Madison walked back inside calm, but the levity of the evening had been replaced by a dull anger that had nowhere to go. Early Springsteen boomed from the speakers, there was not a stripper in sight, and a local stand-up comedian had just entertained the guests with a routine on the daily life of a cop. The audience had loved it. She looked around the room: the groom, Homicide Detective Andrew Dunne, stood by the bar with the best man—his partner, Detective Kyle Spencer—and nodded to Madison when he saw her. His red hair stuck out in all directions, as usual, and his face was flushed; he spoke fast and laughed easily. She nodded back. Kyle Spencer was second-generation Japanese American and in every way the polar opposite of Dunne, who was, in his late thirties, finally getting married. They were wearing suits, but the jackets and ties had been lost sometime after the second Scotch.
When Madison had joined the unit two years earlier they had treated her as if she had always been part of the team; it had meant a lot in those days when she had so much to prove. Two years. Madison could hardly believe it. Two years that in her mind split neatly into the first six months and the following year and a half. She stopped that train of thought and headed for a table in the corner.
Detective Sergeant Kevin Brown, Madison’s partner, was in his early fifties, ginger going gray, and looked about done with the festivities as well. Madison sat next to him on the banquette.
“All done out there?” he asked her.
She took a sip of the Coke he’d gotten for her and nodded. “One of them had a little blow in his pocket.”
“What a shocker.”
“I know, what with them being such great guys and all.” Madison paused, feeling around the edges of her dark mood and not knowing what to do with it. “They’re going to be checked against local complaints in case they’ve done it before. Harassed women, I mean.”
“You okay?”
Brown had gone outside the second he had heard the commotion. The two men stretched out on the concrete under the rain had seemed so very young to him. And Madison—who was standing over them—had looked angry enough to kick a bull on its birthday, as his father liked to say.
Madison shrugged.
“Why didn’t you tell them?” he said.
“What?” she replied, but she knew what he’d meant.
“Why didn’t you identify yourself as police the second they approached you?”
Madison took another sip. “Most women don’t have a badge they can hide behind. The next time they think about doing that again I want them to remember that I didn’t need the badge to take their asses down.”
Brown had seen Madison at full tilt in the best and the worst times during the last two years. He knew there was something more to her anger, but he didn’t press her; when she wanted to get it off her chest she would. She was not “most women,” he wanted to say, but instead he clinked her glass with his cream soda.
Lieutenant Fynn—their shift commander—slipped heavily into the banquette seat next to Brown.
“What time is it?” he asked, shouting above “Dancing in the Dark.” He’d been up almost twenty-four hours and was ready to crash.
Madison’s attention wandered. Andy, the groom, knew so many people that his best man had to organize two different parties to fit everybody in. Madison had never met an officer in Seattle and King County who didn’t know Andy one way or the other, and most of them had stories to tell.
Tonight the club would see most of the festivities, including the screening of the DVD Madison had brought in—a merciless digest of Andy’s life so far, cut by a pal in Public Affairs. After a nap, Spencer, Dunne, and his brothers and cousins would travel east to a rented cabin to fish and quietly sleep off their massive hangovers. Madison, however, was due at the precinct at 11:00 a.m. the following morning, which is why drinking was not on her agenda this evening. On Sunday, to complete the weekend, she would attend the bride’s—Stacey Roberts from Traffic—bachelorette party, a spa day at the Four Seasons. Madison had never been to a spa and she was glad she had not been asked to be a bridesmaid. She had known Stacey for years and they were friends—not the kind of friend you call at 4:00 a.m. if your car breaks down, but a friend nevertheless. Madison was glad she wouldn’t have to wear the heavy silk fuchsia dress; glad to be on the periphery of the celebration and not smack in the middle of it and, most of all, she was glad to evade questions about her own private life.
Madison’s eye caught Detective Chris Kelly talking with someone from Vice. Kelly had been watching her and looked away when she’d turned. Nothing new there, she thought. There was something reassuring in the predictability of their relationship: they had detested each other from day one and the feeling had not slowly turned into a grudging respect for each other’s skills and capabilities; in fact, over the months, it had hardened into a ball of loathing that colored each word and every exchange. The brief period they had partnered—while Brown was on medical leave—had only confirmed their opinions of each other.
The music cut off and Spencer took to a small stage with a mike. There were whoops and hollers as the film of Dunne’s life started, and in the club’s half-light Madison forgot all about Kelly and the men in the parking lot.
A little after 1:00 a.m. Madison left and drove home; she could still smell the club on her skin. It had stopped raining and she wound down the windows to let the cold air flow through. The evening had swung from joyous to nasty and back to a rowdy cheer that had left her wiped out and unsettled at the end of a very long day. She drove automatically—for once without music—and every turn in the road was as familiar to her as if she had drawn it herself on the map.
Madison had lived in the same house since she was thirteen—except for the years in college in Chicago. It was her grandparents’ home and it would always be her grandparents’ home, even though they had both passed away. Three Oaks was a quiet, upper-middle-class suburb on the southwestern edge of Seattle, shaped by Puget Sound on one side and thickets of firs on the other; the crop of houses hid among the evergreens, and the backyards rolled into the water.
Madison let herself in and, tired as she was, she still couldn’t go straight to bed. She crossed the living room and opened the French doors to the deck. It was pitch black. She didn’t need to see the landscape: the water at the end of the lawn was a whisper over the gravel beach and the trees to her right creaked and ticked in the breeze.
Madison was not looking forward to the meeting in the morning: she didn’t want to think about it because she knew where her thoughts would run. She waited until she was chilled to her bones, then turned away from the night and went inside.
In the darkness she unbuckled the ankle holster with her off-duty piece—a snub-nosed .38—and slid it under the bed. She toed off her boots and stepped out of her jeans. Her clothes in a heap on the hardwood floor, she slid under the comforter and felt the warmth of Aaron’s body, stretched out on the other side of the bed. He slept soundly, peacefully, and Madison—still awake—wished for some of the same.
Chapter 2
The next morning started with a pale gray wash over the lawn, the water, and Vashon Island across the Sound. Saturday was technically Madison’s day off, but the meeting had been scheduled for the convenience of the other attendees and she acquiesced—it would probably be the only concession these people would get from her.
She was in the kitchen making coffee when Aaron padded in. They had been seeing each other for just over six months and it still felt new when he stayed over and would stagger out of the bedroom in the morning, thick with sleep and wearing only his sweat pants.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.” She passed him a steaming mug.
“How was it?”
Madison had known Aaron Lever since she was thirteen. He was a cousin of her best friend, Rachel, a couple of years older than them, and the two had gotten reacquainted when he had returned to Seattle after a divorce (two children) and the sale of his software company in San Francisco.
He had been a skinny, handsome blond boy who couldn’t be away from his video games, and he had grown up to be a very tall, handsome man with fair hair and kind eyes.
It had taken some time to persuade Madison to go out with him, but six months ago she couldn’t think of any more excuses. Both were keenly aware that the lure of a relationship with a long-lost childhood friend was almost too strong to resist. Nevertheless, over the last months they had filled the empty hours in each other’s life as if they had been together for years. It had been surprisingly easy.
“It was loud and funny and Andy had a great time, which was kind of the point of the whole thing.”
“Do you think he’ll freak out before the wedding?”
“No, I don’t think so. Well, maybe, on the inside.”
Madison broke five eggs into a saucepan as the butter melted and sizzled.
“The only girl at a bachelor party and you didn’t even have one drink,” he said. “That’s very sad.”
“Just as well.” Madison stirred the eggs. “A couple of guys confronted me in the parking lot, thought I was a stripper, tried to grab me and—”
“Wait a minute. What? Are you all right?” Aaron had frozen with two plates halfway out of the cabinet. His eyes were wide with concern.
Madison was thrown out of her story and looked at herself through his eyes.
“What happened?” he said.
I got one in a wrist lock and almost broke his arm, his friend wanted to play silly games but he changed his mind.
“I convinced them that it was a bad idea,” Madison said quickly, “and they ended the night in a cell. One of them had a little coke too.”
Aaron put the dishes on the table. “And you sure you’re all right?”
“Well, last night I was angry, but today . . .” She shrugged.
Aaron smiled a little. His ex-wife only used the ATMs inside banks and wouldn’t even stop at gas stations if she was driving alone at night.
They ate the scrambled eggs at the kitchen table, then Madison got up to get ready. After her meeting she and Aaron would go and do the things couples do. A movie, a restaurant, maybe meet Rachel and her husband, Neal.
It was a different life from where she had been only a year ago.
It was what grown-ups did, Madison reflected while she showered. She hadn’t told Aaron what her meeting is about—and in all probability she wouldn’t tell him later either.
Chapter 3
Madison walked into the precinct’s overheated conference room ten minutes early with a cup of coffee in her hand. The others were already there. Special Agents A.J. Parker and Curtis Guzman from the Los Angeles office of the Drug Enforcement Agency stopped talking and stood up when she came in. Their suits were freshly pressed and so were their smiles. Madison saw they had already been there a while: their cups were half empty and papers were scattered on the table.
“Detective Madison, thank you for meeting us on your day off. We took the earliest flight and we’ll be heading back to LA when we’re done.” Parker was clearly the communication specialist; Guzman had said maybe seven words in their previous meetings.
“Agent Parker, Agent Guzman, good to see you back in town—but I’m not sure why we couldn’t have done this over the phone.”
Parker smiled again. “Sometimes it’s better to meet face to face; it’s more personal, more direct.”
Madison took a sip of her coffee and sat down. This was the fourth time they had met, always at the request of the DEA. The first time, she had briefed them on a kidnapping and attempted murder by members of a cartel they were investigating. She had rescued the hostage in a field near the Canadian border and had been able to identify one of the cartel’s men—even if he had escaped. Three men had died that day; one of them had been shot and killed by Madison. She had never pointed her piece at a person and squeezed the trigger before, and she thought about it still from time to time, the way you run your finger over a scar to check that it’s still there. She had spoken about it with Stanley Robinson, the psychologist she had been ordered to see by department policy after a firearm was discharged. They had spoken about many things and not spoken about just as many others.
“We have some news about Roberto Salvo,” Parker said.
Salvo was the cartel operative Madison had identified for them.
“We have him, so to speak,” he continued.
“You’ve arrested him?”
“We’ve found him, yes, tucked away pretty much as he had been left a few months ago.”
Madison remembered him as clearly as if she had just bumped into him in the hallway—his smart suit and the horrors buried in his voice.
“What happened to him?” She suddenly knew what Parker would say and felt something icy cold press between her shoulder blades.
“Knife wound to the neck, almost decapitated him. A right-handed person, about five feet eleven inches to six feet tall. Someone who was confident enough, strong enough, and mad enough to take Salvo on by himself.” Parker leaned forward. “Not with a firearm, no. A knife. A risky weapon to choose if your target is armed, as Salvo most certainly would have been.”
Madison said nothing.
Parker opened a file, and a close-up of the remains was clipped to the first page. It was beyond description. It was the result of a violent death, decomposition, and possibly animal infestation. Madison saw the bright sheen in Parker’s eyes when he’d turned the page; she merely nodded.
“It takes a special kind of guy to do that,” he said. “Do you know anyone who might fit that description?”
Madison had only one name: the man whose life she had saved that day eighteen months ago, the man alleged to have killed nine and maimed two human beings.
“Cameron,” she said.
“John Cameron, the one and only. The pathologist estimated that Salvo was killed about nine months ago—that is to say, nine months after the kidnapping you foiled—enough time for Cameron to get healthy, sharpen his blade, and put his ducks in a row.”
“Where was Salvo found? Did you recover any evidence?”
Parker snorted. Guzman’s eyes rested peaceably on Madison; he kept his silence.
“No, of course there was no evidence; we’re talking about John Cameron. But Salvo died like the five guys on the Nostromo, like the three dealers in LA two years ago. He was found in a cellar in an abandoned building—what was left of him. As you can see, the rats were not kind.”
Madison thought about what Salvo had been planning to do to Cameron if he had managed to get him back to LA: at least the rats had had him after he’d died.
“So, here we are again,” Parker said.
“Nothing has changed since the last time we spoke,” she added.
“Well, we now have Salvo’s decomposed body in our morgue and we thought we’d make sure we’ve covered every base.”
“Go right ahead,” Madison said.
“Do you mind?” Parker pushed forward a little voice recorder.
“I don’t mind.”
“When was the last time you saw John Cameron?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“That would have been at the memorial service for Nathan Quinn’s brother?” Parker said, and added for the benefit of the tape: “Nathan Quinn is John Cameron’s attorney and Detective Madison investigated the murder of Quinn’s brother, who had been kidnapped and killed when he was a child.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Have you seen or heard from John Cameron in the last eighteen months?”
“No.”
“Has he contacted you in any way that might help us to determine his present location?”
“No.”
“You saved his life, Detective.”
Madison waited. No question was forthcoming. “Yes, and?” she said.
“Is he the kind of person who would consider that a debt?”
“I have no idea what kind of person John Cameron is.”
“You are the o
nly officer of the law he has spoken to. Ever.”
“We didn’t share secret recipes.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, but the fact remains that you’re the only person who has ever gotten that close to him.”
“Everything I know is in the file.”
Parker paused; when his eye caught the spinning wheel of the tape in the recorder he spoke again.
“When was the last time you saw Nathan Quinn?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“You haven’t been in contact at all over the last year and a half?”
“No.”
“Did you ever talk about the Quinn boy’s kidnapping with Cameron?”
“Not really. He was there. He knew what happened.”
“Did he say anything to you about going after the cartel?”
“What do you think?”
“Detective, Mr. Salvo is not the first person from that particular cartel to have met an untimely death. In the last five months we have found three—”
“Four,” Guzman interjected.
“We have found four other men killed in similar fashion. And I’m not talking about soldiers: I mean people who had power, who gave orders. Cameron, if he is in fact the killer here, has devastated the organization.”
Madison thought back to the day of David Quinn’s memorial service, sitting in the empty restaurant afterward with Cameron, Quinn, and O’Keefe, the chef.
“I’m going to do some traveling,” Cameron had said.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Bit of both.”
“He said he was going to do some traveling,” she said. “That was all.”
Parker nodded.
“These other homicides: was any evidence recovered from those?” she asked.
“No,” Parker replied.
“Cameron has been in custody: there could be prints, DNA trace—”
Blood and Bone Page 2
