Murder One (16 page)

It was a long story without any logical beginning. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

“Yeah?”

“We were both on the front page.”

“Oh. Well . . . you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

As Sloane explained his relationship with Barclay, Kelley, who had worked at the Tin Room since it opened, brought their iced-tea
orders and a plate of nachos. Allen poured two packs of sweetener into his tea. “How do you feel about this woman?”

“She’s a lot like Tina—independent, intelligent, athletic, competitive . . . funny.”

The priest sat back. “And you’re physically attracted to her?”

Sloane said he was.

“Do you think you could be in love with her?”

Sloane contemplated an appropriate answer for a priest. Was it too soon to be in love again? Would Allen frown upon their physical relationship, even between two consenting adults? He didn’t know. He knew only that he’d come to view Allen as more of a confidant and friend than a priest.

“I think so.”

“You’re uncertain.”

“Not about her, about . . . With Tina, I thought I’d found a life, you know, something I had wanted, a family. But then it seemed I was always doing something I knew could jeopardize that—the case against Argus International, then Kendall Toys. I guess I’ve had moments when I doubted whether I really loved Tina, or only loved the thought of her and Jake, of being part of a family.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because if I loved her as much as I believed I did . . .”

“You would not have taken cases that placed them in jeopardy.”

“I’m wondering if I have a destructive streak. You know, something that makes me do things that could potentially destroy what I think I want . . . that puts me and those I love in harm’s way.”

Allen contemplated this for a bit. Then he said, “I don’t doubt for a moment that you loved Tina, David, as well as the situation—a family, a husband . . . a father. There’s no reason to separate one from the other. It was part of what you found appealing about her as a person. But tell me something, did your feelings for Barclay begin before or after she found herself in trouble with the law?”

“Why do you ask?”

Allen just smiled. “You know why; you’re an intelligent person.”

“You think I’m attracted to women in trouble?”

“I think you’re attracted to . . . causes, David. I think you’re attracted to
people
who
need
you. I think that it’s a manifestation of
what you told me happened to your mother, how you felt powerless to help her. You have a weak spot for people in need, for people who turn to you because they have no one or no place to go.”

“It’s my job, Allen. I’m an attorney. People don’t come to me unless they need me.”

Allen smiled, sipped his tea. “You’re preaching to the choir. But there’s a difference between it being your job and it defining who you are as a person.”

“I guess I don’t completely follow. Tina was incredibly independent and self-sufficient. She’d raised Jake for years on her own. She went back to school, had a job. She didn’t need me.”

“No? Didn’t you tell me that when you first met her she had a bad marriage and a husband who didn’t pay her any alimony or child care, didn’t spend any time with his own son?”

“But I knew I liked Tina the minute we met, before I even knew her circumstances. There was a spark.”

Allen laughed. “Of course there was. She was an incredibly attractive woman that just about any man would have been physically attracted to. And physical attraction leads to interaction, and interaction is what allows us to become better acquainted and decide if we want to be intimate. When you did, you found a good woman who’d been dealt a bad hand and could use some help.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“To help others? Of course not. But I think you also loved being the husband she never had and the father Jake wanted . . . and the person who could take care of them. That’s part of the reason for the depth of your pain now. You blame yourself for her death because you saw yourself as not just her husband, not just Jake’s father, but their guardian, the person who would protect them, the person who was supposed to prevent bad things from ever happening to either of them again. And you believe you failed.”

“I did fail.”

“Bad things happen to good people, David. Tell me, if Tina had been stricken with cancer, would you have blamed yourself ?”

“No.”

“Then how can you blame yourself for an act of violence equally as random? And now you have found another woman, divorced,
alone, a person hurting inside, as are you, from a terrible loss, something that most people, thankfully, can never truly understand—but that you can.”

“And you think that’s what I’m attracted to?”

“Not entirely, no. But I think it is a part of who you are.”

“So what do I do?”

“Just understand your vulnerabilities.”

“Such as?”

“There’s a huge difference between love and need. Someone who needs you will put themselves first. Someone who loves you will put you first.”

T
HE
J
USTICE
C
ENTER
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

As promised, Rowe delivered the report on Reid’s polygraph to his detective sergeant, Andrew Laub. Laub said he would advise Sandy Clarridge, though he neither looked nor sounded happy about having to do so. He asked Rowe where the investigation was headed in light of the test. Rowe didn’t have a ready answer and didn’t want to bullshit him. He told Laub they were awaiting certain CSI reports, including the analysis of the shoes by the special operations unit. He also told Laub about the neighbor who saw Sloane early on the morning of the murder, and said they were following up on that lead as well.

The neighbor was certain she saw Sloane minutes before four in the morning, because she left every morning at that time to be at work by 4:30. The anonymous phone call reporting Vasiliev’s death had been logged at 3:12
A.M.
The drive from Vasiliev’s home in Laurelhurst to Sloane’s home in Three Tree Point was just over twenty-eight miles and, according to MapQuest, took about thirty-four minutes—likely less at that hour, without traffic. Therefore, it was conceivable Sloane could have shot Vasiliev and still had time to drive home to be seen by the neighbor. That was well and good, but it did not comport with Kaylee Wright’s analysis that
three
people had run through Vasiliev’s backyard at about the same time and that
one of them, with a foot size much smaller than Sloane’s, had been the shooter. It also didn’t comport with Rowe’s working theory that whoever had killed Vasiliev had left via the water, either swimming or by boat. DMV records revealed Sloane owned a boat but he never could have piloted between his home and Vasiliev’s in the requisite time, because to do so would have required that he navigate the boat from Lake Washington through the locks to the Puget Sound.

As Rowe stood to leave Laub’s office, Laub didn’t exactly send him off with the rousing motivational speech he had hoped for.

“I’ll cover your asses as much as I can, but you better have all your i’s dotted and t’s crossed on this one, Sparrow.”

Rowe made his way back to his cubicle asking himself the same question his father used to ask whenever his son failed at a task: “What the Sam Hill happened?”

Crosswhite approached carrying her purse and his windbreaker, which meant they were going somewhere.

“How did he take it?” she asked.

“You might want to get that schoolteacher résumé updated, and let me know if you find any openings for a janitor.”

“You think we’re having fun now? We’re just getting started.”

He followed her down the interior stairwell. “Now what?”

“Latents are back.”

“Already?”

She pushed through the door to the parking garage. Her voice echoed. “I called for an initial assessment. I was hoping we’d find Reid’s print at the site, blow her alibi, and move directly to accepting our commendations for a job well done.”

“You really don’t like her, do you?” He walked past the Prius to the Impala parked two stalls farther down. “I’ll drive.”

Crosswhite picked up her pace. “Like has nothing to do with it. I think she’s lying.”

“Polygraph says otherwise.”

“Women’s intuition says the polygraph is wrong.”

They slipped into the car and clipped the seat belts.

“Maybe we should have hooked her up to you and asked the questions. Let me guess—I shouldn’t dust off my dress blues for that commendation ceremony anytime soon.”

“I wouldn’t. But you may be right about Vasiliev providing more information dead than alive . . .”

Rowe had his hand on the key in the ignition, waiting. “So how long are you going to hold me in suspense?”

“Latents has positive AFIS IDs on five other prints found inside the home—including three guys with a history of dealing and one woman with a history of solicitation. I got uniforms rounding them up now. Mayweather and Simonson are lined up to find out what they have to say.”

“Okay, but you said five. Math was never my best subject in school, Professor, but three plus one was four in my grade school.”

Crosswhite smiled. “I’m saving the best for last.”

“Yeah, and what would that be?”

“Take a left out of the garage.”

D
RUG
E
NFORCEMENT
A
DMINISTRATION
S
ECOND
A
VENUE
W
EST
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

Half an hour later, Lucas Finley, the special agent in charge of the DEA’s five northwestern states—Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, and Alaska—sat looking like a man who took a wrong turn while deep in thought and came out of it wondering where the heck he was and how he had gotten there.

“Honestly, I have no idea who this guy is or where he could have come from. I don’t recognize the name, and I’ve been SAC here six years and an agent eight before that.”

Finley sounded convincing, but Rowe wasn’t completely buying it. Maybe his reluctance to accept the man at his word was because Finley, tall and lean with gunmetal-gray hair, a set of perfect white teeth, starched white shirt, and conservative blue tie, looked and sounded like the team doctor who had told Rowe there was nothing seriously wrong with his hip and that continuing to play wouldn’t harm it further. Rowe also knew the DEA had spent seven months chasing Vasiliev, and he wasn’t convinced they would have just walked away because a Federal District Court judge threw out the
evidence on a technicality. But if they’d kept Vasiliev under surveillance after the court hearing without proper authority, maybe without the Justice Department’s blessing or knowledge, there could be a lot of questions to answer for a guy with not long to go before vesting for that cushy federal pension.

“I need to know whether you guys had him under surveillance,” Rowe said. One of the latents had come back as a match for a federal DEA agent named Julio Cruz. “Because if you guys fucked up my homicide investigation, I’m really going to get pissed.”

Finley sat forward. Two bull moose locking horns. “I told Detective Crosswhite on the phone I’d look into it, and I’m telling you now, face-to-face—one, we didn’t have Vasiliev under surveillance . . . why would we? We had enough evidence to put the son of a bitch away for a very long time if Kozlowski hadn’t come down with that bullshit decision. And two, I have no idea who the hell Julio Cruz is. He doesn’t work in this division. I can tell you that.”

Rowe took a deep breath, blowing out the frustration. “What about another division?”

“I got a call in to human resources in Virginia,” Finley said, meaning the home office and
I’m way ahead of you, pal
. “When I know, you’ll know. And then we’ll both know.”

T
HREE
T
REE
P
OINT
B
URIEN
, W
ASHINGTON

Sloane looked up. He had reached the end. He had kayaked around the point to the south of his home many times, just a short distance from where he put in, but he had never reached the point to the north. He hadn’t planned on it this trip, either, but he’d found a rhythm to his stroke, like a runner lost in his footfalls, and when he looked up, he had done it.

After leaving the Tin Room and dropping Father Allen back at the school, he took advantage of the weather, as initially intended. With the sun still bright and the tide out, he pulled out the kayak to get some exercise. He now sat bobbing in the waves, letting his arms and shoulders rest, sweat trickling from beneath his 49ers cap and darkening his tank top beneath the life vest. He looked across the Puget
Sound, considering a ferry boat crossing between Vashon Island and West Seattle, much larger than in the view from his home. From the wave action, he judged the tide to have shifted. The breeze had also picked up, and it felt good on his skin. He heard the bark of an unseen seal, which was becoming more and more rare.

He pointed his kayak toward home and let the paddles cut through the water, allowing his mind to drift again. He wondered how someone as young as Father Allen had become so perceptive. It was tough to argue with logic, and that was exactly what the priest had put squarely in Sloane’s face, forcing him to consider that maybe he did see himself as a knight in shining armor, the person to whom others went when justice could not be obtained elsewhere. The priest had said there was nothing wrong with that, so long as Sloane didn’t let it define him or his relationships.

The journey home seemed shorter, the tide with him and the wind at his back, but he was also pushing the pace and felt the strain in his shoulders. His breathing grew labored. He lifted his head to gauge his path and noticed someone walking along the beach, a blue dot in the distance. As he approached, the dot grew and the features became recognizable—the color of her hair, the tiny frame, the casual way she moved. Nearing, he saw that she wore a pin-striped suit, holding her shoes by the straps, walking in stocking feet. Barclay.