Madison walked to Rachel’s in seven minutes. Over their twenty-year friendship their homes had never been farther apart than fifteen minutes on foot, which meant everything when you were thirteen.
On Blue Ridge a few houses had already put up their Christmas decorations, and colored lights winked from behind curtains. Alice’s father had never been much for that sort of thing. Her grandparents, though, had decided that she should have the biggest tree in Seattle for their first Christmas together, and she had loved it.
Rachel’s house was crammed with relatives. Neal’s brothers with their wives and kids, aunts and uncles, cousins Alice hadn’t met for years. Several children were parked in front of the television playing video games. Adults sat on the sofas and stood by the buffet table. Ruth, Rachel’s mother, made sure everyone was fed and watered to capacity.
Rachel had steered Alice through the front rooms, and they had ended up sitting on the stairs by the first-floor landing, holding their plates on their laps.
Once, when Alice was still in uniform, she had worked the case of a missing nine-year-old boy. The day they found him, buried under some bushes in the playground, Rachel had sat with her in Alice’s dark house for hours. Now that she was in Homicide, Madison did not sit with the lights off anymore.
Rachel took a sip from her wine and looked at her friend.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Fine. I slept like a rock last night. How was your week?”
“Okay. Term’s over, no major dramas. I’ll spend the holidays marking a pile of essays.”
Rachel taught classes twice a week at UW, in the psychology department. “What about you? Any dreams lately?”
Rachel was the one person in the world who knew.
“Every few months. It’s not too bad.”
“The woman I told you about is really good, if you want to talk to someone.”
“I’m okay. I’m used to it.”
“I don’t think it does you any good just to live with it.”
“It’s not a big deal anymore.”
“For Chrissake, girl, you do have a psychology degree.”
“I know. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, right. By the way, Tommy wandered off in the supermarket again. I found him sitting on the floor in the cereal aisle, playing with the boxes. It’s the second time in a month. Did you catch your guy last night?”
“Nope. Just a thirteen-year-old girl who held up four cops in a convenience store with an unloaded gun.”
“Jesus.”
“Almost got herself shot over a couple of Mars bars.”
“You were there?”
“Yes. She’s with Social Services now.” Madison took a sip of wine. “Her name is Rose.”
“Pretty,” Rachel said.
A couple of hours later Madison was on the sofa with Tommy, Rachel’s six-year-old, reading one of his books aloud. It was a collection of Native American myths written for children; Tommy knew it by heart, but he liked to be read to.
The fire was crackling in the fireplace, and they had Tommy’s quilt on their lap. After five minutes without being interrupted by his little voice, she realized that he had fallen asleep.
Madison’s gaze went to the wall above the fireplace. It was what they called “the family wall.” Photographs of the Levers and the Abramowiczes going back generations. Alice had always had her favorites: Rachel’s Russian grandparents on their wedding day, Rachel and herself on the steps of the apartment they’d shared in college, the black-and-white portrait of an unknown boy in his best Sunday suit.
Alice didn’t have any photographs of her parents. She liked being on the wall with the rest of Rachel’s folks.
Somebody was playing Bach next door, the beauty of the structure coming through in spite of the useless piano lessons.
Madison looked at the fire for a while longer, then got up slowly so as not to wake the child. Tommy didn’t stir. After thank-yous and good-byes she walked home, had a quick look inside her fridge, and went into the bedroom. Before she even realized what she was doing, she put on her holster with her off-duty piece, closed the safe, and left the house.
At the supermarket she picked up fruit and vegetables, cheese from the deli counter, and fresh bread. The store was already in full Christmas swing, and a tape of carols was playing around the clock.
She was standing by the poultry case when she noticed the man, a skinny white guy in a denim jacket. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking over his shoulder at the security guard, who was talking with the young woman at the checkout.
His clothes looked all right, and his hands were both in sight. He looked toward the exit again; the guard was still deep in conversation. At that moment the man was joined by a woman and a small child. Madison picked up some pieces of chicken and went to pay. The things we see in people . . . Madison didn’t know a cop who didn’t automatically keep an eye out for the guy wearing a coat on a summer day.
Back at home she pulled on sweatshirt and pants and ran for forty-five minutes around the neighborhood. Her nose stung in the freezing cold. Detective Sergeant Kevin Brown was on her mind. Starched white shirts and raincoat. She would learn from him, whether he liked it or not. She’d be right there where the job was.
She cooked her dinner with the news on and ate out of the pan, watching a Sports Night rerun. Just before going to bed, she took her gun out and cleaned it completely, dry-fired it a couple of times, reloaded it, and put it under the bed. She fell asleep at 9:30 p.m. and dreamed no dreams till morning.
Chapter 4
The offices of Quinn, Locke & Associates occupied the ninth floor of Stern Tower between Pike and Sixth. Nathan Quinn had been in his office since 7:30 a.m., reading a brief for King County vs. Mallory and making notes. On his desk was the brief, his laptop, a lamp, and black coffee in a white china cup and saucer. The rain traced fine lines across Puget Sound and the harbor as they emerged slowly into sight from the corner window.
The quiet, elegant office and the beautiful view suited him well, as well as his dark suit and expensive shoes did. But nothing suited Nathan Quinn better than the small pool of light over the mahogany desk and the brief before him as he prepared to go into battle. The view stayed largely unappreciated and the coffee untouched.
Carl Doyle, who managed the day-to-day running of the firm, brought him his mail at 8:30 a.m., along with a list of the messages that had been left on the answering machine overnight and a reminder of the times he was due in court that day.
Quinn briefly looked over the envelopes and opened a couple. One was a thank-you and the other a thinly veiled threat from a witness he had subpoenaed. The third envelope was heavy, cream-colored paper and looked like an invitation. Quinn opened it and took out the card that matched it. There were only two words on it, printed in black ink. He turned the card over, but there was nothing more. He read it again:
Thirteen Days
He put it aside and went back to the rest of the mail. It was not the first, nor would it be the last, anonymous letter he had received; this wasn’t even particularly original. Later, much later on, he would think of that moment as a small death.
Chapter 5
Monday morning, 8:30 a.m., Maria Davis was running a little late. She walked quickly up Blue Ridge Drive, holding her umbrella tightly against the wind. Monday was always the worst for traffic, yet she didn’t mind coming to Three Oaks. She had worked for the Sinclairs for seven years, since their youngest was born. They were a nice young couple, and the housework was light. Mrs. Davis was forty-three, her own two kids in high school, and she held another job with a family in the neighborhood.
She walked into the driveway and noticed that the curtains were still drawn on the first-floor windows. She rang the doorbell once and put her key in the door, turned it, and stepped in.
“Good morning!” she called out. She closed the door behind her and listened for voices. The only light in the hall came
from the Christmas tree in the living room.
“Hello!” She hung her coat on the rack by the door.
Tree branches brushed against the windows as she took two steps into the living room and paused. Everything in place, curtains drawn, the Christmas tree next to the French doors.
“Mrs. Anne . . . ?”
She peeked into the kitchen; the dishwasher light was on, the cycle finished. Maria looked around; no one had made coffee today. It was a tiny thing, and she didn’t know why it should upset her so much. I should check the bedrooms.
At the top of the stairs, seeping out under the scent of wood polish, an ugly smell hit her hard, and the small hairs on her arms rose against the fabric of her shirt.
The door to the master bedroom was wide open: four bodies lay on the bed next to one another like flesh turned to stone, blindfolded and hands tied, the pillows slick with blood, and the boys between them. She didn’t have the breath to scream; she stood and stared. When she found her way downstairs, she called 911, and the operator asked which service she wanted.
“The children . . .” she said, and she had to hold the receiver with both hands. After the operator told her a patrol car was on its way, Maria Davis opened the front door and sat on the step.
The first blue-and-white arrived at 8:47 a.m. Officers Giordano and Hall secured Mrs. Davis in the back of the patrol car and went in. She sat there, trembling, her eyes closed, her face pale.
This was no way to start a Monday morning, Giordano thought; his ulcer had already started to glow red.
Hall pointed silently to the stairs. Their pieces were out; the crime scene had not been cleared yet. They walked up, step after step, got to the landing together, and saw what Maria Davis had seen beyond the open bedroom door.
“Don’t touch anything,” Giordano whispered.
“I know,” Hall snapped back.
Giordano had seen more dead bodies than he cared to remember, but when children were involved, he felt he had to speak softly in their presence. Hall stood still, unable to move or look away.
A few minutes later, back in the car, Giordano’s voice was clear. “. . . Yes. Two adults, two kids. 1135 Blue Ridge Drive, Three Oaks . . .”
He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, ducked into the rain, and went back into the house.
Lieutenant Fynn took the call in his office at 8:58 a.m. He jotted down the details and stood up to get his crew together. Madison knew him to be a heavyweight, a cop who’d rather stay on the floor and work with his men than get promoted and play golf.
“Everybody. We have four DOAs in a private residence in Three Oaks.”
Madison looked up from her paperwork; she hoped her voice would come out steady.
“What’s the address?”
“1135 Blue Ridge.” Fynn looked around the room. “Let’s have everybody down there. Brown, you’re up?”
Brown was already in his raincoat. “This one’s mine.”
Madison put her coat on. She didn’t know anybody at that address. She ought to have been relieved, but it didn’t work that way. For the first time she was going to work on her home turf, on Rachel’s home turf, in Three Oaks. There was no relief in that.
Madison and Brown were riding with Chris Kelly, a veteran Homicide detective with a ratty temper whom nobody liked. He thought himself a mean bastard and liked the notion. Brown tolerated him; Madison just kept away.
“You know people there?” Brown asked her—the man didn’t miss a thing.
“No, but it’s my neighborhood,” Madison replied.
She could almost see Kelly’s ears pricking up as the man mentally calculated the relative price of real estate there. The sirens cut through the steady hum of I-5, and Madison felt the initial rush of adrenaline.
“I don’t know what we’re going to find when we get there,” Brown said, “but it’s going to get a lot of coverage.”
You can take that to the bank, Madison thought.
A white helicopter from a news channel hovered like a beacon of tragedy above the wooded hills. A small crowd of onlookers was already forming at the end of the driveway; four patrol cars were parked on the side of the road, lights off and radios crackling. Brown slowed down and showed his badge to one of the three uniforms manning the driveway.
He was waved in and got out of the car, stepping into the rain. The ambulances arrived at the same time.
Brown approached a couple of young cops standing by the main door and flashed his badge. “Brown, Homicide. Who’s the first officer?”
Madison took out her notepad and glanced at the crowd. It would get much bigger—you could bet on that. Nothing like free entertainment. Without a raincoat, she was wearing a blazer over her shirt and pants, her badge hooked over the breast pocket. As she pulled on latex gloves, one of the two uniforms eyed her up and down. She looked straight back, and he looked away.
Officer Giordano walked them all upstairs. “It’s pretty bad,” he said.
Yes, Madison thought as they filed into the bedroom, it is.
“Spencer, can you go talk to Mrs. Davis?” Brown asked. “See if she needs a doctor.”
Spencer walked off, and Madison knew that he would talk to the cleaning lady with that quiet voice of his, and she’d calm down and tell him what she knew.
“Did she give you the vics’ names?” Brown asked Giordano.
“Yes. This here is the father. James Sinclair—late thirties, she thinks. That’s the wife, Anne. Same age. These are their kids, John and David, nine and seven years old. Someone took out the whole family.” Giordano slapped his notebook shut. “No sign of forced entry anywhere. All the lights were off except for the tree downstairs.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
Brown switched the overhead light on with the end of a pencil. Giordano shifted on his feet; he wanted to do something for those poor folks and didn’t know what. “I’ll make sure you guys can work in peace.”
Somebody had gone to great lengths to set the scene for them. Somebody had prepared tools and positioned bodies and thought the matter through very, very carefully. Though Madison did not know much about the crime yet, she knew this: whatever passion had sparked such a horror, the hand that had brought it to completion was controlled, accurate, and dead-cold steady, the evil stillness in the eye of the hurricane.
She took it all in, her gaze cataloguing everything.
“All right, tell me what you see,” Brown instructed her. “Let’s start with the father.”
Madison crouched, balancing herself on her heels. Her sense of smell protested her getting closer to the mattress, but she ignored it.
“Looks like at least twenty-four hours.”
“Yes. Why?”
“Lividity. I can’t tell about rigor without moving him, and we ought to wait for the ME’s people.”
“Go on.”
“He’s blindfolded with a piece of . . . black velvet. Not torn, cut. On the forehead, there is a sign like a cross. Drawn in blood. He’s bound with . . . looks like leather. Thin strip. Around his neck, hands, and feet. Hands are tied behind his back. Makes it really difficult to move if you’re lying down on them.”
Madison paused and breathed. It was not easy, but she let the facts keep coming to her.
“Deep red ligature marks around where he’s tied. Some bruising. He put up a fight. I’m not going to take the blindfold off yet. No other obvious wounds. It doesn’t look like it’s his blood there on the pillow. Cause of death, probably asphyxia. We’ll have to check the eyes for petichiae.”
“What about the others?”
Madison was aware of the Crime Scene Unit men setting up on the landing; the pathologist had just arrived and was snapping his gloves on, a double layer. She focused on the dark-haired woman and her children.
“All blindfolded. All with a cross on the forehead drawn in blood. Only the hands are tied on these three. At the front. No ligature marks.”
“What does that tell you?”
She stood up. The room was chilly, the front door open to people coming and going. The Sinclairs and their children were wearing only pajamas.
Brown gave her a brief nod. It was the most she had gotten from him in four weeks.
“How are you doing, old man?” The forensic pathologist gave Brown his usual salute.
“I was doing a hell of a lot better before I got here,” Brown said.
“I can see why.” Dr. Fellman took in the scene and knelt next to the father.
“James and Anne Sinclair.” Brown pointed. “John and David Sinclair.”
The photographer joined them. Someone was already sketching out on a pad the position of the furniture.
Spencer came back. “The maid’s in shock. She’s been with the family for seven years. Nice folks, never a problem. Man’s a tax lawyer; wife does something part-time at a local primary school. No enemies that she knows of; never a cross word in the house.”
Madison looked away from the harshness of the camera flashes.
Brown filed the information somewhere in his mind. “How are you doing with the photos? I want to take his blindfold off.”
“Give me another minute.”
Madison wanted to hear the pathologist’s preliminary examination; she stood by and jotted down her notes. From this moment on, this family’s former life would be systematically stripped of all privacy. The camera flashed, snapped, and was reloaded, and somewhere above the house the helicopter waited patiently for a shot of the body bags being taken away.
Andrew Riley heard the report on his police-radio scanner. He had to think fast—an opportunity like this might not happen more than once in a lifetime. He surveyed his shabby studio apartment: four dead bodies on Blue Ridge might just be his way out of there.
The Gift of the Darkness Page 3