“Not even to save your career?”
“Not in a thousand years. I’ll lose my badge, and you’ll lose the one person who believes your client is innocent. You can take that to the judge.”
“I have Salinger’s name.”
“It’s not enough.”
Quinn smiled, and there was no joy in it, only the embers of a thought Madison couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Nothing is ever enough, Detective, but we do what we can with what we have.”
“I agree. Use the tape, don’t use it—I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do,” Quinn said. “Not about the job, but about being able to do the job. You care very much indeed.”
At that moment Madison knew just how dangerous Nathan Quinn could be. She’d rather call Fynn and tell him herself.
“This name has bought you a little time, Detective. Use it well, because one way or the other I’m going to get that warrant scrapped tomorrow. And one more thing.” Quinn’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t be a fool and call your boss and tell him all about your phone call. I can see you’re tempted. Don’t. Consider what it is that you hate the most, me holding that tape or Harry Salinger getting ready to finish the job on your partner.”
Madison wished the anger away from her voice. “I will do what I need to do. If I don’t have a badge, it might slow me down some, but it won’t stop me.”
“I never thought it would,” Quinn replied quietly as her steps were already receding through the main dining room.
Alice Madison sat in her car, engine turned on and windows fogging up. She could deal with her anger, but she couldn’t afford to worry about the future. If I don’t have a badge. Quinn had let her look at the employment records to find a name to take to the judge; that was the only reason he had agreed to meet her. Well, good for him; he had what he wanted. Then again, so did she, and the only thing she regretted was that she could not tell Brown.
First things first. If she was going to hunt Salinger down, she wanted to look into his eyes—the eyes of the man who had almost killed her partner. She had felt the same about Cameron less than a week earlier. See how well that turned out, she thought. Salinger’s mug shot would have been useful, but she’d rather not go back to the station house yet; his driver’s license picture would have to do, and she knew how to get that.
She put the car in gear and got to the edge of the parking lot: turn right and she’d be on her way home, turn left and she could pay a quick visit to Harry Salinger.
Nathan Quinn locked the restaurant door behind him. He turned into the chilly night and saw Madison’s car at the lot’s entrance. The road was empty, but the car wasn’t moving, the indicator flashing a right turn. Quinn sank his hands into his pockets; he knew where Madison lived, and he knew where else she might be thinking of going. The road was deserted in both directions, and the car wasn’t moving. Quinn stood and watched until the indicator suddenly flashed left and Madison’s car took off.
He knew she was going to the last known address and was glad it was Salinger’s and not Jack’s, this time, at least. He wouldn’t always be so lucky. She knew how to handle herself—her injuries said as much—and she might even find Salinger before Jack did. After that, she would be coming after his friend, and that, he reflected, was going to make things lively for everybody involved.
It was only going to be a quick look at the house to get a sense of him, nothing more than that: the address he had had before the halfway house the parole board had put him in. The sky had cleared, and the Sunday-evening traffic was light. Madison streaked through it, heart pounding.
It was Salinger. She knew it. And there was no way to prepare for this. She thought of the crime scene, the bodies on the bed, and the weight of his body fighting against her. She slowed her breathing; she wasn’t going to knock on his door yet. When the day came, she wouldn’t knock; she’d kick the damn door down with an arrest warrant in one hand and her piece in the other. And yet, if she could positively identify him as the man who had shot Brown, there was no way she’d sit on her heels. She needed just one good, long look.
They had Salinger’s address at the time of his arrest; the chances he would still be there were roughly the same as finding his file in the restaurant’s employment records.
The drive was short enough for Madison to settle into quiet anxiety. It was a Ballard address near Sunset Hill, and the street was mostly single-family houses. Madison could have parked and walked, but Salinger knew what she looked like, and luck hadn’t played a big part in her recent past. She didn’t want to be seen before she was ready to let him see her.
She shouldn’t have worried: it was the worst-looking property on the block, and it was clearly boarded up and empty. A Realtor sign said it was for sale, and Madison memorized the phone number. She drove slowly past. A pane of glass in one of the downstairs windows was missing, there was a minimal front yard covered in weeds. and an ugly padlock ran from a post through a hole in the wooden gate. Leaflets were crammed in the mailbox, and a large sticker from Seattle City Light on the front door announced to the world that the electricity had been cut off.
Harry doesn’t live here anymore, Madison thought.
The Realtor had been employed by a development company that had gone belly-up two months earlier. He had no idea who Harry Salinger was, and, to be quite honest, he didn’t care.
In no particular order, Madison was tired, hungry, and ticked off. She would work, eat, and maybe sleep a little if she could manage it. Other than that, life was swell.
One hour later Madison was in front of her laptop with a cup of coffee and the fire crackling in the fireplace. There wasn’t much that you couldn’t find with the right software and a positive attitude, and it took only minutes for the data on Salinger’s driver’s license to come up.
His picture appeared in the top left-hand corner of her screen, and Madison sat back in her chair and looked at the thin face. Sure, he was much younger, but there was no mistaking the pale eyes of the man who had met them wearing a police officer’s uniform. She could pick him out of a lineup without hesitation. So much for eyewitness testimony, Madison thought. Salinger would never see the inside of a police station unless they could put him at the crime scene; somehow she was less concerned about finding him than about building the case. He was bound to the city, contained within Seattle by his own rage and the pathology of the plan he had designed; he wasn’t done yet, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
When she realized that she had been staring at him for several minutes, she got up and took a couple of painkillers with the leftovers of Rachel’s lasagna.
Harry Salinger had been arrested on an assault charge, and Madison knew that often meant the first felony for offenders who later graduated to much more serious business. The assault was the appetizer, and something had stopped them before they could get to the main course.
She found his name in the list of Academy rejects a little after midnight: Harry Salinger had been officially turned down by the Police Academy two days before committing the crime that would send him to jail and into the sorry life of George Pathune. Madison allowed herself a small smile. At least she had been right about that. To think that the horror brought upon the Sinclairs had been committed by someone who had aspired to protect and serve gave her a cold feeling in her gut.
The file didn’t specify the reasons Salinger had been turned down; maybe he had failed the psych evaluation or maybe the physical. Madison guessed it was the former.
Chapter 34
Harry Salinger wipes his hands on a cloth. He is not a patient man, but, God knows, he has done his best with what he was given, and now it’s almost all done. He can see the finish line; it is within reach, and the extent of his accomplishment nearly takes his breath away. He could never have foreseen this seven years ago, sitting on a bar stool, the rejection letter from the Police Academy burning a hole in his pocket.
He had applied because it was all he had ever wante
d to do and because it would have pleased his father, had he been alive. Sometimes the reasons blended into one dull ache. The letter had come that morning and, with it, the end of everything.
Seven years ago he sat at that bar and drank as people and time flowed around him. When someone grabbed his shoulder, he turned and saw that it was late and the bar had emptied except for the bartender and the man accosting him. The man’s voice was charcoal, and Harry couldn’t hear the words. He wasn’t sure who threw the first punch, but he let anger take over.
The fight was brief, and by the time the police arrived, the bartender was lying facedown on the wooden floor on a bed of shattered glass. The other man put up a struggle as they cuffed him. Salinger went quietly. He hadn’t even touched the bartender.
They had sat them down with their lawyers in a room that smelled of bleach, and for the first time Salinger had understood that he was in serious trouble. The evidence was inconclusive, the prosecutor said; either of them could have hit the bartender with the broken bottle.
He was wearing the scrubs he had been given; his public defender hadn’t had the time to pick up any clothes for him. The other man had shaved and wore the suit his attorney had brought him: it looked expensive, though not as expensive as the one the lawyer himself was wearing. He had introduced himself as Peter Hansen from Quinn, Locke. He looked like he was on his way to his first million dollars. Salinger’s public defender looked like he had graduated last week and called Salinger “Henry.” Harry knew he was in trouble, but how deep and how black the water was he couldn’t have fathomed.
Salinger folded the cloth and put it aside. Patience. He had fought hard the temptation to go to Poulsbo on Sunday afternoon and witness with his own eyes the result of his anonymous tip on the John Cameron hotline. He had known about the boat since October and had waited for the appropriate moment to drop it into the lap of the Seattle Police Department. He had checked first thing in the morning, mixing with the tourists along the Scandinavian shops: beyond the holiday lights and the bare trees, the boat was there.
Sitting in his basement, Harry Salinger waited longer than he thought he could bear, his monitors all showing local television stations. At some point the news would come on, and he would know that John Cameron had killed again in the process of being apprehended by a SWAT team. He had not had a moment’s doubt that Cameron would ultimately get away; he just wanted him to leave a trail of law enforcement bodies behind him in his escape, like so many more nails in his coffin.
The news came on, and the reporter stood by the cordoned-off area so that the police cruisers with flashing lights would be in frame. Salinger sat forward in his chair. Disappointment washed over him, and he covered his face with his hands. He didn’t want to weep over it, but who wouldn’t? The frustration was immeasurable.
He forces his breathing to slow down and closes his eyes; by touch he finds the remote and mutes the offending report. It is a setback, but he has to stay positive. He has already packed what he will need for the next few days, and a few days are all he wants. He places his hand on the small wooden box that has sat on his table for the last six months; the simple touch gives him all the comfort he needs.
The van is gassed up and ready, his major piece of work dismantled and wedged safely behind some boxes under a tartan blanket. He has timed himself: it will take him forty-two minutes to set it in place.
In his kitchen Harry Salinger fixes himself two sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise on white bread. His plans are fluid, and he can go with the flow, if that’s what’s required. He wears headphones, and Detective Madison’s taped voice keeps him company; he even finds the strength to smile.
Chapter 35
Monday morning, 6:30 a.m. Billy Rain woke up with a start. He hadn’t slept well—sleeping was one of the things that everybody else in the world seemed able to do, but not him. He hadn’t slept properly since he was a kid, and last night wasn’t any different: Nathan Quinn and the continuous coverage of the Blue Ridge murders had not done much to improve his sleeping patterns.
After coming back from the bar, he had knocked himself out with some sleeping pills, seeking at least for a few hours the comfort of that blessed darkness. He came to, drowsy and thirsty. The dim light in the gloom of his one-room apartment came from a neon sign on the outside of the building that flashed yellow on the floor above him.
He had a carton of milk in the fridge. His six-foot-four frame could cover the length of the room in three steps. He slid one leg out from under the covers, and his foot touched the tiled floor.
“Stay down,” the voice said, and Billy felt a thump as if he’d been hit in the chest. He stayed down.
“I have thirty dollars on me, no plastic, my wallet is on the dresser. Take it and leave.”
He could hear him but not see him. Someone stood up from his armchair. Billy heard the springs creak and footsteps crossing to the chest of drawers in the corner. The table lamp was switched on.
“Oh, fuck,” Billy whispered as John Cameron sat back in the armchair.
“Billy Rain,” Cameron said.
Billy nodded and sat up, grabbing the covers around him while his heart pounded away. He shouldn’t have called Quinn. Fuck the reward; he shouldn’t have gotten involved.
“Do you know who I am?”
Billy nodded.
“I would like you to tell me what you told Nathan Quinn. Everything you remember, everything you know. Can you do that?”
Billy nodded.
“Do you want a glass of water?” Cameron asked him, and for a moment he flashed back to another time, to a night somewhere in his distant past and a man about to die.
“Okay.”
“Stay down. I’ll get it. You’re doing fine. Just relax, and don’t be a fool.”
Cameron took a clean glass from the sink and poured some water from the tap. He put the glass on the nightstand and went back to the chair. Billy picked up the glass and drained it.
“Do I need to tell you what will happen if you lie to me?”
“No.”
“Good. Start at the beginning, and tell me everything.”
“You want to know what I saw?”
“Everything.”
“Okay.” Billy took a deep breath and went into it. John Cameron listened without taking his eyes away from him, the words seeming not so much heard as absorbed.
Billy had calmed down a little. For years every detail of that day had been a tiny hook caught in his skin. It all came out like poison.
“You’re doing well,” Cameron said. “You mentioned it happened in the laundry. Is that where you normally worked?”
“Yes, it was my second month there. It’s part of the rehabilitation program—it was a rotation. You learn a skill, and then you get a job when you get out.”
“Everybody was on the same rotation? I mean, Rabineau and the man who was killed?”
“Yes, it was a group of ten inmates from my block. Before the laundry we were in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen,” John Cameron said.
“Four months of washing trays.”
Cameron looked as if he’d gone away for a second there, and Billy found the silence unbearable. He continued. “It works for some; they get jobs in restaurants or whatever. It didn’t work for me.”
“No,” Cameron said as he suddenly stood up. “You work in your brother-in-law’s garage.”
That was more than Billy would have liked him to know. Cameron headed for the door.
“Is that all?” Billy said. “Are we done?”
“You can keep your wallet,” John Cameron replied, and he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. Billy, quick out of bed, locked it gently and leaned with his back against it, eyes closed.
John Cameron looked left and right: the narrow corridor was empty, all four other doors shut. He left the building and took a left into the alley behind it. It was no more than a twenty-foot-wide gash between the brick walls; the frost had sealed the
litter on the ground, and it crunched under his boots. He dialed a number from memory.
“Donny? It’s Jack.”
Donny O’Keefe took a sip of his coffee. “I thought you might call,” he said. “You spoke to Nathan?”
Cameron thought of their last conversation, and he realized that Quinn had known since last night. “Tell me exactly what you told him; I need to hear it from you.”
O’Keefe did as he was asked, because Harry Salinger had worked in his kitchen, and he had not seen it, not until last night, and now, in spite of himself, he was glad that Cameron had called.
Cameron drove home. He had ditched the Jeep after Poulsbo, thinking, quite correctly, that the entire Seattle Police Department would be after the guy who had smashed Detective Rosario into a wall and driven away through the police blockade. The red GMC pickup had been on standby. It was a little battered and worn; in the back a few crates of building equipment were covered by a tarp in case anybody wanted a peek. On the side it read SCOTT CARPENTRY SEATTLE in white letters.
Cameron had liked the Jeep and had been sorry to get rid of it. It was the second car he had had to lose that week, but he hadn’t liked the Explorer quite as much.
He had decided that he would not think about Harry Salinger until he got home, until he could devote all his attention to how to find him and kill him. He could not afford to be distracted with a police cruiser stopped at the traffic light next to him, the driver seeing an unshaven, tanned face under a faded Seahawks baseball cap.
The light changed, and the cruiser took a right. Cameron made it home without a glitch. He poured himself some orange juice and dialed Quinn.
“I spoke to Billy Rain,” he said, and he knew that Quinn was bracing himself for bad news.
“You did?”
“Yes. He told me about the rehab program where they learn new skills for life on the outside, like kitchen work.”
“Yes.” Quinn had hesitated, but there was no point now.
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