If either man was surprised by the old-fashioned gesture, they didn’t show it; then again, Quinn could probably beat an Easter Island head in a staring contest.
Madison made coffee, her hands working on their own, her mind busy down the dark alleys of the past ten days. She thought of the little girl who had watched poker players for hours, who had read their faces and divined their hands. If any of those skills were still rattling around inside her, now might be a good time to call them forward.
She found them standing in silence by the table, as guests might do.
“Okay, we ask questions, we reply to questions, as far as it is feasible or until Mr. Quinn stops us,” she began. “There will not be an official report, just some notes for my own use. And I’m not wearing a wire. All agreed?”
“Yes.” Quinn answered for both of them.
Madison relaxed in her chair; she wouldn’t let herself be rushed into anything. To understand the dynamic between these two men was almost as important as finding Salinger. Kamen had been right: chances were, a year from this day she might be chasing down Cameron for any of a number of charges; what she could learn by watching the two men tonight would be invaluable.
Madison gave herself a chance to study Cameron’s features. He was the older version of the eighteen-year-old boy who had been arrested for drunk driving, but the years since had shaped his cheekbones and jaw and something else that wasn’t tangible—something that had settled around him like a moat.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“The ambush, Detective. Tell me about the man who attacked you and your partner.”
His focus on her was the unblinking gaze of a predator; somehow the timid concerns of polite society had been left behind. Good, no time for small talk tonight.
Madison felt Quinn lean back in his chair. She had been expecting the question. The kind of detail Cameron would be interested in would tell her as much about him as if it were her question he was answering.
She took a sip. “Last Friday night, in the precinct, I got a call on my cell.”
Cameron listened with his arms crossed and his head slightly tilted to one side. She gave them the tale in simple words because it didn’t need any elaboration; what details he wanted he would ask for. She described the physical attack as she might have written it on a victim’s testimony sheet. As if on cue her arm started aching again.
Cameron let her finish, amber eyes narrowed and absorbing every word. He looked at the cut with the stitches on her left eyebrow and her injured arm. He was thinking, and clearly he was not someone bothered by pauses in a conversation.
Madison memorized everything about him that she could see, from the way his short dark hair was cut around the ears to the midnight blue cashmere sweater he wore. He looked so familiar, a childhood friend lost to time and growing up. In her mind, Madison made lists of details to keep in a file that one day she knew, ready or not, she would use against him.
She felt Quinn’s eyes and the weight of his understanding. This was what the night was about: he had given her a little of something he could ill afford to waste and hoped the potential gain would be worth it. He was perfectly aware that everything Madison was learning about his friend would one day be used against him, from how he drank his coffee to which hand he favored. Right-handed, Madison thought. The fact that Quinn was so wary of her was a backhanded compliment; that Cameron had agreed to the meet in the first place was a grim sign of just how close to the bone they all were.
“How hard was he trying to restrain you?”
“Hard enough that he wanted me unconscious.”
“But not enough to do you a serious injury.”
“I’ll never know for sure.”
“Do you think he held back?”
“I couldn’t swear on the nuances of his body check. I was busy trying to breathe.”
“When you smelled the chloroform, did you make the connection with the Sinclairs?”
“Yes. I knew who had me in a headlock, and I knew it wasn’t you.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t freeze.”
“I reacted without too much thought.”
“You have had time to think now, though. All those notes on the table, the hours spent watching a machine doing the breathing for your partner, shooting targets with your left hand.”
Madison blinked.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t tailing you. You shoot with both hands; I’m sure you put in some time at the range. Your piece is on the other side, and you’ve cleaned it recently.”
Madison waited for a question.
“He wanted a connection with you,” Cameron said finally. “He wanted your partner out of the way, with the added bonus of ballistics on the .22 that would be linked to me.”
“I see it the other way around,” she replied. “His main objective was to draw a line between you and the .22 that had shot a police officer.”
“No. His main objective was a physical connection with you, Detective. The fact that he could get rid of your much more experienced partner was just gravy; he wanted you by yourself. And, frankly, he probably enjoyed the fight much more than you did.” The embers of an unpleasant thought came and went. “You were good against him, but mostly you were very, very lucky. It was a date, Detective. You just didn’t know it.”
Madison felt the chill crawling down her spine. Cameron had taken no pleasure from the comment; he was merely dissecting the event, making his own mental lists and footnotes. What was he learning about her, and how would he use that?
“Was he outside on Monday at the crime scene on Blue Ridge?”
Brown had wanted footage of the crowd, and Dunne had checked it only hours earlier.
Madison leaned forward. “Yes.”
“That’s where he first saw you.”
“Why would he have noticed?”
Cameron smiled, so quickly it might never have happened at all. It was not a kind smile.
“The photographer,” he said.
“Andrew Riley.”
“Yes.”
“He had a bit of bad luck that night.”
“Did he?”
Quinn had not moved or uttered a single word, but his focus on their exchange was like a hum in the air around them.
“Go ahead,” Cameron said.
Madison had thought about this since the night she had crashed through French doors and followed him into dark woods.
“Tell me about your relationship with James Sinclair.”
The question had surprised him; she had seen it in the fleeting tension around his eyes. It was gone in a heartbeat.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it’s my question.”
“It’s a very broad question.”
“It’s a very broad issue.”
Cameron did not reply.
“I’m trying to determine why he chose James Sinclair and his family. Why not Mr. Quinn here? Why not wait for you after one of the poker nights at the restaurant? Why not lie in wait when you went to visit your old house? He knows enough about you that he could have picked any of these options,” Madison said. “Tell me about James Sinclair.”
“Andrew Riley knows exactly—”
“Jack,” Quinn interrupted him quietly.
Cameron stopped and sat back. Madison realized she would not get him to talk about his dead friend, and that was that.
“Is it fair to say that he chose the most vulnerable target?” she asked.
The fire let out a loud hiss.
“Yes.”
“What would you say you value most in your life?”
“Excuse me?”
“What would you say you value most in your life?”
“I can tell you what I value, and then we can move on to my favorite color if you like.”
“You don’t think Salinger has been thinking about it? You don’t think he has looked at you, frankly not someone easily upset, and has a
sked himself, How do I get to this man? You don’t think he has been working out how to take away from you what you value most?”
“And what would that be?”
“I don’t know you well enough to guess.”
“I think you have your own theories, Detective.”
“I’d rather hear yours.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Whatever it is, I suggest you build a wall around it, because Salinger is coming for it.”
“Let him come to me.”
“Believe me, you do not want that. You had never met him or had any dealings with him of any kind before he started working at the restaurant?”
“No.”
“As far as you know, is he connected with anyone you have had dealings with in the past?”
“No. If he was, I would have found out—”
“Jack.” Quinn’s voice stopped that train of thought.
Sanders and the dead men in LA.
“The cooks in the restaurant,” Madison said, thinking aloud. “Someone there must have told him who you were. He watched you, over months, and then he made his move.”
“Nothing you have said adds up to a motive,” Quinn said.
“He attacked two police officers while dressed as a police officer; before he went to jail he had applied to join the Seattle Police Department and was turned down.”
Madison saw Salinger clearing tables and watching Cameron, Quinn, and Sinclair having dinner.
“He didn’t need a personal motive,” she said. “Pick any of the felonies you’ve never been charged with. Perhaps he was just redressing the balance.”
Rage in John Cameron was barely a shadow across his face, but it was there, all right. Madison saw it clearly as she slapped him with the truth. Cold rage for sure. Not the type to throw breakables around and definitely not someone to play poker with. She glanced at Quinn: the man was staring hard into the fire, and all she could read was crushing guilt. He stood up and paced to the French doors, though there was nothing but pitch-black beyond the glass.
Madison could keep her own silence, too, and there it was: one man was moved by rage, the other by guilt. It begged the question, if Quinn felt so guilty about the deaths of his friends, how much did he know about the deeds that had drawn Salinger to Cameron in the first place? Guilt is not about vague unease and suspicions. It’s about specifics: blood and dates and murder weapons. Quinn knew.
“How will you measure your success in this case, Detective?” Cameron asked. “Four dead and your partner in ICU. What will it take for you to draw a line under it and go home happy?”
“I think the going-home-happy time has come and gone, but I will draw a line under it, one day soon, when Salinger is in custody and my partner is awake.”
“In custody,” Cameron repeated.
Quinn’s protective instincts slammed back into place. “Jack.”
Cameron paused; his thought didn’t need to be articulated for Madison to know what he had meant. “To each his own,” he whispered.
“How will you measure your success?” Madison baited him.
Quinn simmered, and Cameron sighed. “One day, Detective, it would be very nice to have a conversation without legal significance. This much I can tell you today: there will be no success at the end of this, however many times your judicial system puts him to death, or however many times mine does.”
“Enough.” Quinn’s voice was so soft, Madison would have missed it altogether, but Cameron had heard and stopped. One had to wonder at the balance of power between them.
“I need more coffee.” Madison stood up and took their empty mugs as well as her own. She was struggling with a decision and needed to clear her mind. Bizarre as it might seem, she was beyond worrying about having John Cameron in her home like some slightly unpleasant relative she’d had to invite. He was a target for the horror that had visited the John Does in Pierce County, and he didn’t know. They were exchanging legally cautious pleasantries, and he had no idea. And neither did Quinn.
She stood by the stove, gripping the edge of the countertop, eyes shut against the memory of the pictures. She didn’t hear Quinn approach.
“What is it?” He was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, looking as drained as she felt.
“You look—” Quinn wasn’t happy with whatever words had come to him, and he let the sentence hang between them.
“You don’t spook easily, Detective,” he said in the end. “And tonight you definitely look spooked. I doubt it’s our impromptu little get-together.”
The fresh coffee percolated in the machine, the roasted scent a blessing in that moment when everything else in her mind was brittle and ugly. She leaned back against the counter.
“I have seen you tonight,” she said. “You and Cameron have some kind of understanding, and he listens to you. I spoke with our Medical Examiner today, and something’s come up. I guarantee you, neither one of you has ever dealt with anything like this.” And neither have I.
A few minutes later, they found Cameron reading the titles on her bookshelves. Madison told him plainly about the John Does and what they could reasonably expect was the work of Harry Salinger. At the end of it Cameron’s first words were to Quinn. “Tell her about the notes.”
“What notes?” Madison asked.
“The day you came to my office with your partner and told me about James and Annie and the boys, that morning I had received a card, a simple cream card and envelope. It read Thirteen Days. Last Wednesday I received an identical card. It read 82885.”
“Eight-two-eight-eight-five.”
“No. Eight, twenty-eight, eighty-five,” Quinn said. He didn’t expect the numbers to mean anything to her.
Madison’s anger bubbled up, and she just grabbed it with both hands, because anger felt better than fear. “You mean to tell me that Salinger contacted you personally? You must have had no doubt it was from the killer when you read in the papers that he had carved Thirteen Days on the Sinclairs’ bedroom door. And you said nothing. And he writes again, this time with the date of the Hoh River kidnappings? Something so personal to you and Cameron and Sinclair. And you still say nothing? What in the sweet name of everything holy were you thinking?”
Quinn was surprised that she had made the connection with the date, but nothing showed in his voice. “Twenty-four hours ago, Jack was the prime suspect in the investigation, and the notes were the only link to the man I knew was the real murderer. If I knew what he wanted, he could be manipulated. I wasn’t going to give up that chance.”
“You are now. You’re giving the notes to Forensics, and they’ll take them apart. Prints, paper, ink, spit under the stamp, forensic botany, what-have-you. He contacted you, he chose direct communication with you, the person most likely to be standing with Cameron when he was sentenced for four murders he had not committed.” Madison ran her hand over her face and gathered herself. “Could you drop the notes tomorrow early at the precinct? Or, better still, can I pick them up now?”
She calculated that Sorensen would be back in the morning, and she would deliver them like gold into her hands and nobody else’s.
Quinn nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty at your precinct.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Cameron said, and before she knew it, the front door was open, and he was gone.
She stared at the door for a long moment.
“This was . . . interesting,” she said.
“It always is,” Quinn replied.
Chapter 39
Twenty years ago. Nathan Quinn sits in his cramped office in the King County Prosecuting Attorney building. He has been checking telephone records for hours, and the boredom is slowly but surely killing him. Six months previously there had been some phone threats to the attorneys involved in the Reilly-Murtough case, and he had been one of those who had received calls at home. In their wisdom, his superiors had decreed that all calls should be recorded and kept t
rack of. Hence Quinn sat at his desk, going over the numbers, ticking them off and waiting for his eyes to fall out of his head.
He found an unidentified number from a call received a few months earlier at home and checked his own log. The log said, Jack called from bar, brief conversation. Nathan Quinn blinked slowly. He looked at the date of the call. It was a date he wouldn’t easily forget—it was the night he had bailed Jack out of a jail cell, the boy reeking of alcohol. He ticked off the call.
A few days later a major spring thaw hit Washington State, and the body of Timothy Gilman, or what the winter had left of it, was found by hikers very much as John Cameron had last seen it weeks before, dead and impaled on the spikes he had planted. It took them a week to identify him, two days to track down the bar where he did his drinking, and twenty minutes to accept that in all probability the case would remain unsolved.
Apparently he had had an appointment with one of his pals he hadn’t turned up for, and the friend remembered very clearly the last night they had met at the bar—the last time anyone had seen Gilman alive. Everyone at the bar had been interviewed, but nothing had come of it.
Nathan Quinn read the report because Gilman was well known to the King County courts, and their paths had crossed before. Gilman was an enforcer who did low-level cash work: intimidation, extortion—nothing that required more than muscle and two brain cells. There, in the middle of the report, was the address and telephone number of the bar. A number he had read only a few days ago on his own phone records: Jack called from bar, brief conversation.
Nathan Quinn looked at the number as if it were some kind of alien code. He took out the file with the phone records and checked. It was the same number. Jack had called him from that bar that night, the last time Gilman had been seen alive, the night he had bailed him out of the police lockup.
Nathan Quinn did not know why he drove to the bar and what moved him to talk with the bartender. He didn’t know why he asked him about Gilman, his friends, and all the people who had already been interviewed by the detectives. And when the bartender told him that of all the people there that night, only the kid who always sat at the bar had not been interviewed, because he had never been back there again, Nathan Quinn didn’t know how he drove himself home. Work had been relentless, and he had hardly spoken to Jack in the last eight weeks, and the last meaningful conversation he remembered was at lunch in the diner, when Jack had been so interested in his work as a prosecutor and the case he had been working on.
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