death? Did she ever blame Vasiliev?”

  In his head, Sloane saw the glass shatter, beer spraying, then the blood.

  If I had known he was going to walk, I would have just put a bullet in him and been done with it.

  “Those are two separate questions.”

  “Feel free to choose either one,” Rowe said.

  “All right . . . As to whether she ever blamed Vasiliev, I’d have to assume she did, since she was in my office and wanted him held responsible. As to whether she ever expressed any anger, no, I don’t recall that she did.”

  Rowe flipped backward through the pages of his notebook. As he did, Crosswhite jumped in. “So you saw Ms. Reid Tuesday morning . . . what time did you leave her home?”

  “Around eight, I think.”

  “And then you saw her again in your office at . . .”

  “Noon.”

  “Why didn’t she just talk to you about suing Vasiliev that morning?”

  Sloane shrugged. “Ask her. We were both late getting to work. She said she wanted to do some research first . . . I would guess to see if it had ever been done.”

  “Did she say what was the result of her research?”

  “She’d found a case in California that appeared promising.”

  “Did you have any further contact with her that day?” Rowe asked.

  Sloane realized where Rowe was headed. He had called Reid that afternoon to tell her Vasiliev had threatened him. He also realized something else. He’d had access to Reid’s gun that morning. They had discussed it on the roof deck.

  “I spoke to her on the phone late that afternoon, early evening,” Sloane said.

  “Why did you call?” Rowe asked.

  “I was concerned about her.”

  “Why?”

  “As I was leaving work that afternoon, Mr. Vasiliev sent two men to my garage to invite me to talk with him.”

  “You mean they forced you.”

  “They staged a car accident as I was backing out of my space.”

  “Did they have weapons?”

  “Both men were carrying guns.”