Murder One

by Robert Dugoni

  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.”

  THE JUSTICE CENTER

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  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.”

  DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION

  SECOND AVENUE WEST

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  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.”

  THREE TREE POINT

  BURIEN, WASHINGTON

  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.

  He shouted her name and waved, drawing her attention. Then he gave a few final, powerful strokes to beach the kayak in the sand and pebbles. He stepped out into ankle-deep water, grabbed the tie line at the front of the skiff, and pulled it farther up the beach.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Carolyn said you had gone home early. She gave me directions.”

  “Decided to get some exercise,” he said, pulling his bib overhead, which stretched over the opening of the kayak to keep water out. He threw it and the paddles inside the hull.

  Reid looked out across the sound. “It’s beautiful. Now I know what you meant about living on the water.” She tilted her chin and smiled up at him. “I’ve been afraid to call.”

  He nodded. “I was concerned about the police, about how it might look.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She looked again at the view. A tear trickled from beneath her sunglasses. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this, David. It never should have been your problem. I never should have asked you to take the civil case. It was wrong of me.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “But I’m a big boy.”

  “I took a lie-detector test this morning.”

  The news alarmed him. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “I wanted to. I don’t want there to be any doubt.”

  “Do you think it will convince them?”

  She removed the sunglasses. “I’m not worried about convincing them.”

  “I don’t have any doubt, Barclay.”

  She took a deep breath, cleared her throat. “Thank you. But right now this isn’t fair to you, not after what happened to your wife . . .” Another tear pooled and trickled, like a slow leak. “That’s why I came out here . . . to find you . . . to tell you that I’m not going to see you anymore—not until this is over. Not until it gets resolved, and then only if you still want to.”

  He stepped forward, took her hand that was not holding the shoe straps. Her nylons had run railroad tracks up her shins and calves. “It is resolved,” he said. “For me, it’s resolved.”

  He bent to kiss her, a movement she only momentarily resisted.

  SECOND AVENUE WEST

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Crosswhite slid into the passenger seat. When the driver’s-side door didn’t open, she turned and looked out the back window. Rowe stood a couple of strides down the sidewalk, near the rear bumper, hands on his hips, facing north. She got out of the car and walked around the back, considering the direction of his gaze, seeing nothing but parked cars, buildings, and trees on the sidewalk.

  “What is it?”

  He tilted his head a bit, not really looking at her. “What the Sam Hill is going on?”

  “Sam Hill?”

  “We got a suspect who passed a lie-detector test, another who logic dictates wasn’t there, footprints that lead to nowhere, and the fingerprint of a DEA agent who, agency records indicate, retired twenty years ago.”

  Lucas Finley had indeed received a call from the home office, but the information had done little to clear up the mystery of Julio Cruz. If anything, it deepened it. According to personnel, Cruz had been a DEA agent in the Florida field office, working mostly in Miami before retiring in the late 1990s. His last known address, the one where his retirement pension was mailed each month, was a P.O. box in Miami. His last known phone number had been disconnected. They had no idea where he was, which meant they couldn’t rule out Seattle.

  Birds chirped in the trees. “Maybe we got a rogue agent who got a taste of the money and decided he liked it,” Crosswhite said.

  “So he comes all the way across the United States to work with Vasiliev? What, he can’t find any drugs coming into the country in Miami?”

  “Just thinking out loud.” She squinted against the bright sun. Her sunglasses remained on the dashboard. “Finley said he would look into it.”

  Rowe pointed down the street, and though he wore wraparound sunglasses, she realized he wasn’t pointing at anything there. He was seeing the green lawn behind Vasiliev’s house, leading to the concrete patio and the sliding-glass door.

  “We got two sets of footprints running up the left side of the lawn to Vasiliev’s back door, then running back to the water, likely to a boat. If it was this guy Cruz, and we have to assume latents didn’t fabricate his print out of thin air, he wasn’t there by chance.”

  “Or alone.”

  He glanced at her. “Or alone.”

  “Vasiliev was under surveillance,” she said.

  “Seems the logical conclusion, doesn’t it? What other explanation is there?”

  This time she sensed he wanted her to play devil’s advocate. “Okay. Maybe this guy Cruz and the second guy were working with the shooter. They drop the person into the water, and the person swims to shore, pops Vasiliev. Once he’s done, they drive the b
oat in, check the handiwork, and . . .” She stopped her train of thought.

  “Except we know the shooter detoured to the bushes and, thanks to Freddy, left swimming in the opposite direction,” Rowe said, verbalizing the problem with her theory. “It doesn’t fit, which brings us full circle to Sam Hill.”

  “Never heard of him.” That got a tiny smile. “Finley says they didn’t have Vasiliev under surveillance. Why would he lie?”

  “Maybe he isn’t.”

  “It was a Seattle operation. How could he not have known?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a Seattle operation. His office had the evidence they needed and put it in the U.S. attorney’s hands.” He turned his head to her. “Remember the weather the morning Vasiliev was killed?”

  “Thunderstorms.”

  “So let’s say someone has Vasiliev under surveillance, for whatever reason. Where would be a good place to keep an eye on the house?”

  “Given all the windows, the side facing the water,” she said.

  “I agree. So they’re watching from a boat, only they can’t really see or hear too clearly because of the storm. They hear a noise, sounds like thunder. When they look, they see him slumped over on the sofa. Now they’re moving quickly to the shore, up to the patio. He’s dead. Nothing they can do about it.”

  “Why call it in?”

  “That’s where I’m going. How many times have we asked neighbors if they heard gunshots and gotten a positive response?”

  “Only in the city,” she said, where the houses were close, sometimes side by side.

  “Right. And who would know that most gunshots go unreported until the victim is found?”

  “Someone in law enforcement.”

  “And who else but law enforcement and criminals would think to have an untraceable phone?”

  “So where are you going with this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So let’s focus on the print. How does it get on the door?” she asked.

  “It’s instinct. Remember, Adderley said he could hardly remember exactly what he did because his heart was pumping so fast. Maybe Cruz can’t stop himself in time and touches the door.”