The Gift of the Darkness (11 page)

“Can you see a magnifying glass anywhere?” she asked Brown.

It was standard equipment for any kid who, at some point or other, would try to use it to burn a hole in something. There had to be one somewhere.

“Here.” It was in a china mug with an assortment of pens and pencils. Brown handed it to her. “What have you got?”

“I don't know yet.”

Madison turned on the Anglepoise lamp on the desk and moved it so that it shone straight onto the bat. The lens was not as good as the one in the police lab, just good enough for her to see what she needed to see.

When she was in Little League, a boy her age but twice her weight had had the great idea to try to stop her from batting by grabbing the bat from behind while she was in full swing. The boy got his hand broken, and Madison learned what a bone splinter looks like when it's embedded in a baseball bat.

“It's old,” she said.

“It's very old,” Brown replied.

“Still, it's worth having it checked.”

“Yup.”

Madison stood the bat by the door. The room wasn't any less eerie than it had been at first; if anything, she was expecting that locker-room smell that seems to hang over every teenager's room.

“I'm calling him.” Brown sat back in the chair and dialed his cell phone. After getting transferred a couple of times, he reached Fred Kamen at Quantico.

“I'm in a place that doesn't make any sense,” he said. “No, I mean that literally. Do you have five minutes?”

You have a golden time at the beginning of an investigation: after those first precious forty-eight hours everything begins to fade. With each new day witnesses forget details, and the pencil line between victim and killer becomes a little less clearly drawn.

Before they'd found a check with Cameron's name on it, Kamen might have helped them build a profile of the unusual killer. Now he might help them understand him and find him. This call was not to the FBI, however; it was from Brown to Kamen. One hand held the phone; the other went through the drawers in the desk.

Madison tuned him out. If you are a boy, and you have bunk beds, where would you normally sleep? Top bunk, no question. Madison lifted a corner of the pillow with two fingers. No pajamas. She didn't really expect to find them there; then again, she didn't really know what to expect.

She leaned against the beds, stretching her arm over the top one until her fingertips brushed the triangular Sonics banner over it. It was fabric with raised lettering, the kind they didn't make anymore.

Cameron had left the room as he had once had it, not for them to find it—he couldn't have known they'd come—but because he'd wanted or needed to. Madison took off her glove and traced the lettering with her fingers. As surely as the dark line around the bone splinter in the bat was somebody's blood, this room, whatever it meant to him, would eventually bring him down. Madison knew it then like a hound that has just caught the scent. She wished that knowledge would make her feel better about being there, but it didn't. She put her glove back on.

They finished their jobs, each to his own thoughts, and were glad to leave, having found little and taking with them a chill they wouldn't shake off for hours.

Chapter 17

“What did Kamen say?” Madison asked Brown.

They had just left Laurelhurst, and the baseball bat was on the backseat in an evidence bag.

“He said Cameron has been smart all these years, and $25,000 might have turned him into a schmuck.”

“Go on.”

“That was the gist of it.”

Madison kept quiet and let Brown come out with the rest in his own time.

“What would you say is the difference between ‘posing' and ‘staging'?”

“Are you giving me a pop quiz?”

“You asked me what Kamen said.”

“Okay.” Madison shifted in her seat. “‘Staging' is when something is arranged to look like something else, like when a hit is made to look like a robbery. ‘Posing' treats the victim like an object, which is put in a particular position to make a point, to leave some kind of message.”

“Yes. How many cases of posing have you worked?”

“None. It's extremely rare.”

“What is the perpetrator's reason for it?”

“It gives him a high—not only the kill but the complete control of the scene.”

“Yes. In the Sinclairs' homicides the victims were posed, bound and blindfolded. The signature, the thing the killer had to have, was complete power over them even after their deaths.”

“Agreed.”

“This is what Kamen asked me: was there any posing in the
Nostromo
killings? Was any physical evidence recovered afterward? Was there any posing in the drug-dealer murder in Lake Washington? Was any physical evidence recovered afterward?”

“No and none, for both.”

“Of course, Cameron might have committed other murders that we don't know about. Still, no posing, no evidence, and no warning or messages left at the scenes he is suspected of.”

“What you're saying—”

“If Cameron's the killer, then he's changed. Suddenly, the wife and children are included in the kill, and he wants to show off.”

“This time it was personal: a friend, his own lawyer, may have tried to steal from him. He made sure Sinclair knew what was happening to his family by killing him last. He had to, I don't know, repay the insult.”

“That was the point. The knowing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just answered the question you asked yesterday. Why the different mode of death for the father? Why the chloroform? Why tie him up before he died and not after, like the others?”

It was so simple.

“Because he wanted Sinclair to know,” she said. “He wanted him to know what was happening to his family—that was the punishment.”

“A shot in the back of the head in a dark alley wouldn't have achieved the same goal.”

“Does Kamen have a problem with this scenario?” Madison asked.

“He doesn't like it when people change their habits, that's all. It worries him.”

“Does it worry you?”

Brown shrugged.

“Did Kamen have any idea about
Thirteen Days
?”

“No.”

“This morning, when Payne told you the prints on the glass were Cameron's, you were surprised, like it was bad news for us somehow.”

“I was surprised,” Brown conceded.

“Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe I just didn't expect him to be able to leave any.”

Carl Doyle knocked softly on Nathan Quinn's door and walked in.

“He's here,” he said.

“Show him in.”

“Do you need anything else?”

“No, Carl. Thank you for staying. You should go home now.”

It was too late to discuss the situation with Sinclair's files or why Bob Greenhut was now the executor of Jimmy's will. At the best of times, Nathan Quinn was not a man who would encourage questions about himself, and this was far from the best of times. All Doyle could offer was his support and his kindness, and he would do just that.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

Doyle didn't mind staying late—it gave him a chance to catch up on work. He did, however, mind seeing Tod Hollis, the firm's chief investigator, coming in at that hour in the evening. Nothing good ever started that way.

As always, Hollis wore a dark suit and tie, more federal agent than the cop he'd once been, close-cropped hair and a mustache that had more gray in it than black. He had been shot after twenty-five years on the job, and the resulting limp, however slight, had put him into the private-investigation business. Quinn, Locke was his main client.

Hollis gripped Quinn's hand and shook it hard once.

“I'm very sorry about James and his family.”

“Thank you.”

Hollis had dealt with many victims' loved ones through the years. He looked at Quinn to see how far along he was on that ugly road.

“Have a seat. Would you like a drink?” Quinn gestured to a couple of chairs opposite his desk. He had poured himself a shot of bourbon half an hour ago, and it was still untouched.

“No, thank you.”

Quinn sat down in the companion chair.

“How are you doing?” Hollis asked.

“I'm fine,” Quinn replied. “I'm sorry to have called on you so late—”

“Don't worry about it.”

“I need your help.”

“Anything I can do.”

“This is going to be different.”

“What is it?”

Hollis saw the line of darkness around Quinn's eyes and hoped it was mere tiredness.

“I want to put a reward out for information that will lead to the arrest of the man who murdered James and his family: two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I'd like you to be in charge of that.”

“It's a lot of money.”

“It's worth it.”

“I know. What I mean is, an amount like that, every creep from here to Miami is going to crawl out from under a rock and tell on his mama.”

“What do you think would be appropriate?”

“One hundred thousand dollars, and we're still going to have a tough time sifting through all the calls.”

“The checkbook is open.”

“I know.”

“Something else. I'd like you to investigate the murders yourself.”

The police investigation was hardly two days old, and Hollis knew the department—all good people who would put in the hours “until.”

“What's going on?” he asked.

“The police say they've found evidence that James might have been embezzling funds from one of his tax clients. They say it could be
a revenge killing. They were here today going through his files. Of course, they found nothing to support their theory.”

“What do you think?”

“I don't believe it for a second.”

“What about the evidence they have?” Hollis would always think like a cop.

“I'll get to that. There's more: they're already looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“The wrong man.”

“Okay.”

“And I am his attorney.”

Hollis waited.

“John Cameron.”

Hollis sat back in his chair.

“I think I'll have that drink now,” he said.

Quinn poured him a shot. Hollis held the glass without drinking.

“If I'm taking this on, and I want to, you're going to have to tell me all you know. I can't go into this half-cocked.”

“I'm going to tell you everything the police told me. Everything that's relevant to the case. After that you make your own moves.”

Hollis took out a pad. “You do realize they might be right?” he said.

“I don't think so,” Quinn replied.

“Is it like something you have a feeling about or something you know absolutely, without the shadow of a doubt?”

“I know this absolutely.”

“Nathan, this is an open case. Mere days old. No one is going to welcome us with open arms while the police are still on it. What happens if whatever I dig up confirms their theory?”

“It won't,” Quinn said. “Find out what you can about the detectives. I want to know who I'm dealing with. And I couldn't care less about their welcome.”

The patrol car was parked in front of the Sinclairs' home. During the evening the uniformed officers had regularly walked the perimeter of
the property. There had been a problem in the last few years with the sale online of items from crime scenes. For a price, an object from Blue Ridge could be out of the house, the city, and the state before their shift was over.

Brock and McDowell turned off their flashlights as they reached the car. They were about to run out of coffee, and that thought held McDowell's attention as much as securing the house. Neither of them knew the neighborhood very well. They had driven around on patrols, sure, but they were not familiar with its secrets. They were not aware of a path three hundred yards past the house. From Blue Ridge, through the trees and between the houses, it led down to the narrow cobble beach and the water. They couldn't have known about it, but John Cameron did.

He moved through the pitch-black darkness without hesitation, a shadow deeper than the rest. He made no sound on the dirt path and in seconds reached the water. Puget Sound glimmered for a moment before him; then a cloud passed over the moon, and he stepped onto the beach.

Tiny lights blinked from Vashon Island. James Sinclair's house stood empty on the right. Cameron started walking.

He had observed the patrol officers, seen the beams of their flashlights. He had waited till he was sure they were back in their car and then moved down the path.

Cameron climbed the wooden steps up to the lawn, crossed it, and reached the patio door. The key was already in his hand, and he let himself in. He closed the glass door behind him, locked it, and pulled the curtains shut.

He stood still and heard himself breathe the stale air in the living room, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness inside. Then he took out a small flashlight and turned it on, making sure none of the familiar furnishings had been moved since his last visit.

He raised the beam slightly and noticed the smudges of black powder used by the crime-scene unit to dust for fingerprints. They were everywhere. Someone had toppled a pile of magazines, and scuff marks on the wooden floor spoke of the many police officers and technicians who had trooped in and out. Small intrusions into the life of the house.

Less than thirty feet away, the two patrolmen were shooting the breeze. He was aware of their presence and unconcerned by it. Whatever his thoughts or his memories of what happened in the house, they did not spill over the present and the job in hand. He pointed the flashlight at the floor again and took the stairs to the master bedroom. Halfway up, a heavy scent permeated the air, like a warm day in a butcher's.

From his many visits, he remembered which steps would creak, and he quietly made his way to the bedroom. The flashlight beam found the bed and lingered there, then followed the trail of the detectives in every mark circled on the wall and every powder stain around the windows and door. He noticed that the top of the door frame had been removed; he went to the children's room and saw the bullet holes in the wall.

In a place where awful violence had been committed, John Cameron walked from room to room, observing without hurry. In the study, he sat back on the leather sofa and turned off the flashlight.

Madison, tired and restless, drove as fast as the law would allow toward Three Oaks. She dialed Brown's number.

“I'm not done with the day yet,” she said. “I'm thinking of going to the crime scene for a walk-around, see if anything overlaps with Cameron's house.”

“If you find something—”

“I know. I'll get one of the officers to co-sign the slip.”

“By the way, the keys are here. How are you going to get in?”

“Well, I'll have to improvise. I'm counting on a spare key under the mat.”

“I don't want to hear someone broke a back window to get in.”

“Don't worry. If I don't find anything in five minutes, I'll just go home and not sleep.”

By the time she pulled in alongside the patrol car, Madison was reasonably annoyed with herself. She showed the officers her badge and explained who she was and what she was going to do. Brock and
McDowell exchanged a look; there might have been some eye-rolling involved—Madison couldn't be sure.

It took her ten minutes to find the sealed plastic bag inside the hollow of a stump a few yards up the driveway, in it a key ring and two keys.

Five minutes past midnight, Madison crossed the threshold. She turned on the lights in the hall and in the living room. Everything was as she remembered it. She didn't have a plan exactly; it was more a case of knowing what she was looking for after she had found it.

The central heating system was just turning itself off for the night, soft clicks emanating from the registers. She headed up the stairs.

Madison reached the master bedroom. In terms of blood and chaos, it was not the worst crime scene she could imagine, not by a long shot. But her mind envisioned rage played out here, blind and overwhelming yet contained in the neat turnout of the bedcovers. Rage implied more than revealed. If that thing made a sound, Madison considered, it was not something she ever wanted to hear.

She did not entertain those thoughts for long; it was late, and she was rattling around in an empty house. She knew very well why she had gone upstairs: if she was going to search the Sinclairs' house and possessions, it was a way of asking their permission. Maybe the house would now be willing to give her what she needed.

Her steps creaked as she passed the study.

Standing behind the open door of the Sinclairs' study, John Cameron could tell from the weight of the footsteps that it was a woman walking by. She had to be a detective. The officers in the car had not set foot in the house since he had been watching them. He resented the intrusion. Still, if she was looking for something in the middle of the night, it might be worth knowing what.