Murder One (12 page)

“Sorry,” he said. “We aren’t built for comfort around here.”

“Not a problem, Detective.” She gestured to the lone chair. “Did you want to switch sides? I didn’t know if Detective Crosswhite would be joining us.”

“She might, but we’re fine for now.” Rowe took the single chair and grimaced when the pain burned in his hip.

“Are you all right?” Reid asked.

“I’m fine.”

“My knee acts up every once in a while,” she said.

“We appreciate you coming down to get this straightened out.”

“I’m happy to oblige. I’d like to know myself what’s going on.” She sounded genuine.

“Do you want an attorney present?”

She shook her head. Then she looked toward the one-way glass as if to let all know she was aware that Crosswhite, and likely others, watched. “If you need me to sign something, I’m happy to do so, but as I told you at my house, I don’t need or want an attorney.”

Rowe flipped through his notes, trying to decide where to start. Though he had kept the door to the room open, the room seemed smaller, warmer. “You said the last time you saw the gun was . . . when?”

“Actually, you asked me the last time I fired the gun, and I said I hadn’t fired it since I finished a shooting lesson. I’m not sure when I last saw it.”

“How long ago did you have that lesson?”

She thought for a moment. “About two months, I think. I’m sure we could get the exact date.”

“And where was that?”

“Wade’s gun shop in Bellevue. That’s also where I bought it.”

“How long ago did you buy it?”

“I don’t know. It was after my husband and I separated. Ten years.”

Rowe considered her. “Any particular reason you decided to purchase a weapon?”

“My ex-husband had become physically and verbally abusive.”

“Physically?”

“The divorce file has several police reports leading to a restraining order.”

Rowe made a mental note to get the file. If Reid’s statement were true—and he doubted she would lie about something so easy to confirm—it cast Oberman’s unsolicited tip in a different light.

“So why did you take the lessons two months ago?”

“Because I started to receive threats.”

“Threats from who, your ex?”

“No. I don’t know who, exactly. I’m a single woman on a ‘crusade’ against drug dealers. They didn’t leave a name. But if I had to guess, I’d guess people who worked for Vasiliev.”

“Did you report the threats?”

“Every one.”

Rowe made a mental note to also confirm the threats, and knew Crosswhite was writing it down. “Did anyone come out to the house to take a statement?”

“No.”

Rowe found his rhythm. “Did you ask them to? Did you ask them to put a wiretap on your phone?”

“The calls came up on my home phone as private. I doubt very much the person was calling from his home.”

“It was a man?”

“It sounded like a man.”

“Was it the same voice each time? Could you tell?”

“No. But the person had an eastern European accent.”

“How many of these calls do you think you received?”

“You can look it up. I reported perhaps half a dozen. I was also followed.”

“Followed how?”

“A car, a silver Mercedes, would appear periodically outside my home and while I was driving, shopping.”

“Did you ever see the driver?”

“No. The car had tinted windows.”

“When’s the last time you saw it?”

“Monday night.”

“This past Monday?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe these threats were because you are on a ‘crusade,’ as you put it.”

“I don’t call it a crusade, Detective. The newspaper called it that. After my daughter died, I found out that there is very little the average citizen can do against someone like Vasiliev. I’ve been an advocate for a drug dealer liability act here in Washington.”

“Which is what?”

“It allows for civil penalties against drug dealers.”

“What did the caller say? What were the threats?”

She turned her head, her gaze on the wall. “ ‘Keep your nose out of other people’s business or your daughter will have company. Keep pushing and you’ll be next.’ That was the gist of it.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“He equated me to a female dog and made explicit reference to one of my body parts.”

Rowe could guess which one. “So you took the shooting class after you received these threats?”

She nodded. “I’d also taken classes when I purchased the gun. They offered it, and I decided it was prudent. I hope I never shoot it again.”

“Why is that?”

She leaned forward, forearms on the table, hands folded. A cross on a simple gold chain around her neck dangled near the second open buttonhole of her shirt. Before leaving her home, she had changed into blue jeans, a light-blue silk blouse, and flat shoes. Judging by the fragrance Rowe detected when she got into the car, she had also taken the time to put on perfume. Now he realized from the soft contours and the movement of the silk that Reid was not wearing a bra.

“I didn’t appreciate the power . . . it scared me. Is that a bird?” she asked.

Rowe lifted his eyes. He couldn’t be certain, but Reid seemed to have the bemused look of a woman who had caught a man’s eyes wandering. “Excuse me?”

“The tattoo.” Her fingers brushed the ink on the inside of his forearm.

“It’s a sparrow.”

She sat back, still making eye contact. “Why a sparrow?”

Rowe could not recall ever hearing the buzzing noise in the room, like a swarm of invisible insects. “Can I get you a glass of water, cup of coffee?”

“I’m fine. But if you need a break . . . Is that your nickname? Sparrow?”

He was certain someone had turned up the thermostat. “And you haven’t touched the gun again?”

“Again?”

“Since you brought it home after your final lesson.”

“Not that I recall. It’s been in the box.”

“Even after the threats? You never felt the need to take it out, make sure?”

She shrugged. “It’s in my bedroom closet. I guess I figured I could always get to it if I needed it.”

“You live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else have access to your home? Maid? Cleaning service?”

“It’s just me, Detective. I can be a slob, but there’s really not much to clean.”

“What about your ex-husband?”

“We don’t see each other, for obvious reasons.”

“So he hasn’t been in your house?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“When was the last time you had contact with him?”

Reid’s brow wrinkled. Her middle finger tapped her bottom lip. “Carly’s funeral?” she said. “No, wait . . . I ran into him at a function about two or three weeks ago. I can’t recall the date.”

“What kind of function?”

“The symphony, a fund-raiser.”

“Did you and your ex-husband speak?”

“Briefly.”

“What about?”

“What do two people with nothing to say to each other talk about? It was small talk. It wasn’t comfortable.”

Rowe waited.

“As I said, it got ugly. He was showing up at my office and at home, making all kinds of wild accusations.”

The domestic-violence unit was located in the same building. Getting reports to confirm the allegations would not be difficult.

“Anyone else you can think of who could have had access to your home?”

“I didn’t say my ex had access to my home, Detective.”

“I meant can you think of anyone else besides your ex?”

She shrugged.

“What about Mr. Sloane?”

“What about him?”

“He was in your home tonight; has he been in your home before?”

She looked bemused again and fingered the gold chain around her neck, her eyes finding his. “Yes.”

Rowe forced himself to maintain eye contact. “Did he know you had a gun?”

Reid didn’t answer immediately. She sat back. It was the first time she seemed reluctant. “He commented on it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he saw the gun box in the closet that morning.”

“What morning?”

“Tuesday morning.” She looked about to say something more, then stopped.

“Something you want to add?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You looked like you wanted to say something.”

She smiled. “I’m a lawyer; I always look like I want to say something.”

“Who would know the code for the gun box?”

“Just me, but it wouldn’t really matter; I don’t lock it.”

“You don’t lock the box?”

She shook her head. “Like I said, I’m the only one there to worry about, and I didn’t want to be fumbling with numbers in the dark if I needed to get to it in a hurry.”

“What’s your relationship with Mr. Sloane?”

“We’re friends.”

“And you asked him to file a civil action against Mr. Vasiliev?”

“Yes.”

“How did you meet?”

“I had a case against him last year. He won. I don’t lose, Detective. For someone to beat me, he has to be good. He’s also quite prominent. I hoped his notoriety would help my ‘crusade.’” She used her fingers to demonstrate quotations.

“How long ago did you retain him?”

“I talked to him about it that same day.”

“What day?”

“Tuesday. We met for lunch in his office, and I asked him if he would consider it.”

“And did he agree?”

“Not right away. He wanted to talk to the U.S. attorney who had handled the criminal case.”

“Where were you last night?”

“I knew we would get around to that question sooner or later. You mean my alibi? I don’t have one, unless you consider reading in bed alone an alibi.”

“When did you arrive home?”

“I left the office around four to get in a bike ride.”

“Where’d you go on your ride?” Reid provided Rowe with what she called “her normal route,” and he commented, “That’s a long way.”

“About twenty-five miles, round-trip.”

“You always ride that far?”

“Farther on the weekend.”

“And judging from the shoes piled by your front door, can I assume you also run?”

“And swim. I’m in training for triathlons. I’m hoping to do my first Ironman next year.”

“That’s what, running, biking, and swimming?” Rowe asked.

“Reverse order. It’s swimming, biking, and running. I did a run tonight,” Reid said.

“How far did you go?”

“Seven and a half miles.”

“You usually run farther?”

“Sometimes.”

“And when you swim, how far do you usually go?”

“As much as I can stomach; I like it the least.”

“Why is that?”

“I bore easily, Detective.”

“When did you get back to the house after your bike ride Tuesday night?”

She shrugged and showed him the ACE bandage wrapped around her wrist. “I didn’t have a watch. Dusk. So I would guess about eight or eight-thirty. Give or take a half hour.”

“What happened to your wrist?”

“My hand, actually. I cut it on a piece of glass.”

“And you still went for a ride?”

She shrugged. “The back tire brake is applied with the right hand.”

“Did you ride with anyone?”

“No, by myself.”

“Stop anywhere along the way?”

“If I stop, Detective, I’m liable not to start again.”

“And what did you do after you got home?”

“Nothing.” She drew the word out, smiling as she said it. “I try to make my evenings my time. It’s really the only time I have to myself. If I kept to routine, I made a protein shake, watched a little television, climbed in bed, and read until I fell asleep, which usually doesn’t take long.”

Rowe looked at his notes. “Did you make any phone calls that night, talk to anyone?”

Reid thought for a moment, shaking her head. “I don’t remember if I did or not, but I’m sure you could subpoena my phone records if that becomes necessary.”

“What about Mr. Sloane? Did you and he talk?” Rowe had been taking notes. When the answer did not come as quickly as the others, he looked up. It was the second time she had hesitated. Both questions involved David Sloane. “Did you hear the question?”

“I talked to David.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t remember.”

Rowe sensed sudden reticence. “Do you remember what you talked about?”

“He was upset.”

“Did he say why?”

“Two of Vasiliev’s men had staged a car accident and forcibly escorted him to Vasiliev’s car dealership in Renton.”

“Did he say what happened?”

She paused. “He said Vasiliev threatened him, threatened to hurt his son.”

Rowe sat back, watching her. “Has Mr. Sloane ever been in your bedroom when you weren’t present?”

She bit the lip again. “Yes.”

“When?”

“That same morning.”

“Tuesday morning?”

“Yes.”

The day before Vasiliev was killed.

T
HREE
T
REE
P
OINT
B
URIEN
, W
ASHINGTON

If the trigger pull on the Glock had been any less, Sloane would have shot him in the head.

He slid his finger back along the barrel and lowered the gun, breathing heavily. Light-headed, he reached for the door frame. Realizing this would not keep him upright, he took two steps backward and slumped to a sitting position on the edge of his desk, his eyes closed. He felt a chill.

“You okay?” Charles Jenkins descended the remaining stairs and stood before him. At the sound of Sloane yelling “Freeze!” Jenkins had fallen backward against the railing, hands raised, eyes wide.

“No, I’m not okay. What the hell are you doing here? I told you I wouldn’t be home tonight.” A thought came to him. “Where’s your car?” Jenkins’s eyes shifted to the gun in Sloane’s hand. “What?” Sloane asked.

“Did you do it?”

Sloane tilted his head, uncertain. “Do what?”

“Did you kill him?”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was on the news.”

“I know.”

“I made a call; the bullet was a thirty-eight.”

“You have to ask me that question?” When Jenkins didn’t respond, Sloane said, “You were there. I could have blown Stenopolis’s head off.”

When Jenkins still didn’t respond, Sloane held out the gun. Jenkins took it and sniffed the barrel for gunpowder residue. Sloane walked past him into the living room and pulled a bottle of Scotch from the antique cupboard that served as a hard-liquor cabinet. “You want one?” Jenkins shook his head. Sloane fought to steady his hand as he poured the amber liquid and took a drink. He went out on the covered porch, facing the plate-glass windows.