The Mia Quinn Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  All the ballistics information interested him, and Charlie read it several times. The CSIs had theorized that the killer had stood across the street in the pool of shadow where the streetlight used to shine and used a scoped rifle. If that were true, the shot to the heart hadn’t been lucky, but instead that of a skilled marksman.

  Finally Charlie turned out the lights. He tried to sleep, but the dead kept parading through his head: Stan, Colleen, and the dozens of people he had only gotten to know after someone turned them into sacks of flesh. Every day he was given another reason not to get too close to people.

  He thought of the pain he had seen in Mia’s blue eyes when they spoke to Darin’s parents. He imagined her turning her sorrowful eyes on him if she ever learned his story. But that story belonged to a much younger Charlie. A much weaker Charlie.

  He liked his women uncomplicated and without baggage. Girls who said, “I like to work hard and play hard,” and didn’t think it was a cliché. Girls who didn’t want a ring or kids or a guarantee that he would always be available. That holidays wouldn’t be interrupted by someone calling in with news of a body dump. Girls who wouldn’t ask any questions if the first thing he did after coming home from a particularly hairy scene was to put his shoes in the trash can before he even walked in the door.

  Charlie was still thinking of Mia when he fell asleep. He dreamed she was saying something to him, but he couldn’t make out the words, no matter how closely he watched her lips.

  The next morning he met Mia at her office and brought her up-to-date. Charlie started by recapping what he had read in Stan’s murder book, including the idea that the killer had used a rifle.

  “But the brass was found in Colleen’s yard, not across the street,” Mia said. “Why didn’t the shooter take the same approach?”

  She had put her finger on what had bothered Charlie last night. He offered up the only explanation he had come up with. “Stan had motion-sensor lights the shooter may have been trying to avoid. Colleen didn’t. And maybe there’s not as clean a sight line for Colleen from the street.”

  Mia squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I got the IP address for the computer the jerk who called himself True Patriot used, but it came back to a Peet’s Coffee wireless network. Peet’s doesn’t require users to sign on with a name or a credit card or anything. They could even have been sitting in a car in front of the coffee shop and using a laptop.”

  “I’ve got some better news. Martin Miller’s agreed to come in. For some reason”—Charlie grinned a little, thinking of the panic in Martin’s voice—“he didn’t want a homicide detective coming to his workplace. How about if I have him come at one?”

  “Okay. And let’s end the day by talking to Darin’s friends once they’re out of school. I’ll get in touch with the parents to get their permission.”

  A doughy-looking guy appeared in Mia’s doorway, clutching a pile of files. “Hey, Mia, I’ve got those cases you asked for.”

  “Jonas, this is Charlie Carlson, a homicide detective. Charlie, this is Jonas Carvel.”

  “Hey,” Jonas offered, not meeting Charlie’s eyes. He put the files down on Mia’s visitor’s table. “I did as you requested and looked for defendants they’ve had in common. The number was not that large, even though I programmed it to consider nicknames, such as Bob for Robert, or spelling variations such as last names that end in s-e-n or s-o-n.”

  Some people didn’t know how to cut to the chase. “So how many is it?” Charlie asked.

  “Three. They both prosecuted the same guy, Eddie Shaughnessy, for assault, but he’s been in prison for the last two years. And there’s another man, Jonny Feather, who was prosecuted by both of them for domestic violence, but the victims were different women.”

  “When was Feather’s most recent case?” Charlie asked.

  “Eighteen months ago. And he was released from prison five months ago.” Jonas picked up the top file in the pile. “And then there’s Trumaine Lavender. His is the most interesting case. Six years ago, Trumaine was with someone who shot a third guy in the neck. According to Trumaine, he convinced his buddy not to pull the trigger a second time. Not that it did the victim much good. He still died. Trumaine never went to the police, and he helped the shooter dispose of the weapon. But when he was arrested as an accomplice, Trumaine offered to testify for the prosecution, and Stan cut him a deal. Trumaine pleaded no contest to facilitation of murder. Stan recommended a five-year pretrial diversion.”

  That meant Trumaine’s charges would have been dismissed if he had stayed out of trouble for five years. But if Stan and Colleen had shared him as a defendant . . .

  “So what bad thing did Trumaine do next?” Charlie asked.

  “Three years ago a drug deal went wrong, and the drug dealer ended up dead. Trumaine was the shooter. Colleen put him in prison for fifteen years.”

  “Three years ago,” Mia echoed, and Charlie guessed they were thinking the same thing. None of these cases felt right. Two of the people involved were still in prison, and none of the cases seemed fresh enough to spark the need for brutal retribution.

  Jonas frowned. “If you think of any other parameters you want me to search for, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Jonas,” Mia said.

  After the kid left, Charlie walked over to the flip chart, now tucked against the wall. “So where do we stand?”

  Katrina stuck her head in. “How’s it going?”

  Charlie had never worked with her before, but now that he was spending so much time in the prosecutor’s office, she was always finding excuses to engage him. She asked questions about the case, offered him snacks, even picked lint off his jacket. Katrina was another blonde, so not really his type. Although lately he was beginning to think he should be more flexible.

  Mia sighed. “Lots of possibilities. No clear answers.”

  Katrina walked over to look at the flip chart. “What’s ‘gun rights’ mean? You mean that Safe Seattle Colleen volunteered with?”

  “It wasn’t only Colleen,” Mia said. “Stan too.”

  “Wow.” Katrina took a step back. “So you think somebody decided to shut them up permanently?” She pressed her lips together. “The sick thing is that whoever shot them didn’t have to worry that Stan or Colleen would return fire.”

  CHAPTER 23

  NEW INFORMATION SOUGHT IN THE MURDER OF TWO KING COUNTY DISTRICT ATTORNEYS

  King County Prosecutor Frank D’Amato announced today that he was devoting additional resources to solving the recent murder of King County District Attorney Colleen Miller. “The murder of Colleen Miller has understandably upset the community,” D’Amato said. “But we believe that it was not a random act. In fact, we are currently exploring any connection it might have with the murder nearly five years ago of another King County prosecutor, Stan Slavich.”

  D’Amato said that was where the public’s help was needed.

  “Colleen’s murder and the renewed media attention toward Stan’s killing could prompt a reaction in anyone involved in one or both of these homicides,” D’Amato said. “It’s important for people around that person to make note of behaviors that may be unusual or out of the ordinary. The killer could make unexpected or inappropriate comments about either of the victims or their murders. The killer might be preoccupied with the cases and want to talk about them constantly. Or the very mention of either murder might make him or her shut down completely. Any stronger than normal reaction, any significant deviation from the norm, is what people should be looking for.”

  D’Amato added, “We know information about Stan’s murder is still out there. We know there are people who—because of fear, doubt, or other reasons—have not yet come forward. Regardless of the reasons, now is the time to come forward. Now is the time to tell us what you know. Now is the time to help us solve this crime. What you know may matter. Please call. What may seem to you to be a small, insignificant observation could be a critical clue for law enforcement.”

  Mi
a finished reading the press release aloud. Charlie was driving them to Second Amendment Seattle.

  “Here come the crazies,” he said succinctly.

  “Exactly.” Mia folded the paper and put it in her purse. “And the vengeful, the deluded, and the just plain lonely.”

  “Are you talking about me again?” Charlie said, and for a second they shared a smile.

  The reception area for Second Amendment Seattle could have belonged to any business. On silvery-gray wall-to-wall carpeting, a Danish-style couch and chairs were grouped around a glass coffee table. But a closer look at the fan of magazines and what decorated the walls made it clear that this was not just a business. This was a cause. Instead of People or Architectural Digest, the magazines were Gun Digest, Shooting, and Garden & Gun. Instead of large framed photographs of flowers or landscapes, Second Amendment Seattle featured framed posters that were anything but soothing.

  As they waited, Charlie sat on the couch with his eyes closed, looking like he would rather be asleep. Mia was so tired that she had decided it was safer to stay on her feet and keep the blood flowing. It had taken her nearly an hour to get Brooke back to sleep. After that Mia’s own sleep had been choppy and full of nightmares in which Brooke had turned into a zombie.

  She walked up to the posters to look at them more closely. One showed two men sporting long greasy hair, tattoos, and shirts with the sleeves torn off. The headline read, “Meet the new neighbors. The government found them a nice house on your street.” In smaller print it said, “Without your knowledge, sex offenders could be moved into a halfway house in your neighborhood. All while our right to keep and bear arms is under constant attack. The ultimate insult of gun control is that it leaves honest Americans at the mercy of those who will show no mercy.”

  The second poster featured a black-and-white photo of a frightened young woman wearing a camisole. She had her back pressed into a corner, and her wide eyes stared at something outside the camera’s view. In one hand she held a shotgun, pointed up. The headline said, “A violent criminal is breaking through your front door. Can you afford to be unarmed?”

  The receptionist called out, “Mr. Teller will see you now.” Charlie gave himself a little shake and rose from the couch. Mia joined him, and together they followed the receptionist’s pointing finger back to a corner office.

  Mia had never met Gary Teller in person, although she had seen him often enough on the news. He shook hands with them before taking a seat behind his oak desk. It was big enough that the top could have doubled as a raft. Even though Gary appeared to be in his late fifties, there was something boyish about him. He was a slight man with a snub nose and thin lips. His twinkling blue eyes belied the thinning crop of hair that was a little too uniformly auburn to be real.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about today?” He gave them a pleasant smile.

  “We wanted to ask you some questions about Safe Seattle,” Charlie said.

  “Oh please.” He rolled his eyes. “They call themselves Safe Seattle. I would ask: safe for whom? In their version of utopia, the only people who own guns would be criminals, leaving the law-abiding citizen with no way to protect himself or his family. They have a laundry list of ridiculous demands. For example, they want handguns to be sold with trigger locks. But you can only safely deploy a trigger lock on a weapon that’s already unloaded. At that point, the gun is nothing but a lump of useless steel with a lock on it.” He looked at Mia. “Imagine that you wake up in the middle of the night with a rapist at the foot of your bed. Will you have time to unlock and load your weapon?”

  Before she could think of an answer, he shook his head. “They also want to require handgun owners to take an eight-hour safety course before they can even legally possess a gun—or risk a felony charge.” He threw his hands in the air. “If guns are criminalized, then only criminals will own guns. The right to own a gun is enshrined in our constitution just below freedom of religion and freedom of the press. Our civil rights should be sacred. Yet Safe Seattle constantly seeks to infringe on those rights—and sometimes they even succeed.”

  Mia said, “Are you talking about the measure that prevented anyone who has been involuntarily committed to a mental hospital for two or more weeks from purchasing a gun?”

  He pressed his hands into his desk. “What I’m talking about are the five thousand Washingtonians who each and every year are now deprived of their Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms.”

  She refrained from pointing out that the reason they had been hospitalized was that they posed a risk to themselves or those around them.

  “The truth,” Gary continued, “is that Safe Seattle as well as the mainstream media would be happy to have us all weapons-free. The gun control groups spend millions of dollars buying influence. We’re just trying to inject a note of sanity into the process.”

  “And what we’re trying to do is investigate two murders,” Charlie said. “One occurred over four years ago, the other on Sunday. Both victims were King County prosecutors: Stan Slavich and Colleen Miller. Both of them shot at night, at home, through a window, with a .22.”

  “So you’re thinking that whoever shot Mr. Slavich almost five years ago has struck again with the same firearm?” Gary sounded amused. “Crooks aren’t generally smart, but most of them aren’t stupid enough to hold on to a gun used in a crime for five years and then use it again.”

  “There’s one other thing Stan and Colleen had in common,” Mia said. “Both of them were active in Safe Seattle. And we’re considering whether that was really a coincidence.”

  Gary furrowed his brow, managing to look both confused and amused. “So your theory is—what? That we were so threatened by these people in this ineffectual organization that has only managed to pass one law—one—in years, that we sent someone out to kill two of their members? And how would that do our cause any good? All it would do would be to play into the stereotype that people who support the right to keep and bear arms are trigger-happy.”

  “Look,” Charlie said soothingly, “we all know that any movement attracts a fringe element, a tiny minority of people who might be passionate to the point of being unbalanced. Your organization has always been open about its contempt for Safe Seattle. What if someone drawn to your cause decided to take that a little too far?”

  Gary heaved a sigh and folded his hands. “It’s true that you’re always going to get a few people so attracted to a cause that they would be willing to do anything if they thought it would serve the greater good.”

  Mia leaned forward. “So help us out. Who are the people with that kind of mind-set that Second Amendment Seattle has attracted?”

  He gave them a sly smile. “Actually, I was talking about the other side.”

  “Other side?” Mia asked.

  “Safe Seattle.”

  “What?” Mia wasn’t following.

  “Ask yourself: who would benefit from Mr. Slavich’s and Ms. Miller’s deaths? Not the gun rights cause. No sir. In fact, whoever killed them just made martyrs of them. And since Washington State is squarely behind the Second Amendment, who needs a martyr more than those pro–gun control nuts? No, whoever did this was only helping our enemy’s cause, not ours.”

  “So you’re saying,” Charlie said slowly, “that if Ms. Miller and Mr. Slavich were murdered by someone advocating for this issue, it would have been by someone on their own side?”

  “Yes.” Gary nodded happily. “That is exactly what I’m saying. Safe Seattle is not getting any traction in this state. They haven’t passed a ballot measure in years. People in Washington grow up with firearms. This is a largely rural state where guns are simply useful tools. The only hope our opponents have is to manipulate the residents of Seattle—city dwellers who haven’t grown up with a tradition of safe firearm usage—into believing the lie that people who support the Second Amendment are unstable gun crazies. To do that, what they need most are martyrs. And now they’ve got them.”

  For a
second Gary reminded Mia of Gabe, who sometimes argued circles around her until she simply gave up. There was no point in disagreeing with his convoluted argument. Instead, she passed over the printout of True Patriot’s call for more deaths. Gary’s expression didn’t change as he read it. Then he looked back up at them.

  “So?”

  “Are you telling me he’s not part of your fringe element?”

  He shrugged. “It’s possible. But these are words, not deeds. All kinds of people love to go to these websites that accept anonymous postings, set off verbal bombs, and then sit back and enjoy the fallout. This same person is probably making racist comments on stories about immigrants, or anti-gay slurs if a news story talks about a same-sex couple.”

  “But what if True Patriot or one of your members decided to use more than words?” Mia asked.

  “I can assure you that our members are law-abiding citizens who use the legal system to effect change. Let me repeat that these crimes are horrible, and that whoever committed them does our cause no good. It only plays into the hands of our enemies. Plays so well that one has to wonder if it’s really a dirty trick.” He raised an eyebrow. “Besides, the shooter was clearly not an experienced gun user. I understand they recovered a shell casing at the scene of Ms. Miller’s murder. Someone who knew firearms wouldn’t have used a revolver that would expel shells, leaving them and maybe even fingerprints behind. Or they would have picked up the shell.”

  Mia stiffened. How did Gary know about the brass? That hadn’t been released in the media. Did he know because he had friends on the force?

  Or was it because he knew far more about Colleen’s murder than he was admitting?

  CHAPTER 24

  On the monitor, Mia watched Charlie as he waited for Martin, Colleen’s ex-husband. Although waiting wasn’t exactly the word for what Charlie was doing. The man simply couldn’t sit still. He tapped his feet, shifted in his seat, drummed his fingers on the table. He had either drunk too much coffee, had ADHD, or simply couldn’t handle downtime. Or maybe all three.