Murder One

by Robert Dugoni

  “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

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2011

  UNITED STATES FEDERAL DISTRICT COURT

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Rebecca 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.

  KING COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  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.”

  Oberman would never be charged; nor would Lori Andrews.

  Not that it mattered.

  Oberman had been injured once too often. He could never fully recover. He was leaving Seattle, likely someplace far from his ex-wife and the insanity he had been forced to endure because he loved someone who was mentally ill.

  After several more questions, Pinkett gave way to Sloane. He stepped to the podium with Reid at his side.

  Sloane said, “I want to thank the prosecutor and Mr. Cerrabone for having the courage to make this decision. It is never easy bringing charges against a person of Ms. Reid’s stature, and I know that it was not done lightly in this instance. We are pleased the matter has resolved itself.”

  A reporter in the audience shouted above the other voices. “Would you have preferred to go to a jury and receive a not-guilty verdict to prove Ms. Reid’s innocence?”

  “We believe that a dismissal by the prosecutor is tantamount to a finding of—”

  Reid interrupted. “Every good lawyer wants to win,” she said, beaming in front of the cameras. “It’s what we do. It’s what gets us out of bed in the morning and gets our adrenaline rushing—the competition, the desire to be the best, to win. I know that’s how David feels. But I consider this to have been a complete victory.” She turned to Sloane, wrapped her arm through his. “I was blessed to have the very best legal counsel not only in this city but, in my opinion, the United States. David Sloane has proved again why he is so often referred to as the attorney who does not lose.”

  The words sent a chill through him. “All I can say is it would take one hell of a lawyer to beat him.”

  “Will you handle more criminal cases?” another reporter asked Sloane.

  “I don’t know,” Sloane said. “This case took an emotional toll.”

  “Will you continue to push the legislature for a drug dealer liability act?” another asked Reid.

  “I think that is best left to the politicians,” Reid said. “I’m eager to get back to my practice and to move on with my life. Leenie’s death was tragic, but it is in the past, and I realize now I must look to the future.”

  The news conference lasted little over an hour. Sloane, Pendergrass, and Reid left the building and stopped at the corner of Third and James. The snow had not stuck to the ground downtown, though the streets and sidewalks were wet, and it remained cold. Heavy gray clouds blanketed the Emerald City.

  “You coming back to the office?” Pendergrass asked Sloane, his tone cautionary. Sloane had not had time to explain the situation to Pendergrass in any detail, nor had Jenkins, who had shot out of the office the night before without explanation about what the documents meant. But Pendergrass seemed to have some sense that things were not as they seemed.

  Sloane said, “Barclay and I have some unfinished business. Tell Carolyn to shut down the office. Then head home. Take a few days or a week.”

  “Better alert the police,” Pendergrass said, trying to lighten the mood. “She’s liable to trample me getting out the door.”

  Sloane thanked him for all he had done and watched him depart.

  “Is this where you tell me what a horrible person I am, that I’ve thrown away the best thing I was ever going to have in my life, then walk off, leaving me to pine for a love lost?” The corner of her mouth and left eyebrow raised, mocking him.

  “Happy endings are only in the movies, Barclay. You know that.”

  “Really?” She smiled wide. “Because I’m feeling pretty happy right now. Come on. Don’t be sore. We could be a great team, you and I. We’d be tough to beat, and I have to admit you are really good in bed. I only had to fake it once.”

  “What is it you said about games?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He looked past her, causing her to turn.

  “Ms. Reid?” Detectives Rowe and Crosswhite, and a third person Sloane had never met but whose name he suspected he knew, approached. Rowe leaned on a cane.

  Reid gave Sloane a quick, hesitant glance, then turned and nodded. “Detectives. No apologies are necessary. I understand you were only doing your jobs, and I admit this did look bad. But I’m not a person to hold a grudge.”

  “We appreciate that,” Rowe said. “But we’d like to talk to you about another matter.”

  “Another matter?” Uncertainty crept into her voice.

  “Do you know the name Zach Bergman? I believe he worked as a private investigator for you during your divorce.”

  Reid’s eyes found Sloane’s, but her recovery was remarkable. “Yes, he did. What about him?”

  “Well, you see, he’s dead.”

  She chuckled. “I’m well aware of that, Detective. I believe he died ten years ago, and I think it’s rather obvious now that my ex-husband must have killed Mr. Bergman because of the investigation into his sordid lifestyle. He was very bitter and angry at the time.”

  “That is a theory,” Rowe said, “but you see, one thing I’ve learned from this case is that sometimes the evidence is not what it seems.”

  “Really? And what makes you say that?”

  “I was considering the police report in your divorce file, and it notes that you had bruises and contusions on the side of your face.”

  “It was a severe beating.”

  “That’s what the report says. It says those bruises were definitely the result of someone hitting you with a fist multiple times.”

  “So what exactly is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Rowe scratched his head. “I’m curious, because the medical report indicates that the person who delivered those blows had to have been right-handed.”

  The color drained from Reid’s face.

  “And of course we all now know that your ex-husband is left-handed,” Rowe said.

  Reid looked to Sloane. The jade-green eyes had turned gray again. The smile faded.

  “Oh yeah,” Sloane said, drawing Reid’s attention. “Now I remember. You said, ‘You never know who’s won until the game ends.’”

  The third detective stepped forward. “Ms. Reid, I’m Bernie Hamilton. I’m the detective in charge of the unit’s cold cases. Knock knock.”

  Reid shifted her gaze from Sloane to Hamilton. “What?” she said, looking and sounding annoyed.

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’”

  She shook her head in dis
gust. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Actually, it is,” Sloane said. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He indicated for Hamilton to start over.

  “Knock knock.”

  “Who’s there, Detective?”

  Hamilton’s eyes fixed on Reid. “Remember a long time ago . . .”

  EPILOGUE

  THREE TREE POINT

  BURIEN, WASHINGTON

  Sloane finished another beer and embedded the bottle in the pebbles near the other empties. Between his shoes, the shaft of his fishing rod, also embedded in the rocks, twitched and bent with the ebb and flow of the tide. He sat on one of the many driftwood logs the tide had washed onto the beach, wrapped in a thick jacket and wearing a knit hat and gloves. With the tide in, he could cast while seated. Jake would have been aghast. You never put your fishing pole in the rocks, and you never stop reeling in the lure.

  Sloane knew it to be wise advice. The minute you stopped reeling, the lure sank to the bottom of the Sound to become snagged on any number of things and likely lost forever. He didn’t care. He’d never caught a single fish from the shore in all his years at Three Tree. He’d seen Jake do it, a big king salmon, too, but Sloane never had.

  A hundred yards offshore, the parade of boats trolled north to south and back—fishing poles bowed over their sterns like the bent spines of old men. Behind them, the winter light had mottled the clouds pink and red, the sun continuing its descent behind the Olympic mountain range. Tina had loved the view this time of year. They used to walk the beach or sit on the porch and watch Jake cast his line in the water until his image faded into the darkness.