The Gift of the Darkness (14 page)

Chapter 21

“Tomorrow morning. Eleven a.m. God bless the Honorable Claire Martin.” Sarah Klein's voice crackled through her cell.

Madison smiled: they could all do with some good news. The OPR detectives had been hard at work all morning. They had gone through everybody and kept Lieutenant Fynn's formal interview till last. When they were done, they left, and the squad room went back to its normal noise level.

The Sinclair investigation was now in its third day. There had been a lot of curiosity: even detectives who had no good reason to visit had somehow wandered in. Madison was glad she and Brown had set up the murder board out of everybody's way. Among all the photos and maps and floor plans and a diagram of which detectives had interviewed which neighbors, Madison had pinned up the birthday-party photo she had found at the Sinclairs'. Next to it, she had copied and enlarged Cameron's fingerprint card. A current photograph would have been nice but at least the whorls and arches, black on white, reassured her it was a real person that they were looking for. Flesh and blood and mortal.

Madison's desk was covered with papers: notes from the library about the Hoh River kidnappings, the
Nostromo
file, the relevant press clippings, and, on the top, James and Anne Sinclair's bank records.

“This one.” Madison picked up the sheet from Seattle First Savings & Loan. “James Sinclair opened this account six months ago. The other one is a joint account with his wife. But this one is only in his name.”

She scanned the page; there was not much to read.

“He put $500 in when he opened it. Then, a deposit for $25,000 every month for four months. It goes in one day and out the next. Withdrawn in cash. It's the same amount on the forged check.”

“I guess we found where the money went, if not why,” Brown said.

“He took out the cash. That's $100,000 overall.”

Brown sat back in his chair, took off his glasses, and started cleaning them with his white handkerchief.

“How much is Quinn's reward?”

Madison knew he didn't need to ask; he was not a man who forgot details.

“$100,000.”

They had both thought the same thing: in the end, it all evens out.

Quinn's reward was, first and foremost, a pain in the neck. Everybody agreed on that; news of it had been greeted in the squad room by a general groan. No workable information on Cameron was ever going to come out of it, just a whole load of nuts with phone cards and time to spare. It was an attorney's attempt to muddy the waters, no more, no less.

Brown went back to compiling a list of John Cameron's known associates. It was a very short list, containing names that had been mentioned over the years in connection with the cases Cameron had
not
been charged with.

“Harry Cueron,” Brown said.

Madison looked up. “Little guy. Low-level weapons dealer?”

“Yes.”

“ATF got him last year. He's doing time upstate.”

“Bobby Hooper, drugs and prostitution.”

“Moved to Miami.”

Brown drew a line through the names.

“John Keane,” Madison tried. “Two-time loser; his brother died on the
Nostromo
.”

“Killed in jail three months ago.”

“Eddy Cheung. Midlevel docks and distribution.”

“Maybe but not likely. Eddy keeps his head down.”

A small silence.

“This is not going to work,” Brown said.

The squad PA knocked and came in. “This came in from Records and ID; it's the hard copy.” She handed Brown an envelope, made a point of ignoring the photographs on the walls, and left.

A computer program had been developed in the 1980s to aid the search for children who had been missing for a long time: starting from the most recent photograph, the software could project what that child might look like in five, ten, twenty years.

Brown took out a six-by-four color picture.

“There he is,” he said, and he passed it to Madison.

Records had done some nice work: they had taken the mug shot of a teenager and turned it into a man. Even if something had been lost in translation, Madison felt a cold shiver, not of fear but of recognition. There he was.

“We should ask Quinn if it's a good likeness.”

“That's probably privileged,” Brown replied.

Lieutenant Fynn put his head in the door. “The chief is calling me every fifteen minutes. Where are we at?”

“I was on the phone with Gertz,” Brown said. “Patrol is going to get the picture, as well as State, County, Port Authority, and airport police. I'm going to make sure all the little runways who charter to the islands have them, too. The photo and the details will be passed on to VICAP and the FBI. The truck we're not going to get—he's probably already ditched it. And tomorrow morning, which is not coming one minute too soon, Klein has Quinn in front of a judge.”

“We should sell tickets,” Fynn said. Then he paused for a moment. “Cameron has been out there doing his thing for years: now I want him
visible
. I want his picture on the news. I want his face on the front page. They want him, let them have him. He shouldn't be able to buy a pack of smokes without being spotted by twenty-five people.”

A beat of silence followed as Fynn looked from one to the other.

“I don't know,” Madison said. “The public should be aware, sure, and they are. But this is a woods and mountains state, and the citizens have the right to bear arms. You just know some idiot is going to start something ugly in the 7-Eleven.”

Fynn turned to Brown.

“Let's hold it back,” Brown said. “Until we know what Quinn is going to give us.”

“It's another twenty-four hours Cameron can move around as he pleases.”

“Not exactly. Every law enforcement agency in the state is looking for him. He won't be able to rent a car or buy a ticket anywhere. All he can do is stay put.”

“After Quinn, he's on the lunchtime news.” Fynn took a bite from an apple. “Any luck with our regulars?”

“No.” Brown shook his head. “Every snitch in Seattle has gone out of town for the holidays.”

“Wish I could do the same,” Fynn said, and he left.

“We're working on the assumption that Cameron's still in Seattle,” Madison said. “He could have left after seeing Quinn on Monday.”

“Maybe, but I don't think so.”

“I don't, either. Be nice to know how he took the ‘news,' though.”

“I know a place on Alki Beach.” Brown got up and shrugged on his jacket. “Let's go get some lunch.”

When you hit a wall, give it a couple of kicks, just to see if anything shakes loose. Madison was a great believer in that truth.

Alki Beach. The Rock was built on a pier out of wood and glass; it hovered above the water as if trying to get away from the beach. The long windows shimmered in the December gray and caught the clouds in the sky and every flicker of light they let through.

Madison stepped out of the car, glad for the salt in the air and how it felt in her lungs. The ferry to Bremerton had just gone past; seagulls followed in its wake, a thin white line in the still waters, and at the end of it, across Elliott Bay, the skyline of downtown Seattle.

Madison didn't know whether John Cameron ever visited the restaurant, but in any kitchen at any time two things will be happening: cooking and yakking. Who did what to whom and what they said when. If Cameron had been by, there had to be talk. And maybe someone might have noticed what vehicle he was driving. Madison hoped that the people here would feel some kind of loyalty toward James Sinclair and his family. She hoped they would remember his children.

The manager greeted them and took them to his office. Jacques Silano, French-Canadian, mid-thirties, five foot nine, stocky with dark, Mediterranean looks. He spoke with a slight accent and was dressed immaculately in a pinstripe suit and burgundy tie. The office, small and cramped with files, invoices, and three different calendars on the walls—deliveries, staff holidays, and block bookings—was just as neat and scrupulously tidy. They sat down.

“What can I do for you?” he asked them.

Madison had the feeling they wouldn't get much small talk out of him. None of the “I still can't believe it” and “It's so awful” they'd had from other acquaintances. Jacques Silano was all business.

So was Brown. “John Cameron is one of the owners of the The Rock. We'd like to know about any dealings you might have had with him since you've worked here. Starting from when you last saw him.”

It took them only two minutes of back and forth to get him there.

“The last Friday of the month,” he said. “Quinn, Sinclair, and Cameron. They come late, after the kitchen has closed. There's a private room at the back. The kitchen and the floor staff would have left by then.” Silano smiled briefly. “Poker night.”

“Go on,” Brown said.

“They've been playing since before I came here. I was invited to join them maybe three years ago. We'd start late and play till dawn. Then I'd go home, but often they'd stay on and have breakfast.”

“And Cameron would be there?”

Silano nodded.

“Every time?”

He nodded again.

“What can you tell us about him?”

“I don't know,” he said. “The first time I met him, I'd had the job for one week. He had dinner here with Sinclair and Quinn. We were introduced; I didn't know
who
he was. Months later I heard two of the chefs talking about him. Just gossip of things he was supposed to have done. I told them I didn't want to hear that kind of talk in the kitchen, and the head chef backed me up. Donny's been here longer than me. Donny O'Keefe. Quinn and Sinclair come every couple of weeks for lunch or dinner, but Cameron always comes late in the evening. After a couple of years or so, they asked me to join the card game. Donny was already in it. It was a private thing, and I was glad to be asked.”

“Was it a good game?” Brown asked him.

“Oh, yeah.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Nothing. Everything. Nothing personal.”

“And Cameron?”

“Same as everyone else.”

“How much money are we talking about here?”

Silano smiled. “If I had a really good night, I might win three hundred bucks; I might lose the same if I had a bad one. Nobody ever got rich or poor here.”

“Was Sinclair into it? Do you know if he gambled anywhere else?”

“Gambled? He never even bluffed.”

“When was the last game?” Madison asked him.

“The last Friday in November.”

By then Sinclair had been scamming Cameron for months, she thought.

“Was anything different?”

“No.”

“What time did the game start that night?”

Madison felt reasonably confident that a guy with that kind of order in his work life would have a pretty good memory for detail.

“After midnight, as usual,” he replied.

“Who got here first?”

Silano got his memories together for a second.

“Quinn and Cameron had dinner here. James arrived a little later.”

“What's the routine?”

“The routine is, everybody else is gone for the night. We get set up in the private room, and we play till sunup. That's all that ever happens.”

“Anybody else join the game?” Brown asked.

“No.”

“No one dropped in to say ‘hi,' grab a beer, that kind of thing?”

“No. It was always just the five of us.”

“Did you ever argue? Anybody ever cheat?”

“With those guys? You've got to be kidding me.” Silano smiled. “No. Nobody ever cheated. We teased Sinclair a lot, because you could see his hand in his face, like the time he got dealt a full house. You know, what are the chances of that?”

“Six hundred and ninety-three to one,” Madison replied without thinking.

“Right. Well, he managed to make maybe ten bucks out of it. That was Sinclair. Quinn and Cameron, you just wouldn't know. And Donny? I heard he put one of his kids through college playing poker.”

“Let's go back to Cameron. I would like you to think very carefully about the last game,” Brown said.

“It was a good night.” He closed his eyes. “Quinn had brought some very expensive cigars for us to try. I won ninety bucks.” He opened his eyes.

“Was there any tension between Sinclair and Cameron? A look? Anything different in the mood?”

“No.”

“What did you all talk about?”

“The usual. All the games kind of blend together, if you know what I mean. There was nothing unusual that night.” Silano sat back in his chair. “I read the paper this morning, and I know what you are asking me, but no, there was nothing weird going on, and there has never been any kind of argument. Not ever. Not about anything.”

After they were done, Brown stood up. “We'd like a complete list of your employees, going back one year, if you have one handy, with addresses and numbers.”

“I have one here,” he said, and he produced some printouts from one of the files.

“We're going to ask the staff a few questions now.”

Silano nodded. There wasn't much else to say.

“Ever noticed what Cameron drives?” Madison asked as she stood up, knowing in her blood what the answer would be.

“A black Ford pickup,” Silano answered without hesitation.

“Of course,” she said.

Brown put his hand on the doorknob.

“One night,” Silano mused aloud, “months ago, we were in the kitchen getting the food together, and, behind me, I hear a crash, like something's fallen, and Donny starts swearing. I turned around. There was blood everywhere. One of the kitchen knives had slipped, I don't know how, and Cameron's hand is pumping blood all over the floor. Sinclair and Quinn come in and start getting towels to wrap around it. Cameron just looks at it; he even opens his hand to see. Everyone else is trying to help out, slipping on the wet floor. He didn't want stitches; he wrapped it tight and let it be.” Silano paused. “With all the shouting and the yelling, Cameron, he never made a sound.”