The Mia Quinn Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  “We’ve got plenty of fingerprints, but once we rule out friends and family, I don’t think any of them are gonna be meaningful. The one big clue we have is that the killer didn’t pick up their brass,” he said, referring to the shell casing. “We found it in her yard, but they weren’t stupid enough to load the gun with bare hands. They used a .22. But the bullet’s probably too mangled to compare the rifling.”

  “Any footprints?”

  “No.” That had struck Charlie as odd—the ground was relatively soft—but the killer must have watched where he or she stepped.

  “So how will you approach this?”

  “I’m gonna get the murder book for Stan and look for similars.” From what Charlie had heard about Stan Slavich’s murder, it had all come to a dead end. “How many of the staff who are working at King County now do you think were there when Stan was killed?”

  “Well, Frank for one. Back before he was the DA. But there are at least a dozen of us who worked with both Stan and Colleen.” She looked at her watch. “Are we almost done? I’ve got to stop by the office before I leave for the day.”

  He checked the time on his phone. It was three fifteen. “This early?” And then it dawned on him. “Oh. Because of your kids.”

  “No, Charlie. It’s not because of my kids.” Whatever distance he had closed between them yawned wide again. Mia looked like she wanted to spit. “I’m an adjunct law professor at UDub.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Have you even heard of a napkin?” Mia asked.

  Charlie didn’t answer. Probably because Mia was alone in her car, inching forward. The University of Washington was only five miles from the King County Courthouse, but today was one of those days when it might be faster to walk. While Mia was technically on the freeway, traffic was crawling.

  Now every driver who cut her off, every minute that ticked by, every inexplicable holdup just made her angrier. Not only with the traffic, but with Charlie. He was her age, but clearly he was a Neanderthal who didn’t believe women with young children should be working. And if they were working, he thought they kept hours even a banker would envy.

  With his loose grasp of the rules, Charlie Carlson had been just what she needed last night when Brooke and Gabe seemed to be in danger. Even if that meant he left a fresh crime scene. Even if it meant he drove with no regard for the speed limit or the limited visibility offered by the curving residential roads. Charlie had dropped everything to help her. And she appreciated it, she really did.

  But if Mia said yes to Frank, she would be yoked to Charlie for weeks or even months. His laxity would no longer be an asset, but a liability. She would have to babysit him, make sure he didn’t screw anything up by blazing his own path. As he had more than ten years ago.

  “I already have two kids at home, Charlie,” she said, thumping the steering wheel. “I don’t need another.” The older woman in the car next to her turned and stared. Mia pressed her right hand against her ear as if adjusting a Bluetooth.

  The cop-prosecutor relationship was often likened to a marriage. If Mia were ever married to Charlie, the first thing she would want would be a divorce.

  Less than a mile to UDub now. Mia looked at her watch again. The seminar was just starting. Titus was not going to be happy. And the other presenter was a new professor. Talk about making a bad first impression.

  When Mia was in law school, Titus Brown had been the professor she most admired. She still remembered his words about being punctual. “Why should lawyers strive to be on time with clients, prospects, fellow counsel, and staff?” he had asked in his trademark cadence. “Because being punctual builds credibility and trust.”

  Mia had last taught spring term. Back before her life had been turned upside down. Then she had been teaching to keep her hand in. To give her a little spending money she didn’t feel she had to justify to Scott. When she returned to King County, Frank had had to sign off on her continuing to teach, but it had been a formality. Having a prosecutor who doubled as a professor added to the office’s prestige.

  Mia finally slipped in ten minutes late. If you could call it “slipping in” when you sat up front facing a hundred and fifty students. She took the seat next to what must be the new professor. He was tall and slender, with high cheekbones and eyes even bluer than her own. His blond straight hair was nearly military short. He nodded and gave her a smile.

  Titus shot Mia a look, but his voice, which had the rhythm of a preacher’s, never faltered. He had shed his suit jacket to reveal a crisp white shirt and gray-striped tie.

  “You might wonder why I’m up here talking about closing arguments,” he said, prowling back and forth, microphone in hand. “Why not start at the beginning, for example, building your case or choosing a jury? Because without your closing, you have no theory of the case. You’ve got no game plan. All the evidence you present and everything you argue must lead you, step by step, to your closing. You have to know what you’re going to ask for before you even start.”

  Mia looked out over the students. Some were slouched, some attentive. Some took notes, while others appeared to be texting. In the second row, a guy leaned over and showed a girl something on his cell phone. She giggled. Mia gave them the same look she would have given Gabe, narrowed eyes, lips pressed together. They both straightened up, eyes front.

  “Your close is the only time during the entire trial,” Titus continued, “that you have the opportunity to sum up the evidence and argue it to the jury.” He turned toward Mia and the new professor.

  “Now two of our section instructors are going to model closing arguments. You won’t be seeing full closing arguments, which can take several hours or even days. I’ve given each of them about ten minutes. So they’ll be dispensing with the usual space fillers of ‘May it please the court,’ or ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.’ Instead, I’ve asked them to distill a closing argument so it goes to the heart of the case. First up will be Mia Quinn, who works for the King County District Attorney’s Office. She’ll be followed by Eli Hall, who has just joined King County’s Public Defender’s Office.”

  So this was Tami Gordon’s replacement. Interesting. Eli gave her an encouraging nod as she got to her feet and took the microphone from Titus.

  “This is a case about a woman who was found murdered, killed by someone she thought was a ‘friend,’ the defendant.”

  Mia slipped into the rhythm of the words. “The defense has said that there is no one to tell you what happened that evening down by the river. But that’s not true. There is one person who is telling us the truth of what happened that night. And that person is Amber Smith.”

  Mia switched to the first name of the fictitious girl to help the imaginary jury begin to think of her as a friend. “Amber is telling us what really happened that night. The medical examiner and the police officer told you about her body. Amber had no defensive wounds on her. None. There was no sign of struggle. And look at this picture of Amber.” She held up an imaginary photo. “Are her clothes torn? Has she been dragged or forced here?” She shook her head. “There is absolutely no evidence of that.

  “As I said, the medical examiner told you that there wasn’t a single defensive wound on her body. No skin under her fingernails. But everybody has called this girl a fighter. Somebody who pushes for what she wants. A girl who is quick to act. Even the defendant agreed with that characterization. Amber was not forced to go down by the river. She went willingly with someone she knew.

  “What else does this picture tell us? What is Amber saying? The defense has tried to tell you she was killed by a mysterious stranger, some random act of violence.

  “But that’s not what Amber tells us. Amber’s body tells us she was killed by somebody she knew, somebody she was not afraid of. Somebody who suddenly shot her in the face without any warning. And remember? The shot was front to back.” Mia tapped her own forehead, trying not to think of Colleen. Which was worse—being shot in the head or the throat? The head, she supposed,
would have been quicker. “Amber was looking straight at whoever shot her. The angle of the wound is slightly upward. What would you do if somebody you knew came up to you with a gun? What would your reaction be? You would lean back.” Mia demonstrated, raising her hands as if in shock. “And that’s what Amber did. That’s all she had time for. That explains the angle of the wound. Amber is trying to tell you that the defendant was this man, the man whom we already know bought a gun two weeks before Amber died. The man who even his parents describe as impulsive. The man who decided that the best way to get Amber out of his life was to kill her.”

  Mia continued for another few minutes, adding fact to fact, inference to inference. She closed by telling the jury what she wanted them to do: return a guilty verdict.

  After she was finished, there was a round of applause. Then it was Eli’s turn.

  “This is a case about a man facing a murder charge, with only circumstantial evidence linking him to the crime,” Eli said. He didn’t pace like Titus, but his quiet intensity commanded attention.

  “It is a sad fact that in America violence has unfortunately become a way of life. Every year hundreds of people are murdered. And when this sort of tragedy happens, we count on the police to take charge. We expect our police department to be competent. To be efficient. To not be corrupt. We expect them to carefully investigate without rushing to judgment.

  “We expect all of this. And the victim’s family demands it. But in this case, unfortunately, the police had another agenda. From the very first orders issued by the top brass, it’s clear they were more concerned with their image. With public relations. Not with professional police work. Not even with justice.

  “But your verdict will send them a message. Your verdict will tell them that justice is important above all things. Your verdict will tell them that no one is above the law—not even the police.

  “You have heard how, from the very beginning, professional police work took a backseat to expediency and sloppiness. Untrained officers literally walked through the evidence. They ignored obvious clues. They left a piece of paper at the scene, and that evidence—and the fingerprints it might contain—is now gone forever.

  “Once they realized their mistake, they had to find someone to blame it on. They chose Mr. Doe. They implicated an innocent man, and they never, ever looked for anyone else. We believe that if they had done their job, Mr. Doe would have been eliminated as a suspect months ago. We believe that the real killer would have been apprehended. But their bungling denied justice not just to Mr. Doe, but to the victim and the victim’s family.”

  As she listened to Eli, Mia had to admit it was a good argument. A generation earlier, the average jury wouldn’t have entertained the idea that the cops could have screwed up. But there had been enough overturned convictions, enough coerced confessions and bungled evidence, that that was no longer true. By now the public knew that even the good guys were sometimes bad guys.

  Mia had been in the zone while she spoke, but by the time Eli finished and the students started asking questions, she was thinking about Colleen’s murder, Frank’s question, Charlie’s intransigence, and the conundrum she faced. Twice she had to ask students to repeat their queries.

  Finally class was over. Students clustered around Titus. Back when she was in law school, she would have been one of them. She still trusted him as she did few others.

  She turned to Eli and offered her hand. “As you’ve probably figured out, I’m Mia. Mia Quinn.”

  “Eli Hall.” He gave her a firm handshake.

  “I apologize for being so late. So you just joined the public defender’s office?”

  “Yup. My daughter and I moved up from Portland three weeks ago.”

  No wedding ring, she noted. Mia still wore hers. She supposed there would come a time when she took it off, but right now it would feel like too much of a betrayal. Even after everything that had happened.

  “You must be replacing Tami Gordon?”

  “She’s, um, left the office.”

  Mia wondered what the real story was. Tami was a true believer, with no life outside of her job. She didn’t shy away from the toughest cases. Pedophiles with years of victims in their wakes would find that at least one person—Tami—believed their stories of playful wrestling.

  The last of the students left and Titus came over. “I see you two have already met.” He was in his early sixties, with a shaved head, dark eyebrows, and a salt-and-pepper mustache and beard. His warm brown eyes nearly matched his skin tone.

  Mia winced. “I have to apologize to you for being late.”

  “I know you have a lot on your plate.”

  “Speaking of that, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  “Sure.” He turned to Eli. “Do you have any questions about tonight?”

  “No. If I think of anything, though, I’ll come in early on Thursday to talk to you.”

  “Thursday?” Mia echoed. “We must be teaching the same day.”

  “You are,” Titus said. “And, Eli, Mia’s been with the program for four years. She can help you if you have any questions.”

  After Eli left, they went down the hall to Titus’s office. How many times had Mia sat opposite him and asked his advice? She felt closer to him than she did to her own father.

  She took a seat in his worn leather visitor’s chair. “You heard about Colleen’s murder?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “What a year of loss.”

  “This morning Frank asked me to head up the investigation into her death and whether it’s linked to Stan Slavich’s.”

  Titus kept silent, regarding her. His face was creased and folded in a pleasant way.

  “I know it’s a good catch,” Mia finally said. “But I don’t think I want it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Titus—there’re so many reasons not to take this. For one thing, the detective is Charlie Carlson, and he can be a loose cannon. Plus it’s going to mean long hours just when my family needs me. And four years ago they were never able to find out who killed Stan. Who says I’ll do any better?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them and focused on her.

  “You were close to Colleen, right?”

  “Before I left the office, yes. And since I’ve come back, we’ve become tight again. She’s been such a big help to me since Scott died. But if I say yes, then how can I do it all?”

  “I don’t know that you can. I don’t know that anyone can. But I believe that you can be a good mother and be a good prosecutor.”

  Mia nodded. But she wasn’t so sure that Titus was right.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mia’s first thought as she turned down her street was that there was a burglar on her roof. Her heart sped up, even as her rational mind reminded her that there was no access to the house from the roof.

  It wasn’t a burglar. It was her dad. Her sixty-seven-year-old dad. Who had about as much business being on her roof in the gathering darkness as a burglar.

  She parked next to his black pickup and got out. He didn’t seem to have heard her arrival. He was on his knees, chiseling off lumps of emerald moss and tossing them over his shoulder. One almost hit her.

  Mia cupped her hands around her mouth. “Dad! What are you doing on the roof?”

  “What?” He turned toward her, and his right foot slid down several inches. Silhouetted against the expanse of gray shingles, he looked smaller than she remembered.

  “Dad! Be careful! You should come down!”

  “I’m almost done. Go inside and check on Brooke.” He turned back and levered up another green lump.

  Check on Brooke? Where was Gabe? Biting back her questions, Mia walked past the ladder and into the house.

  Downstairs was deserted and quiet. In a sudden panic, she ran upstairs. No sign of Gabe, but Brooke was in her room, surrounded by approximately three thousand pieces of molded plastic, most of them pink. A pink Barbie car. A pink-and-white
xylophone. A Hello Kitty radio. A pink-and-purple shopping cart tipped on its side.

  Brooke had a doll in each hand. Mia knew that her daughter called them the mother and daddy dolls, although one was really some sort of Transformer and the other a Barbie. The Transformer loomed over Barbie. In a gruff voice Brooke said, “I’ve had a hard day. All I’m asking for is a little peace and quiet.”

  Anything Mia had been thinking of saying evaporated at Scott’s words, channeled by a four-year-old.

  Brooke turned toward her, her blue eyes unreadable.

  Mia found her voice. “What’re you doing, honey?”

  “Just playing.”

  “With the mommy and daddy dolls?”

  Brooke shot her a look that wouldn’t have been out of place on Scott’s face. She turned and regarded the Transformer for a moment, then looked back up at Mia with a wary expression.

  “Will he ever come back alive again?”

  Mia’s heart seemed to stop beating. “Do you mean Daddy, honey?”

  Brooke didn’t answer, just kept watching her face.

  “No, honey, I’m sorry,” Mia said slowly. “He won’t.”

  Brooke blew air through pursed lips. “I knew that.” Her tone was almost sarcastic.

  Mia dropped to her knees and tried to gather up her daughter, but Brooke wriggled away.

  “I want to keep playing.”

  Downstairs, the front door closed and her dad called up to her. Mia got to her feet and went down.

  “I got your mail.” He handed her a stack, which she put on the entryway table. Gabe’s skateboard was underneath it, instead of in the hall closet. How many times had she asked him to put it away? Lately she might as well be talking to herself.

  “Dad, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be up on the roof like that.”