Murder One (45 page)

As Pendergrass emerged from his office, raincoat draped over his arm, briefcase in hand, Carolyn stopped him. “Hold on there, Red.” She handed him an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch orange envelope. The return address indicated it had been hand-delivered by the prosecutor’s office.

“Probably the missing documents,” Pendergrass said, making it sound eerie. “The smoking guns.” He put down his briefcase and opened the envelope flap, considering the contents.

Alex said her goodbyes.

“Come back soon,” Carolyn said. “We can use another woman around here to balance out the testosterone.”

Alex smiled. “You never know. I just might.”

Jenkins held the door as Alex stepped through it.

“Huh?” Pendergrass said, drawing Jenkins’s attention.

“What is it?”

Pendergrass shook his head. “Nothing . . .” He smiled. “Absolutely nothing. I guess I just thought it would be something more interesting, you know?” He shrugged. “It’s just a Google search and more credit-card transactions.”

“Well, not every case can be like
Perry Mason
,” Jenkins said.

Pendergrass thrust the document at Carolyn. “And isn’t it true that you performed a Google search on September third, 2011?”

Carolyn scowled at him. “If you’re Perry Mason, I’m Marilyn Monroe.”

Jenkins laughed and exited, hearing Pendergrass continue the charade as the door swung shut. “Answer the question,” he said. “Isn’t it true . . . that on September third, 2011, you did a Google search for Cadillac Coupe de Villes.”

Jenkins looked at Alex, who had stopped in the hallway. He pulled back open the door and snatched the documents from Pendergrass’s hand.

Q
UEEN
A
NNE
H
ILL
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

The eyes had faded from the beautiful jade green to a dull gray. The smile, which had started small, spread across her face into a thin-lipped grin. She laughed, clapping her hands—once, then again and again.

You don’t undertand . . . but you will
.

“Excellent, counselor. Excellent.”

The transformation alarmed him. Her features becoming hard and ugly.

“Too bad you’re not going to be using any of that in your closing argument. But tell me, when did you figure it out?”

“I think I knew all along,” he said.

She shook her head, sneered. “Bullshit. You had no fucking clue. You, the lawyer who does not lose. You had no idea.”

“Not at first,” Sloane admitted, “but it bothered me that no one had ever explained why Cruz’s fingerprint was on the door; there was no need to explain it after Underwood ruled it inadmissible. Cruz had to have had a reason to touch the door and Hurley confirmed what that was. Cruz went inside to retrieve the bug so the police wouldn’t find it.”

She picked up his glass and sipped the Scotch, her voice rough. “You’re lying. If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want it to be true. Because there was a part of me that was willing to accept that you killed Vasiliev to avenge your daughter’s death.” He walked away from her, his anger building. “There was a part of me that could have accepted that, could have forgiven you.”

“Forgiven me?” She laughed, mocking him. “What makes you think I ever wanted your forgiveness? And don’t you dare judge me. You and I are exactly alike. I just had the guts to pull the trigger. You didn’t.”

His voice rose, and he took a step toward her. “Don’t . . .”

She lifted her chin. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t you dare equate the two; this was never about avenging your daughter’s death. This was never about justice. If it had been,
you could have killed Vasiliev any time you wanted. This had nothing to do with your daughter. This was all about you getting even after Vasiliev walked . . . after he won and you lost.”

She raised her voice, pointed. “He never won.”

“What did he do, Barclay? What did he say? What set you off ?”

The sickened smile returned. “He grinned,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “The son of a bitch nodded and grinned. Well, he’s not grinning anymore, is he?” She took a drink. Then she screamed, “
Is he?
” She wheeled and threw the glass at the fireplace, shattering it. The anger and rage seeped from her, bringing a feral smell. He’d seen it that brief moment at Kells, but this time she could not control it. It boiled over, her eyes wild, her face a mask of ugliness. She was a foot smaller and a hundred pounds lighter than he, but she snarled and hissed like an animal backed into a corner, prepared for a fight.

“He didn’t realize the game wasn’t over. Neither did you. Oh no, I hadn’t forgotten about you, either.”

“What are you talking about?”

She took a step closer. “Please. Don’t pretend like you never cared.”

“Cared about what?” he asked, though the answer began to dawn on him.

She hates to lose at anything
.

“Kendall Toys. Or did you think I’d forgotten all about that?”

In his mind, he saw her standing beside the pool table, head cocked, watching him. She hadn’t distracted him to seduce him, though that was a part of it. She couldn’t help herself. She’d distracted him to win.

“I beat you,” she said, then reemphasized each word. “I . . . beat . . . you. The lawyer who does not lose. I outsmarted you every step of the way. I got even with you, Vasiliev, and that ex-husband of mine. I got even with you all. So don’t you dare stand here and tell me you had it figured out. Don’t you dare.”

“Why Oberman? Hadn’t you punished him enough?”

She shook her head, emphatic. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I was not done with him. He humiliated me, asking
me
for a divorce? Are you kidding me? I was a gift. He was never going to find anyone close to
my league.” She stepped toward him. “Do you know what it was like going to work every day, having people stare at me, wondering what had to be wrong with me for someone like that to divorce
me
? And then I had to read about it in the newspapers. Well, I humiliated him, didn’t I?” Her voice wavered between anger and tears. “Then, after Carly died, he started in again, calling me on the phone, swearing, telling me it was my fault. My fault? How dare he. How dare he! So I decided to put an end to him once and for all. You’re wrong about this being spur-of-the-moment. I planned it for months, since Carly’s death. I planned every minute detail. It was perfect, all the way down to flying Jake up here to distract you and give me time to plant the gun in Felix’s apartment and the shoes in Lori Andrews’s closet.”

“How?” Sloane asked.

“Shit. Do you know how easy it is to get a superintendent to open a door? So don’t tell me you figured it out.”

But he had. “Someone called the security company three nights before, as well as the night that Oberman set off the alarm,” he said. “There would have been no reason for you to make those calls if you had never suspected Oberman might set off the alarm. And you shouldn’t have known the alarm went off, because Oberman was able to provide the password. The only reason for you to call the security company was to find out if your scheme worked, if he’d come looking for the gun.”

She laughed, but it was hesitant, uncertain. “That doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean you knew anything.”

“Not by itself. But as Detective Rowe likes to say, I followed the evidence. I began to question why Cruz would have left his fingerprint on the sliding-glass door, why the killer who walked with purpose and intent would have hesitated when she reached the patio, why the trajectory of the bullet wasn’t just right. I needed to find out if I was right, whether you had set the whole thing up from the start.”

She grinned. “Let me answer that question, darling. I bought the dress the day of your speech, after I read about it in the
Law Journal
. I got my hair done, put on the makeup and jewelry, and waited for that moment to accidentally stumble into you. The whole speech about my father and his Cadillac and how I loved to smell his aftershave? Most men would have done me in the backseat of the car
after a story like that, and I would have let you. Oh yeah. You could have banged my brains out. But no, not you. You’re too much of a gentleman. I had to take my time with you.”

“You didn’t count on cutting your hand, though, did you? You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t control the anger, just like Oberman said.”

She shrugged. “No plan is perfect. I didn’t plan on that little shit sneaking home at three in the morning and seeing me, either. But every good attorney knows you have to adapt. So I gave Yamaguchi the anonymous tip that you and I were both being questioned. I knew they’d run a picture with the story. What paper wouldn’t? And that would at least give you grounds to argue that the montage was tainted. But you did so much better than that.” She chuckled. “You destroyed that little shit. I mean, I knew you were good—I thought I might have to lead you to certain evidence—but . . .” She smiled at him, eyes brimming with interest, biting her lower lip. “But forget all of that. Tell me, because I’ve been dying to ask . . . how does it feel to lose?”

“Winning isn’t as rewarding as you think, Barclay.”

“David,” she said, “we both know that winning is the only thing.”

“No. Sometimes it comes at too high a cost.”

“Spoken like someone who just lost.”

“Did I?”

She laughed again. “At least be man enough to admit it.” She walked closer, nearly touching him. “Come on, let’s not hold grudges. I think Jake likes me.”

He grabbed her just under the chin. She stuck out her tongue, licking her lips, whispering. “Go ahead, hit me. I like it like that.”

He released his grip, stepping back and turning for the door.

Her voice became melodic, nearly a hum. “Don’t be a sore loser. Be a good sport and admit that I beat you and we can go upstairs. There’s no reason to waste a perfectly good opportunity to celebrate.” Sloane pulled open the front door. She called out to him, “I’ll see you in court tomorrow, counselor. And remember, this is all a privileged conversation.”

Sloane pushed open the wooden gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. Jenkins leaned against the hood of the Cadillac, the collar of his leather jacket pulled up. He wore gloves and a knit ski cap. “You all right?”

Sloane struggled to catch his breath, the adrenaline still pulsing. “How’d you know?”

Jenkins held up the manila packet. “She googled Cadillac Coupe de Ville the day of your speech. I was debating whether to ring the doorbell, but something told me you already had it all figured out.”

“Nobody has it all figured out, Charlie.”

“What are you going to do?”

Sloane shrugged. “I’m an officer of the court; I’m going to do my job.”

“You’re going to let her get away with this?”

Sloane looked up at the house. Part of him expected to see her in the window, but the window was dark. “Nobody gets away with anything. We all have to pay for our mistakes.”

“Maybe, but I’d like to be there when that happens.”

Sloane turned from the window. “Tell me what you know about Zach Bergman.”

THIRTY - ONE

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
9, 2011
U
NITED
S
TATES
F
EDERAL
D
ISTRICT
C
OURT
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

R
ebecca Han caught Judge Myron Kozlowski by surprise. He lifted his gaze from the papers on his desk, pleadings in cases he would decide that morning.

“Ms. Han? What is the meaning of entering my office without an invitation?” She closed the door. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m closing the door. Unless you want your entire staff to hear our conversation.”

Kozlowski reached for the phone. “I’m going to call security before you do or say anything that might further destroy what you have left of your career.”

“I am fully aware of what an act such as this could potentially mean to an ambitious young lawyer,” she said. “But a United States attorney must be above the sway of the media, which is why I’m here and not down at the
Seattle Times
talking to my friend Ian Yamaguchi.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“I’m babbling about an investigation that would be front-page news in this city for days, and likely across the country—a story of a federal district court judge accepting bribes in exchange for rulings that put drug traffickers back on the streets. An investigation of something like that could really mean something to a young U.S. attorney’s career, couldn’t it? Or would that be self-aggrandizing?”

Kozlowski hung up the phone.

K
ING
C
OUNTY
C
OURTHOUSE
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

The news conference took place in a room at the courthouse. King County prosecutor Amanda Pinkett stood at the podium answering questions. She did not hang Cerrabone out to dry. Chief of Police Sandy Clarridge also stood present to support Rowe and Cross-white. Both acknowledged they agreed with Cerrabone’s decision to dismiss the charges against Barclay Reid, a motion Judge Underwood had granted in his courtroom earlier that morning. The press had received wind of what was to transpire, and the numbers present had quadrupled to a sea of cameramen, reporters, and photographers. They snapped Reid’s picture from the moment she stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor until she reached the courtroom doors.

At the moment, Reid stood between Sloane and Pendergrass, to the right of Detectives Rowe and Crosswhite.

“Will the police reopen the investigation into Vasiliev’s murder?” a reporter asked.

“We are in the process of evaluating whether there is sufficient evidence to bring any further charges against any other persons,” Pinkett said, though Sloane knew that, practically, that could never happen.

One of the problems with a high-profile prosecution was the prosecutor had to stand before not just a jury but the entire community, point his finger, and say that a particular person was guilty of the crime. When that same prosecutor had to stand up in court and admit he had been wrong, it raised considerable credibility concerns for the prosecutor to stand up a second time, point the same finger, and say, “Okay, this time I really mean it. This time this person did it.”