Justification for Murder (23 page)

S
orensen and Jon walked in silence to the parking lot. Most of the spots were still occupied, even though it was past nine in the evening.

“That was awkward,” Jon said, getting into Sorensen’s Jeep.

“Yep.”

He put the keys in the ignition. The car sputtered a little. After a few tries, it started, and they headed to Dr. Leavenworth’s house.

“I thought you guys would end up partnering up.”

“No way in hell.” Sorensen looked at him sideways. “Don’t get me wrong, Lynch seems an okay guy, but he’s not…” He scratched his temple, hoping Jon would see it and he wouldn’t have to say it.”

“He’s not what?”

Damn it, this guy’s dense
, Sorensen thought. “He’s on desk duty,” he finally said.

“Because of the eye?”

“No, because he’s from Seattle. What the hell’s wrong with you? Of course because of his frigging eye.” He accelerated without even noticing he was doing it.

“What happened to him? Do you know?”

“Nope. I asked him once, but he didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t push.”

“So you don’t think he can be out in the field?”

“How could he? Have you ever tried driving with one eye closed?” He closed his left eye and opened it immediately, not wanting to risk their lives at night. “It’s hard.”

“Yeah, but he drives. He has the coolest car. So maybe it’s okay.”

Sorensen stopped talking. He wanted to think about the case. It still made no sense. Too many deaths connected by cancer and the lunatic Harper Johnson. Before he could get too far into his own thoughts, they arrived.

The house was an old Victorian. Even in the dark, the light blue paint with the darker trim looked fresh, well maintained. It had a decent-size front yard. No evidence of kids. The bushes were perfectly manicured, and the grass was short. The house grew as they approached.

“I hope she has a big family, with a house like this,” Sorensen said, reaching the front door.

Jon rang the bell. After a few seconds, a man probably in his late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a very thin mustache opened the door. His dark gray pinstripe suit shined with the glare of cashmere, and the tiny dots in his silk tie matched perfectly his light blue starched shirt.

“Detectives,” the man said even before they had a chance to introduce themselves. “Please come in.”

Sorensen and Jon exchanged glances and followed him to the large living room. A fire chirped, probably more for ambiance than warmth. The décor was the perfect mixture of functionality and class. There was a large, thick wooden coffee table framed by a gigantic burgundy sofa and matching chairs. Two cut-crystal glasses held amber-colored liquid. Sorensen could smell the high-end scotch from where he was standing.

Dr. Leavenworth sat in one corner of the large sofa. She seemed smaller in plain clothes. Her back was really straight. She stood and extended her hand.

“Detective Sorensen.”

“Doctor.” Her grip was strong for such tiny hands. “Jon Evans,” Sorensen added.

She nodded and shook hands with him too. “Please sit.”

She grabbed her glass and didn’t offer the detectives anything to drink. The man who had opened the door sat next to her.

“This is Theodor Wilmore, my attorney.”

Sorensen nodded and said, “We would like to ask you to come to the station with us.”

“I’m sure this can wait until tomorrow,” Wilmore protested. “It’s almost nine.”

“I wish it could,” Sorensen said.

“Can you ask your most pressing questions now, and if that doesn’t clear your concerns, we can meet you first thing in the morning for anything additional?”

Wilmore’s intonation let him know this wasn’t a question. Sorensen wondered how much of an asshole he wanted to be so late at night.

“This is not ideal, as you can understand. But okay, we can see how it works.”

He locked eyes with Wilmore, ensuring he knew he was letting him win. The lawyer nodded almost imperceptibly and crossed his left leg over the right, resting both forearms on his knee. Sorensen wondered if Wilmore had been a classmate with George W.

The doctor leaned backwards, resting against the sofa. Sorensen wondered if they were sleeping together, even though Wilmore was probably fifteen years older than Leavenworth. He dismissed the thought and asked about Harper Johnson. The doctor said she didn’t know him.

“Why would he want to kill your patients?”

Before she could answer, the lawyer stepped in. “How would she know that?”

“Any idea why anybody would want to kill your patients?” Sorensen looked sideways at Jon instead of rolling his eyes.

“No, Detective. Some of my patients are already walking dead.”

The thought lingered in the air. Sorensen wondered if Jon was also thinking of that TV show about the zombies.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s obvious, don’t you think? Some of my patients have cancer, Detective. That’s still one of highest causes of death in this country.”

Wilmore patted her knee. She barely recoiled, but just enough for Sorensen to notice.

“I still don’t understand why you think these horrible deaths have anything to do with me.”

“From your list of patients, half a dozen have died in suspicious circumstances. Another few have killed themselves. You are the only common link between all of them.”

Wilmore swallowed, and Doctor Leavenworth finished her scotch but nursed the empty glass in her hands.

“Now, is there anything you want to tell me that can help us rule you out?” Sorensen asked.

“What I can tell you is that I don’t know what happened to these people. I don’t know Mr. Johnson, and I have no idea why he would want to hurt any of my patients.”

She stood up and Wilmore followed. “Now, if you excuse me, I’ve had a very long day, and I would like to go to bed.”

“Just one more thing,” Sorensen said before getting up. “Can you confirm if all of these people had cancer?” Before she could respond, he started naming all of the victims who had committed suicide.

“Yes,” she said after hearing the last name.

“Is it common for cancer patients to kill themselves?”

“It happens. I’m not familiar with the exact statistics.”

Sorensen observed the doctor. She was calm and composed, but her right eyelid had a tiny tic.

D
arcy grabbed his wine glass and pointed to the living room. Saffron followed him and sat on the large leather sofa, hugging her legs. The dog followed them and lay down on the floor between them. Darcy thought about what he wanted to tell her. How much he wanted to tell her. And then he began.

“I was a detective in Seattle. You knew that.”

She nodded.

“About a year and half ago, I got involved in a pretty big assignment. It was a joint agency cooperation to take down an underground organization smuggling illegal arms. The ATF had tracked down the flow: the weapons were being stolen from the Fourth Marines Embark Logistics Base in San Jose by a couple marines and were exiting the country via Seattle’s port and through Canada.

“They’d been watching the two marines for a while but hadn’t been able to get close to any of the bigwigs. I was working vice at the time, not involved in any of this, when I got an interesting tip from one of my confidential informants.”

As Darcy shared the story with Saffron, the whole event came back to him in vivid detail:

Pike Place Market had been crowded, even for a Thursday morning. The fish stand, behind the copper pig and below the red Public Market Center sign, amazed tourists even that early. A burly man behind the counter picked up a good-size salmon and threw it a few feet away to another employee standing in between tourists. Darcy watched a little girl open her mouth, cover it with her tiny hand and then laugh and clap in amazement when he caught it. He rarely got bored watching people.

He saw Gigi come down Pike Street. Her bleached blond hair was in bad need of a root touch-up. Her lips were bright red, and her thin figure sashayed over the brick ground as if she were figure-skating in an ice rink.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” she said in her husky voice. It was deep and sensual, as if she’d had a two-pack-a-day habit for the last forty years, even though she wasn’t even thirty yet.

“What flower would you like today?” he asked.

“We’ll see what inspires me.”

She smiled at him. There was a hint of lipstick on her front tooth. She saw him looking and passed her tongue over it, licking it away. She smiled back at him, and he nodded. They started walking down the market.

“You said you had something for me.”

“I don’t even have a flower yet and you’re already pumping me for information? I thought you were a gentleman,” she protested but put her arm around his.

Since they started working together several months prior, she had always insisted on meeting at Pike Place Market and for him to buy her a single flower. Always different, almost always exotic.

They got to the flower stand, and she scanned through her options. The vibrant colors clashed with the gray sky and misty air outside.

“What is this?” Gigi asked, pointing to a prickly flower with bright orange petals.

The florist smiled, pleased with Gigi’s interest. “That’s a
Calathea crocata
. It’s also known as the ‘Eternal flame.’”

Gigi eyed Darcy, as if expecting some reaction from him. “Well then, that must be the one.” She turned to him glowing almost as much as the flower.

The florist wrapped it in bright blue paper peppered with golden specs and finished it with a gold bow.

“Enjoy it,” she said, handing it to Gigi.

Darcy paid, and they strolled a few yards to the original Starbucks. The store was more brown than green and didn’t feel like a Starbucks. There were no comfortable leather sofas, only a counter to get the coffee to go. Gigi ordered a skinny vanilla latte, and they walked outside again.

Finally, when they reached the end of the market, she stopped by the little park and, staring down at the water, she said, “I was at this party last night, at The Vixen. It was pretty wild, you know. Loads of drugs, free alcohol in the VIP section, many girls, most of them pros.”

Darcy tensed but knew better than to interrupt her flow.

“I was working on this guy, buff, hard body, about a foot taller than me, five-o’clock shadow just because he thinks it makes him look cool. You know the type.” She looked at him briefly. “He said he had something he wanted to share with me. I figured it was coke, so I just followed him. We headed toward the bathrooms. There’s nobody there. He takes me into a stall and lifts me against the wall. He’s strong. He hikes my skirt and kisses me on the mouth. He’s a good kisser.”

“Gigi, is there a point to all this?”

“I’m getting there, okay? I need to give you context. Isn’t that what you used to tell me when I started?”

“Yeah, context for the information you give me, not of your particular remunerated encounters.”

She waved a hand at him.

“So, as I was saying, he’s holding me up in the air against the stall while he kisses me and with the other hand he unzips his fly. My skirt’s already around my waist. And right before he enters me, the door opens. He stops to listen, like he’s enjoying that we’re there and somebody’s on the other side of the stall door.”

Darcy wondered if she went into all the details just to push his buttons. It always bothered him, because 99 percent of what she did was illegal. And dangerous. But she was the best CIs he’d ever had.

“He’s hard against me. I can feel his dick pushing against my stomach.”

“Gigi, please. Get to the point.”

“Okay, okay. So, we’re there, in silence. He’s looking at me but doesn’t say anything. The guy outside starts peeing. The door opens again and the guy peeing says, ‘Get the fuck out of here.’ I look at the buff guy, and he puts his index finger against my lips. I kiss it but he doesn’t notice. He’s listening to what’s going on outside.

“The guy peeing stops. The new guy walks closer—he had leather soles or something, because you could hear each step. ‘Where’s my money?’ he says. The other dude says, ‘You’ll see your fucking money when you bring me the guns I asked for.’”

Darcy stiffened. She went on.

“Buff Guy drops me on the floor and gets out of the stall, his dick still out of his pants. He rushes to Peeing Guy and gets in his face. He’s taller than him by a good five inches. When he’s really close, Buff Guy punches him in the face and says, ‘Shut your fucking trap. Never—and I mean
never
—talk about this shit in a public place.’ He turns and walks past New Guy. He brushes by him hard, almost making him lose his balance, but he doesn’t protest. Before he leaves, he turns around and looks at me. He puts his index finger now on his lips and winks before he goes through the door.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?” she says, finishing up her latte.

“What was his name?”

“He said it was Stepan.”

“Did you recognize the other guys?”

“No. I’d never seen them before.”

“Did you see Stepan again when you got out of the bathroom?”

“No. I looked for him but he was gone.”

“This is great, Gigi. I need you to come to the station and see some mug shots.”

“Only if I can ride in your car with the top down, gorgeous.”

She didn’t like going to the station, but she loved the Cobra.

After she wasn’t able to identify anybody from the photos, Darcy went to talk to his captain. He told him he thought he might have something related to the arms-smuggling case and that his CI could probably help. Darcy shared everything Gigi had told him, only skipping the unnecessary details. Captain Carpello thought about it and agreed to have him involved. When he got all of the necessary clearance from the other departments, Darcy was in.

A few days later, Gigi called him to let him know that Stepan had invited her and a couple other girls to another party. This was a private one, some rave or something at a warehouse in West Seattle. She didn’t have the address, but he was going to pick her up and take her there.

The day of the rave, Darcy showed up at Gigi’s place. He pulled an ear bug and said, “You have to put this in.”

“No way. If he finds out, I’m dead.”

“He won’t. Just cover it with your hair.”

“I was going to wear it up.”

“Gigi…”

“Okay, fine, but if he finds out, you better be there to save me.”

“That’s why I want you to wear it. I’ll be able to hear everything that goes on. I can’t talk to you, but if anything goes wrong, just say ‘Wednesday’ in a sentence and I’ll be there before you can blink.”

She wasn’t convinced. She held the piece between her thumb and index fingers and looked at it.

“Seriously,” Darcy said. “Just say ‘Wednesday.’”

“Okay, gorgeous. Just for you.”

She fit it inside her ear.

“One more thing,” he said, pulling a GPS tracker out of his pocket. “I want to put this in your shoe.”

“What? You’re not ruining my heels,” she protested.

He ignored her and pulled the heel cap off with a kitchen knife. Before he had hammered the little screws back into the shoe the doorbell rang and they both jumped.

“Fuck, I think he’s early,” she said, suddenly nervous.

“Just tell him I’m your cousin.”

“You’re not that good looking,” she joked and tried to relax, but her smile was forced.

She went to the door. He finished fixing the shoe and hoped the device worked, since he wouldn’t be able to test it before Gigi left.

He then sat on the sofa, pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans and turned the TV on. There was nothing playing, so he started channel-surfing until he found a game. He was glad there was an empty beer can on the coffee table. He wanted to look as comfortable there as if it were his home.

She walked into the small living room holding the man’s hand.

“Handsome, why don’t you wait for me here while I change into something more appropriate? I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

He nodded and sat to Darcy’s left, on the ample leopard-print chair.

“Hey,” Darcy said.

“Who are you?” Stepan asked with a trace of a Russian accent.

“I’m Roger. Gigi’s cousin from LA.” He took the empty can and pretended to drink. “Shit. Empty. Want one?” he asked, getting up and heading to the open kitchen.

“I don’t drink and drive.”

“Suit yourself.”

Darcy got back and opened the new can. Gulped a third of it, then belched. “And you are?” he said after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Stepan didn’t answer. Before the silence became too awkward Gigi walked into the room. Her hair was down, with shiny blond ringlets framing her face. She was wearing a really tight cocktail dress. The red matched her lipstick perfectly.

“Ready?” she asked.

Stepan got up from the chair and followed her out of the house. Darcy ran to the second story and peeked out the window. Stepan opened the passenger door of a silver BMW M5 and waited for Gigi to get in. When the car left, Darcy tried to get the license plate, but it was too far away for him to see it.

He called Carpello and told him that the action had just started. The captain confirmed that the backup team would be on standby and that the GPS was tracking.

Darcy listened to the chitchat in the car. Gigi talked about everything, while Stepan didn’t say a lot.

“I’ve always liked Elliot Bay. Is this place we’re going close to Alki Beach?” she asked.

Lynch ran to his car and headed down to West Seattle. Detective Starr gave him a play-by-play on where Gigi was going.

“If you want to end up in Alki, I’ll take you there later,” Stepan said.

She teased him and probably kissed him. Darcy couldn’t quite make out what that particular noise was.

“They’ve stopped. They are in Harbor Island, at the corner of Thirteenth Avenue and Lander Street,” Starr said.

Darcy remembered some old buildings there, but nothing too suitable for a party for thirty- and fortysomethings.

“Are we the first ones to arrive?” Gigi’s voice was playful, but Darcy could detect some uneasiness.

“Yes, sweetie, I wanted to have a party for just the two of us.”

Darcy’s neck hairs rose. “This is not good. I think he made her,” he yelled on the radio. “I’m going in.”

“Do not go in,” Carpello instructed. “We have units on alert and they’ll be close but on standby. She’s not said she’s in danger. I repeat, do not go in.” Darcy hit the steering wheel as hard as he could while trying to not lose control of the car over the West Seattle Bridge. As soon as he crossed East Marginal Way, he slowed down, finally pulling off the road on Eleventh Avenue, not wanting to get too close. He listened to Gigi’s every word. She was trying to flirt, but what she was saying sounded more and more fake as the seconds passed.

“Where do you want to do it? Here?” she asked. “Or here, on the table?”

Stepan wasn’t saying anything.

“Oh baby, you don’t need a knife to get me hot.”

“He’s pulled a knife on her, I’m going in,” Darcy yelled on the intercom.

He didn’t wait for a response from the command center and started moving again but told himself to not burst in until Gigi said “Wednesday.” For a second he feared she might have forgotten, but he let the thought go. She was way too experienced for that.

“You really want to play with knives?” he heard her ask.

Darcy parked about a hundred yards from the building and run toward it. His heart was beating so hard it felt as if it would leap out of his chest. He was short of breath, not from the run, but from hyperventilating. He forced himself to calm down so he could think better, act better.

“Can we play without the knife?” she asked. Her voice quivered. “I only do knives on Wednesdays,” she said, almost under her breath.

“She’s in danger, I’m going in. I need backup now!” he yelled into the radio.

He finally reached the building and had to jump to look into it from a broken window. The space was huge and dirty. It was also empty. He moved to the next window and the next one—no luck.

Then a scream filled the empty air. The cry didn’t have words, but he knew Gigi’s entire world had started to crumble. Darcy ran, peeking into every window he went by, still seeing nothing inside. Then he rounded the building and spotted the BMW and finally a door a few yards away.

Before he could reach it, there was another scream and then another. “Please, stop! Wednesday, Wednesday!” she shouted, and then there was silence.