Murder One

by Robert Dugoni

  “I don’t know. But who better to blaze that trail than you?” She paced again. “I had an associate do some preliminary research this morning. Remember I mentioned how some states have enacted drug dealer liability acts?”

  “You said Washington doesn’t have one.”

  “It doesn’t. But this is the same concept; if you can sue a drug dealer in a civil action for an intentional tort, why not for wrongful death?”

  Reid was not a typical potential client. Still, Sloane felt compelled to determine if she had thought the matter through. He tried to slow the pace of the conversation. “Assuming for a moment that we have a viable cause of action, you know there’s an argument that Carly assumed the risk of injury by ingesting a dangerous drug.”

  Reid stopped pacing. “My daughter didn’t choose to be addicted. Before she hurt her back, she didn’t even take aspirin. She was a fitness freak. Her addiction wasn’t her fault.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  She took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

  “All I’m saying is that Vasiliev’s lawyers will argue that the potential of dying from the use of heroin is a known risk.” Reid started to interrupt, but he raised a hand to allow him to finish. “They’ll bring up Carly’s drug history and drag her past through the mud. It could be painful.”

  Reid had the same determined look Sloane recalled from the courtroom, a woman not to be denied. “It won’t be any more painful than having to identify my daughter’s body in a morgue. I’m numb to the pain, David. I’ve been numb since I received that first phone call. This morning is the first time in a long time that I’ve had hope that maybe Carly didn’t have to die in vain.”

  “And they’ll argue that the man who supplied Carly with drugs is in jail.”

  “He’s just a pawn.”

  “He’s the dealer.”

  “He doesn’t exist if guys like Vasiliev aren’t importing it.”

  “Neither does Vasiliev if there aren’t guys supplying him. How high up does this go? Where do we stop?”

  “I want Vasiliev. I’ll worry about those above him after I get him.”

  “He hasn’t been convicted of anything.”

  “He walked on a technicality. There is a lot of evidence he was dealing drugs through his car dealerships and laundering the proceeds. With the reduced burden of proof, you can convince a jury.”

  “If it ever gets that far; they’ll file motions to dismiss, summary judgments.”

  Reid approached. “I’m not going to lie to you: I want to win this case, but barring an outright win, the publicity alone could be what I need to get the Washington legislature to seriously consider passing a drug dealer liability act.”

  Part of Sloane wanted to take the case because he knew how much it meant to her—and also because he was concerned how it might impact their relationship if he declined. He had been cautious in his comments with Charles Jenkins earlier that morning, but he couldn’t deny that he had quickly developed feelings for Barclay Reid.

  “The U.S. attorney’s office will help,” she said. “I spoke to Rebecca Han this morning.” Reid was off again, pacing, thinking aloud. “If we can get an O.J.-type verdict, thirty to thirty-five million, we can take everything Vasiliev owns—his cars, his house. I can put the money into a foundation to educate kids in high school and college about drug use. We can do something good with bad money.” She considered him. “Look, I know I’m asking a lot, David, maybe too much. But please consider it.”

  “You already have them following you, watching your home.”

  “I’m not afraid of them. The more we let people like Vasiliev get away with it, the more chances he has to do it to someone else’s child. I’m not going to live my life in fear. I will do what I have to do to avenge my daughter’s death.”

  SIX

  LAW OFFICES OF DAVID SLOANE

  ONE UNION SQUARE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Sloane threw his gym bag into the backseat and slipped behind the wheel, not bothering to check the clock on the dash. He was late. He’d worked out longer and harder than intended. He needed it to clear his head, to think through what Barclay had asked of him. He had a bad feeling it could be one of those cases in which, no matter how it turned out, there would be no winners. But what option did he have? He had seen the intensity in her eyes and heard it in her voice. She was committed.

  The V8 engine echoed in the underground garage before settling into a melodic rumble that sounded like a boat engine. To park in one of the stalls beneath the building, Sloane had to inch the front bumper until it touched the stucco wall. Even then the back fins stuck out farther than any other car in the garage. A compact it was not. At least the car on his left had departed, which would make it easier to maneuver the behemoth from the space.

  He shifted the handle on the steering column into reverse, causing the emergency brake to automatically pop, and started backward, cutting the wheels to avoid a pillar on his left, never seeing the black Mercedes until he felt the jolt and heard the crunch of metal and glass.

  The car had come around the corner fast, too fast, but his insurance company wouldn’t care. He’d pay a deductible, and his premiums would go up—all because some guy was in a hurry to get home.

  Sloane pushed out of the car, angry. The Mercedes driver shouted and gesticulated about the damage to the front of his car.

  “Look! Look what you have done.” He had a heavy accent, gel-spiked hair, a diamond stud in one ear, and wore fashionable clothes—jeans that, to Sloane, always looked to be in need of a wash.

  “Hang on a second. I didn’t even see you.”

  “Because you don’t look.”

  “Because you came around that corner too fast.”

  The man pressed closer, about Sloane’s size, over six feet, and stocky, with a square jaw. Sloane guessed late twenties. “You’re the one who came backward.” He made a screeching noise and used his hand to demonstrate the Caddy shooting from its spot.

  “The screeching was your tires coming around the corner,” Sloane said, his adrenaline pulsing.

  “Then how come you don’t stop?”

  Sloane stepped around him to the back of the Cadillac, took one look at the damage, and fought the urge to laugh. The fin barely had a scratch on it, but it had embedded in the hood of the Mercedes and destroyed its front-left headlight.

  “You are going to pay for this damage,” the man continued.

  Sloane turned. “Look, just get your—”

  The man held open his leather car coat, displaying the butt of a handgun. A second man, also wearing a car coat despite the heat and humidity, got out of a nearby parked car.

  And everything registered.

  Vasiliev.

  AUTO WORLD

  RENTON, WASHINGTON

  The hand at his back encouraged Sloane toward a rectangular wood-sided modular structure. Part of the skirt hiding the foundation had pulled away to reveal that the building sat on cinder blocks. Overhead, multicolored flags strung from the corners of the building hung limp. A sign indicated Auto World was having an end-of-summer sale.

  The building shook as Sloane followed one of his escorts up two stairs and stepped inside. Cluttered desks perpendicular to the walls left an aisle down the middle. Sloane smelled burnt coffee.

  “You might want to turn that off.” He pointed to a stained coffeepot on a Formica counter. “Hate to see a fire burn down such a fine establishment.”

  One of his escorts flipped the switch. The second man encouraged Sloane to an office at the back with a large metal desk. Behind it, a man in an open-collar silk shirt leaned back in his chair, leg crossed, scratching the bottom of his socked foot. The room smelled of perspiration poorly masked by too much cologne.

  “Looks like I missed the memo on leisure-suit attire. Or did you guys miss the seventies?” Sloane said.

  Vasiliev slipped the loafer over the sock, smiling. “Come in, come in.” He gestured to the cheap clot
h chairs, a lime-green color. “Mr. Sloane. Yes, come in. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “I assume you’re Vasiliev.”

  “You see, we are already knowing one another.” Vasiliev nodded to the escorts, who stepped back and took up posts at the door. “Please, be seated.”

  Sloane considered the stained chairs. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Only if you wish to be more comfortable. Do you wish for coffee?” Vasiliev had a tattoo on his neck, a crest of some sort, partially hidden by the collar of his shirt and the links of several gold chains.

  “No, thanks. The jolt I got in the car was enough. Maybe I have whiplash. I’m thinking about suing you.”

  Vasiliev laughed. “An unfortunate accident, but this is why we have insurance, yes? I have repair shop. Bring in your car, and I will see that it is fixed. No charge.”

  “That’s very sporting of you, but I think the Mercedes absorbed most of the damage.”

  “They don’t make cars like they used to.” Vasiliev shrugged. “You are a Cadillac man. You know what they say about a man who must drive such a big car?” Vasiliev held his fingers two inches apart, bringing chuckles from his two bodyguards.

  “No. But I know what they say about a man who has to carry a big gun.”

  The Mercedes driver quit laughing.

  Vasiliev winked. “Which is why I don’t need a gun. I’m a businessman, Mr. Sloane.”

  “Then why don’t we cut the pleasantries and get down to business. Why am I here?”

  Vasiliev tried to recline but his chair hit the wall. When he attempted to cross his leg, his knee hit the desk. He had a nervous habit of jiggling his foot. He also intermittently bit his fingernails, which had been worn to the nubs. “I wish to make you a business proposal. Man to man.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I wish for you to . . . to persuade Ms. Reid to let bygones be bygones, as they say in your country.”

  “I’m not familiar with that saying. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  Vasiliev’s mouth widened into a broad smile. He chuckled and wagged a finger. “I think I like you, Mr. Sloane. Yes, I think I do. I think you must be very good lawyer. Perhaps someday you would be my lawyer.”

  “I don’t think so, Filyp.”

  “Yes, call me Filyp. May I call you David?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mr. Sloane. This is America. We are entitled to an attorney, no? Innocent until proven guilty. I have many businesses; you could make a lot of money. I pay very well my attorneys.”

  “I don’t need your business.”

  “A man with no price? Very rare. Tell me, what is nature of your relationship with Ms. Reid?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so what?”

  “I don’t think I want to tell you the nature of my relationship. So if you don’t mind, I have someplace to be and someone waiting for me.” He started from the chair, but Vasiliev looked at his men, and one put a firm hand on Sloane’s shoulder. Sloane sat. “You do realize kidnapping is a crime in this country.”

  Vasiliev bit at his thumbnail, his left foot continuing to jiggle. “Is it business, this relationship, or do you just like fucking her?”

  Sloane didn’t answer.

  Vasiliev pointed. “I think you do like fucking her. I know I would. Perhaps someday I will have chance. But me, I would do her in the ass, like a dog. Maybe she would bark, yes? Does she bark for you, Mr. Sloane?”

  Vasiliev wanted Sloane to come across the desk so the two goons could beat him down, put him in his place. He was a punk. A dangerous punk, but still just a punk.

  “I don’t think that’s going to work, Filyp. She doesn’t sleep with guys who don’t have a gun.”

  One of the two men behind Sloane snorted, and Vasiliev’s eyes quickly found him. “You are funny man, Mr. Sloane. But I am not so much in mood for humor.”

  “And here I thought we were all getting along swimmingly.”

  “You will tell Ms. Reid not to pursue this.”

  “Not to pursue what?”

  “Ms. Reid thinks I have something to do with her daughter’s death. The papers say she is on crusade.”

  “Did you have anything to do with her daughter’s death?”

  Vasiliev held up his hands, the universal sign for “who knows.” “So she comes to hire you, and you will seek to know that answer. Am I wrong? No, I don’t think I am wrong.”

  “You said you had a business proposal?”

  “Yes, you will convince her not to pursue this foolishness further.” Vasiliev sat back. “You will talk to Ms. Reid and we go our separate way. Bygones.”

  “Let me ask you something, Filyp. What makes you think she would listen? What makes you think she wouldn’t just find another lawyer?”

  Vasiliev waved the finger as if Sloane were a misbehaving student. “I don’t think so. You can be very persuasive, no? You will convince her.” The smile disappeared. “You will convince her because you are familiar with the consequences.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Vasiliev spoke Russian to the men behind him. The man on Sloane’s left stepped forward, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him a cell phone.

  Vasiliev said, “I believe this call is for you, Mr. Sloane.”

  Sloane took the phone and pressed it to his ear, hearing it ring, then a familiar voice.

  “Hello?”

  Sloane felt his heart sink. “Jake.”

  “Dad? I can barely hear you. Why did your phone come up as a private number?”

  THE TIN ROOM

  BURIEN, WASHINGTON

  They sat beneath an umbrella at a wooden table. The first drops of rain intermittently splattered the deck, leaving large black spots—perhaps the beginning of the thunderstorms the weathermen had been predicting. Dan House, the owner, put pints in front of Sloane and Jenkins, and asked Sloane how he was doing before moving on to serve another table. When Tina had been alive, the bar and restaurant had been their favorite hangout. Since her death, Sloane had frequented it less, but that hadn’t stopped House from treating him like a member of the family.

  “Do you need to go?” Jenkins asked.

  Sloane ran a hand over his face, still feeling the rush of adrenaline from his meeting with Vasiliev. He had assured Jake everything was fine and told him he’d call when he got home.

  Jenkins rapped on the table with his knuckles. “Do you need to go?”

  Sloane shook his head. He had called Reid on the drive but she had left for a workout. When she called back she refused to check into a hotel.

  “She won’t leave her house. Maybe that’s best. It’s like a fortress. She’s safer there than at a hotel.”

  “Not if they can’t find her. What about you? You still have that gun?”

  Sloane kept a Glock in the top desk drawer of his home office. Not that it had done him any good the night Anthony Stenopolis murdered his wife. He now took it upstairs when he went to bed, leaving it on the nightstand.

  “What are you going to do?” Jenkins asked.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I think I gave up telling you what to do a long time ago.”

  Sloane asked, “Should I let it go?”

  “Like I said . . .”

  “But now I’m asking.”

  Jenkins sipped his beer. “What about Jake?”

  “He and Frank leave at the end of the week.” Jake’s biological father and grandparents were taking him to Italy. With the commercial real estate business still in the toilet, Frank’s father had found his son a consulting position on a hotel project. It was the opportunity of a lifetime for a high school kid.

  “Tell him to pack a bottle of ranch dressing,” Jenkins said. He and Alex had honeymooned in Italy and Jenkins complained he could get only oil and vinegar on his salad.

  Sloane’s legs ached, the adrenaline giving way to lactic acid. “I’m tired, Charlie
. I’m tired of people threatening me, threatening my family.”

  “I’d say you have a right to be tired.”

  “Do I court it? Do I go looking for this shit?”

  The black spots on the concrete and wood decking multiplied. When the waitress appeared, Sloane handed her his menu without ordering. Jenkins did the same.

  “You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?”

  Water began to drip off the edges of the umbrella. Sloane looked into the restaurant. Dan House stood with his hand on someone’s shoulder, talking and laughing.

  “Like I said . . . I’m just tired.”

  “If this guy Vasiliev is connected, he is not to be taken lightly, do you hear me? They’re cowboys, the Russians. They’re smart, but they’re crazy.” Sloane did not respond. Jenkins said, “And to answer your question . . . no. I don’t think you court it. Sometimes bad things happen when you do the right thing.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Sloane said, picking up his beer. “The guy who always does the right thing.”

  SEVEN

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2011

  LAURELHURST

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Kinsington Rowe stepped from the blue Impala and grimaced, sucking air through his teeth and blowing out the pain until the initial wave passed. He bent back inside the car and retrieved his black go bag, which resembled a tool bag with multiple pockets and interior compartments. Rowe clenched the blue laser light on his key chain between his teeth as he rummaged through boxes of sterile gloves, booties, and evidence containers until he found the small plastic bottle and slipped it into the pocket of his windbreaker. Overhead, the blades of a helicopter thumped, a white light spotting the residence along the shores of Lake Washington. If the storm hadn’t kept the neighbors up, the helicopter certainly would.

  It had been raining hard when Rowe left the Justice Center in downtown Seattle at midnight, the end of his shift, and he’d heard a steady patter on the roof shingles and skylights when he got home. He climbed into bed in time for the thunder to frighten awake his three-year-old son and had barely calmed him when his cell buzzed on the nightstand, never a good thing when you were the homicide detective on call.