The Dark

by Valentina Giambanco

  “Yesterday, sure. But before that you also went to speak to him in the hospital.”

  It was a statement.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you tell him about Lee and Gray? That we’re probably looking at the same creeps who killed his brother?”

  “Yes, I did. They’re dead, and they’re not going to get any deader because Quinn knows.”

  “This is an ongoing investigation, an open investigation, and you have shared information with a relative of a victim about our suspects. Not only that, I’m willing to bet you also told him about Vincent Foley and where he could be found. I’d be surprised if you didn’t give him floor and room number.”

  “By all means, Kelly, share your thoughts, and don’t hold back. What’s troubling you?”

  Kelly pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “You’re way too close to Quinn and his client. What makes you think that information was safe to share? Why would you tell a victim’s relative anything about the suspect before we had a chance to cross the t’s and dot the i’s?”

  “I told him because he deserved to know that we had found his brother’s gold chain. He’s very much part of what’s happening, and he needed to know about Lee and Gray. Quinn’s appeal on TV started the ball rolling, and—”

  “And we’re left picking up the pieces. Did you know that Harry Salinger was declared legally insane?”

  Madison moved back a fraction of an inch. A smudge of dirt and a slick of blood on Salinger’s shirt that night in the woods. “I didn’t know.”

  “Yup, three separate independent experts—not that we needed them to tell us, by the way.”

  Kelly let Madison absorb the news, then continued.

  “Do you have any idea how fast the whole of Quinn, Locke is working to get John Cameron out of jail? And what do you think will happen when your pet serial killer is out on the street, fresh from incarceration, eager to get busy on the last surviving member of the gang who took him and beat his friend to death? What I don’t understand is whether you’re painfully naïve or simply too arrogant to follow police procedure.”

  “Quinn needed to know, and the break-in at his home proved that point. He doesn’t know Vincent Foley’s name or where he was. I told him he was in a psychiatric institution and had been since 1985, and that’s all. And John Cameron is many things—most of them unfathomable to me—and I deal with him sensibly and cautiously, because that’s better than not dealing with him at all. Foley is not the last surviving person who was in the forest. Cameron was there, too, and I have to be able to speak with him about the case.”

  “He will go after Foley the minute he’s on the street again, and we’ll be looking back at the good old days when all we had to protect him from was Conway’s crew.” Kelly stood. “You will screw this up. Sooner or later. And it will be measured in body bags.”

  Madison let him have the last word, and he returned to his desk. No one else had heard the exchange, and she felt like punching a hole through a wall. She had to get busy and do something to cool off: traffic cams, reports, witness testimonies. There must be something that could engage her and keep her from letting Kelly’s words soak into her mind. Madison picked up the tapes from Traffic and checked the location/time tags. Still, the thin, dark voice spoke to her and whispered that Kelly was right, and, when it came down to it, body bags were the only measurement that mattered.

  A black Subaru Outback had been picked up by three traffic cameras in quick sequence. At that precise time the only other options were a white pickup, a motorbike, a delivery van, and a supermarket-chain truck. The light reflecting off the windshield made it impossible to see who was sitting inside, but it had to be the Subaru. The car had a squeaky clean Oregon plate, and, given that that type of vehicle was one of the most common in Washington State, it was bound to be almost invisible.

  Madison thought back: had she noticed a black Subaru on the grounds last night? No, she hadn’t, and uniformed officers had not been posted at the gates until later.

  Dunne was in charge of tracking the car as far as possible using Automated License Plate Recognition technology. It was a standard tool, and Madison hoped for a quick result and a call to the Special Weapons and Tactics unit to be on standby.

  In the meantime they still had Jerome McMullen, counting down to his parole date, and Leon Kendrick, sunning himself in California. Madison started reading: their files were inches thick and full of ugly. She felt a wave of tiredness wash over her, and she left the detectives’ room. She washed her face in the restroom, and her footsteps found the way to the outside of the building for a few moments of fresh air. The connections were there if only they could see them. The trail was there, ready to be found. That word trail made her think of Vincent Foley and his drawings. The trail is the wall, indeed, Vincent, she thought. Just give us a break, will ya?

  The break came half an hour later: Jerome McMullen might be in jail waiting for parole, which would give him motive, but Leon Kendrick had known Timothy Gilman personally: they were pals from way back and had been arrested together for a felony charge. It was a 9A.36.140 type felony, and Madison didn’t need to look it up: it was assault of a child in the third degree. A boy. But the victim had changed his statement, a witness had changed his statement, and the charges were dropped. At nineteen Gilman had attacked a twelve-year-old boy and gotten away with it: Kendrick knew that, and, maybe, when the time came, he knew he could count on him to do what he needed done, because Gilman would have no trouble abusing little kids.

  Madison sat back in her chair. Yes, she could see how Jerry Wallace could be a threat to both Kendrick and McMullen. She turned to Dunne. “Do you know anyone in California we could ask a favor of?”

  Dunne shrugged. “What department?” he replied.

  Andy Dunne was better than whatever social network most people used to get in touch with one another. He called a guy who called a guy, and forty-three minutes later Detective Nolan from La Jolla called them back. They put him on speaker, and Spencer pulled up a chair.

  “We sure know Leon,” he said. “Unfortunately, not well enough to put him away for anything, but he was flagged to us when he moved to California from one of our contacts in your Vice unit—just a friendly call to let us know who was coming into our neighborhood. We kept an eye out; however, he’s been clean ever since—rumors, sure, but nothing that ever came to anything. He’s a pillar of the community and all.”

  “What’s he up to now?” Madison said.

  Detective Nolan chuckled. “He owns a golf club. A pretty slick one, too, from what I hear.”

  “Ever been to it?” Dunne said.

  “I have four kids under twelve. Any free time I get, I lock myself in my car and sleep. Why the sudden interest in Kendrick?”

  “He might have been involved in a kidnapping and murder twenty-five years ago while he was still in Seattle. The investigation has just been reopened with new evidence,” Madison replied.

  A beat of silence at the end of the line.

  “Is this the Hoh River case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if even the smell of a connection blew anywhere near his classy setup, it would definitely spoil his day.”

  They said good-bye, and Nolan offered to chaperone them should they ever need to travel south and have a chat with Leon Kendrick in person.

  Spencer did a quick Internet search and pulled up a few items on the Golden Oaks Golf Club. He printed the articles and passed them to Madison.

  “Snazzy,” she said.

  “Gets even better,” Dunne continued. “It says here they’re in negotiations with a Japanese company that wants to invest in the operation. How’s Leon’s motive looking now?”

  In his home in Seward Park, Nathan Quinn sat in his office. His desk was covered with the files Tod Hollis had brought to him. Some of them were good old-fashioned research on the subject at hand; others he had come by in a less straightforward manner.

  Detectiv
e Madison had mentioned two names: Leon Kendrick and Jerome McMullen. Quinn turned the page: Hollis had printed a pretty picture of the Golden Oaks Golf Club and a description of the facilities for the members. Quinn couldn’t stand golf. He read the background check on Kendrick and calculated how big his share would be if the Japanese company bought the club—and how much he could lose if it didn’t.

  Quinn stood up and walked about; his strength was slowly coming back. He would have to buy some ridiculous device like a stationary bicycle to build his stamina. He went out onto the deck to breathe, calm down, and focus on the most important job he had to do that day.

  The water was dappled with light and rain, the weather seemingly unsure from one moment to the next what was required of it. There was a hint of warmth in the air, and he stayed out there for as long as he could, sleeves rolled up and tie undone.

  After a while he went back to his office, put away Hollis’s files on Kendrick and McMullen, shifted the pile of mail that had begun to accumulate, and started to write the argument needed to get John Cameron out of KCJC.

  Chapter 43

  Vincent Foley sat on the cot that was his new bed and stroked the pale blue woolen blanket. This room was almost the same size as his previous quarters. He sighed and lay down on his side. His slippers were neatly arranged on the floor, but the room was bare of any other possessions.

  He wasn’t afraid, really. For the last ten hours he had been sedated, and the familiar spike of fear that usually pulsed through his whole body was today only a dull ache in his chest. Two police officers stood just outside his room—he could see them through the small window in the door if he stood on tiptoe. He didn’t know where this room was, and he didn’t know why he had had to leave his old room. The previous night was a blur.

  In spite of a nurse’s best efforts, earth from the grounds of the Walters Institute still lined his nails. From his reclining position he saw something under the small dresser, something that could easily roll away from vacuum cleaners and mops. He crouched and stretched his arm until he could wrap his fingers around it. He retrieved it and opened his hand. What a treasure—a green crayon barely two inches long, dusty from its stay on the floor but otherwise perfectly intact.

  The memory floated up through the mist of sedation; it carried a sense of urgency and the illusion that Ronald was close by and speaking to him. Vincent reached up as high as his arm would go and traced a single green line. It snaked around the room and curled around the door. It traveled over paint and brick and wood. It traveled from the coils of Vincent’s mind out into the world.

  By the time Vincent was back on the bed and had whispered the “. . . my soul to take” part, five lines crept and twisted around one another.

  Chapter 44

  Madison closed her eyes. In the late afternoon the street below the windows of the detectives’ room was already a haze of headlights and flashing signals. So many times on Alki Beach, pausing after her run and breathing hard with her hands on her knees, she had gazed at Seattle across Elliot Bay: the water seemed to capture each and every light and throw it back up into the air for those who cared to notice. Where was Conway’s car? Madison thought of it as a dot of light moving among the other identical dots along the highways, the overpass, and the busy city streets. Just one dot among thousands, carrying death and destruction.

  Kelly’s words had hunkered down and shot out roots. Even her perfectly reasonable reply now seemed paper-thin and inadequate. She didn’t particularly care about his good opinion; however, that accusation had cut to the quick. She considered herself neither naïve nor arrogant, and yet there was a connection to the two men in question that she could not explain away as sensible strategy and good planning. Maybe it was Harry Salinger’s true legacy, and it couldn’t simply be filed and dispensed of in a police report.

  Madison sipped her coffee, hours old and reheated beyond all recognition. Maybe, if they were lucky, the water would catch that one dot of light that was Conway’s car and single it out for them.

  Madison dialed Dr. Peterson’s cell number. He picked up on the second ring. She already knew where Vincent Foley was: a cell in a secure wing inside an institute for the criminally insane, checked in under an assumed name. It was an observation cell and as comfortable as those could be. The sequence of walls and locked doors around him were for his protection. With luck, he wouldn’t have to stay there long.

  “My patients have been spread about a dozen or so institutions, my staff is in shock, and I have no idea if and when we’ll ever be able to go back . . .”

  He didn’t say “home,” although that was what it sounded like he was about to say.

  “I’m really sorry,” Madison said, and she meant it.

  “I know. And here you are calling me about one patient in particular.”

  “Yes, Doctor. In spite of what happened, I have to ask you this. When will Dr. Takemoto be able to interview Vincent Foley again?”

  “Did you speak to him before we arrived? When you were alone with him?” The stress was on “alone.”

  “Yes, I did. He was digging, and I asked him about it.”

  “Anything useful to your investigation?” Peterson’s tone was bitter and felt entirely unlike him.

  “I don’t know yet, Doctor. Possibly.”

  A beat of silence on the line.

  “Thomas Reed had two daughters in middle school. He went back into a burning building to search for Vincent.”

  “I know.”

  “Your Dr. Takemoto could go back in a couple of days if Vincent continues to improve and doesn’t need sedation.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll let her know.”

  “He can’t stay in that place forever; you understand that, right? He needs to be able to walk about, have other people around him, look through windows and see natural light.”

  “I understand.”

  Nevertheless, if there was a good place for Vincent Foley in this world, Madison sure had no idea where it might be.

  The call came in at 8:17 p.m.: the black Subaru had been picked up on I-90 driving east toward Bellevue, coming off Exit 10. Not hours earlier but just now. Madison and Dunne were already putting on their coats when Lieutenant Fynn stopped them in their tracks.

  “No time to run after them. It’s Bellevue PD’s patch; they’re dispatching a SWAT team to assist their plainclothes officers—not a uniform in sight.”

  “Have they been told what to expect?”

  “I’ve just briefed their Chief of Ops. The car was clocked pulling into a hotel, the Silver Pines. Two hundred and thirty-seven rooms—business travelers and conference heaven.”

  Madison thought quickly. “I’m the only one who has seen any of them; we have Conway’s picture, but it’s not that great.”

  Fynn nodded. “I’ll call the chief and tell him you’re on your way to ID Conway.”

  Spencer shrugged on his jacket. “Perfect end to a perfect day,” he said.

  They had all been up since 4:00 a.m. or earlier.

  There was little conversation during the drive to Bellevue. Spencer drove, and Dunne rode shotgun, Madison in the back. Kelly had already left by the time the call arrived.

  Neither of her companions had clapped eyes on Conway or any of his men, but there was no question that they would come along.

  Madison relaxed into the seat, because she was well aware that soon she would need all the focus and whatever smarts she could muster.

  She knew without seeing it that the motel was being steadily surrounded by police units, that only plainclothes were on the ground and visible, that a SWAT team commander was telling his people about the FBI agent Peter Conway had slain and about Warren Lee and Ronald Gray and last night’s fire. She could see the men and women in their heavy gear nodding and taking in the catalog of evil, their expressions become more somber as they understood what they were dealing with.

  Madison wasn’t sure whether she had fallen asleep for a few minutes. She remembered
dots of light moving behind her eyelids. The car pulled to a stop as they were intercepted by a plainclothes detective who waved them in the direction of the parking lot of the small commercial center next to the motel.

  The Chief of Ops, Captain Hegarty, was waiting for them. He was in his forties and looked ready to chew a hole through a steel blanket. Muted crackle and the voices of his units reporting in came in gusts through the radio.

  “We’re eyeballing the Subaru, but by the time the first officer got here, whoever was driving it had already gone inside.”

  Madison looked around. The commercial center—a dentist, a veterinary clinic, and a yoga studio—had shut for the day.

  “We’re checking the register for a group of three or four businessmen who arrived in the last few days.”

  Madison nodded.

  A woman in sweat clothes, wearing a bulky fleece top, came out of the motel and jogged out into the street. She made a quick turn and trotted up to them. She acknowledged Madison and the others and spoke to the Captain.

  “Four men, four rooms on the second floor, back of the corridor, near the fire exit. One returned forty minutes ago; the others are still out.”

  “How many of them can you ID?” the Captain asked Madison.

  “Just Conway. And as much as I saw him, he saw me, too, and he took a good, long look. No chance he wouldn’t recognize me if he saw me again.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We’re going to pick up nice and easy whoever it is who’s in the room and wait for his friends,” Captain Hegarty said. “You need to get yourself into a safe position to spot Conway if he sets foot in the hotel. Here.” He handed Madison an earpiece and a mike the size of the nail of her little finger. She tested them both and then made her way to the motel’s entrance. Come home, little bird, come home.

  Madison settled into a plush chair with a view of the entrance and the three elevators that led to the five floors. The motel’s signature colors were oatmeal and maroon, and the designer had made ample use of both in the guests’ lounge and its patterned upholstery.