The Gift of the Darkness (18 page)

“What was his reaction?”

“He was very upset.”

“Was he surprised?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say when you told him?”

“Nothing. There was nothing to say.”

“He said nothing at all?”

“He was in shock, and so was I.”

“Looking back on it, knowing what you know now about the evidence found in the house, was there anything off or untoward in his reaction?”

“No.”

“It was completely consistent with simple grief?”

“Your Honor—” Quinn's eyes stayed on Klein.

“Asked and answered, Miss Klein.”

“Mr. Quinn, when John Cameron arrived at your house, did you notice what vehicle he was driving?”

“Your Honor—”

“A car is a car, Mr. Quinn, not privileged communication.”

Quinn turned to Brown and Madison. “He was driving a black Ford Explorer.”

Madison returned his look. They both knew that by now the vehicle would be sitting with the beeper in a remote ditch. However, even if that were so, it would have been driven there, and someone might have seen it.

“Is that the vehicle he usually drives?”

“I don't tend to notice cars.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt that. I doubt there's anything much you don't notice, Mr. Quinn. Would it surprise you if I told you that DMV has a black Ford pickup registered to John Cameron?”

“No. He used to drive one a while ago.”

“Do you know what happened to it?”

“No idea.”

“Let's go back to the meeting at your house. What happened after you told him about the murders?”

“We spoke for a while, and then he left.”

“What did you speak about?”

“Your Honor—”

“Sorry, Miss Klein. Out of bounds.”

Klein nodded. “Would you describe Mr. Cameron's appearance at the time you met?”

“His appearance?”

“Yes. Let's start with his clothes—”

“Miss Klein,” Judge Martin interrupted her. “Is this relevant?”

“Your Honor, I understand that there are boundaries I am not supposed to cross, but in view of the seriousness of the case and the consequences of Mr. Cameron's ongoing freedom, I am trying to gain as much information as possible within my power. I don't need to remind the court that Mr. Cameron is also being sought in conjunction with the murder of Erroll Sanders—”

“I don't believe there is a warrant out for the Sanders case, so you might as well not go there. I'm giving you a little latitude on the question of appearance.”

“That's all I ask.”

“That's all you have.” The judge motioned with her hand to continue.

“What was he wearing?”

“A black jacket with a fleece lining and moleskin pants—dark green, as I recall.”

From a file Sarah Klein took out the picture Records had altered.

“This picture was created working from an old arrest. How close is it to his appearance now?”

Quinn looked at it for five seconds. “It's a reasonable likeness.”

Klein put it away. “As far as you know, does John Cameron own any weapons?”

Judge Martin was waiting for him to object.

Nathan Quinn thought about one night when they had been playing poker. He had dropped a chip under the table, and as he was
retrieving it, he had noticed something around Jack's ankle. It was dark; he didn't see it clearly.

“No, not that I know of.”

“Counselor.” Judge Martin turned to Sarah Klein. “I feel you have exhausted the subject dealt with in the subpoena. Do you have any more questions?”

“Many, Your Honor. Unfortunately, not within these terms. We're done for now.”

“Thank you. Mr. Quinn. You are free to go.”

Just like that, it was over.

Judge Martin left the courtroom, and the stenographer left after her. Only the prosecutor, Quinn, and the detectives were standing around.

“You thought fast last Monday, didn't you, Nathan?” Sarah Klein said. “You might have been in shock, but you registered really quickly that sooner or later somebody would be asking you questions. You do not go to Cameron's location, because someone might ask where he was, and you might have to answer. You make sure you don't have his phone number, because someone might ask for it, and you might have to give it up. You have been so careful all these years, and still, here you are. This is not a drunk driving charge; you don't
fix
this.”

Nathan Quinn started to leave. “You know, everybody in this room will get their fifteen minutes of fame if you collar my client, but that's all you'll get. You're looking in the wrong place and asking the wrong questions. Call me when you get your head out of the clouds.”

“Let's get out of here,” Sarah Klein said.

Madison was disappointed. They had Quinn sworn in, and they were coming away with very little to show for it. They would work the car angle, sure, and check into the beeper thing, but those were crumbs. Quinn had been prepared for it all the second he had left the morgue; everything he did after that was a moat around his number one client. It took a pretty cold heart to get into that mind-set right after he had formally identified the bodies of his friends and their children. But that's what he did for a living, Madison told herself, and that's why he was good at it.

They left the courthouse from a back exit. It was time to get the media into the game, and John Cameron's face was about to go platinum.

They drove toward the station house. Brown had alerted Lieutenant Fynn of the outcome of the hearing, and he was setting the wheels in motion.

“When Quinn identified the bodies, what was he like?” Madison asked Brown as they dove in and out of the lunchtime traffic.

“He was upset.”

“That's what I would have expected. How could he not be?” Madison had to ask the next question. “Do you think he lied?”

“Just now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you asking me if Quinn perjured himself?”

“Yes.”

“I don't think so. He gave us everything we wanted, only it turns out it's not what we needed.”

“That's what I'm thinking: he gave us everything because there was nothing there that could really hurt anyone.”

“Something bothering you?”

“Yes and no. I don't think he lied, but, why go through all the trouble of being subpoenaed when he could have just told Klein in Judge Martin's chambers? It's a waste of energy, and Quinn doesn't seem the wasteful type. He was all set with the right answers; he could have just given us the car and the beeper up front, and that would be that.”

“You think he held back?” he asked her.

“No. If he was caught in a straight lie, it would be a disaster. Klein asked him what he did after the identification, and he said he called Cameron. She asked him why, and he said to arrange a meeting . . .”

The first time they had met, Madison had seen Nathan Quinn deal with tragedy. He had kept his head and asked the right questions; his emotions had been well in check. They had left him to talk to Annie Sinclair's family in Chicago and to his colleagues, and then he had met Brown at the Medical Examiner's office.

Between the time they left him and when he had seen the bodies, something had shifted. Madison remembered he had questioned
them about the burglary theory, but Quinn had not believed for one second that the murders were not premeditated. He was familiar with Seattle crime statistics, and if she had been in his place, she would have drawn the same conclusions: the Sinclair family had been targeted for execution.

“You want to stop for coffee?” Brown's voice interrupted her train of thought.

“No, I'm good.”

The execution had been flawless except for one thing: evidence had been left at the scene. Evidence Nathan Quinn knew nothing about at the time he made his identification. In spite of that, he saw his friends' dead bodies and made the connection with John Cameron—that somehow, somewhere, the whole big mess would come knocking at his door. The rest was just damage control.

Sometime in the past few minutes Brown must have switched on the car radio, because it was now droning on with world news.

The point that Madison seemed to get stuck on was that Quinn had wanted to give Cameron the news in person, that he could imagine what it would be like for him to hear about it between jingles and sports chat. At that moment, Quinn was acting as a friend, not as an attorney. Madison was sure he had not lied about that.

So at some point there had been a switch, and the legal counsel had taken over. Madison closed her eyes. There are some things you just shouldn't say on the phone. She remembered the time in college when Rachel's mother had called Alice because she couldn't find her daughter, whose father had been in a car accident and was in intensive care.

Madison had called all their common friends. They did not have cell phones then, and after one hour of searching for Rachel, she had tracked her to Neal Abramowicz's place, the guy who years later would become her husband. Madison remembered very clearly what she had said to Rachel: “I'm coming to pick you up; tell me how to get there.”

Christmas lights blurred in the rain behind the windshield wipers. Madison sat up. There it was: Quinn's one moment of weakness that could have cost John Cameron his freedom. Quinn had come out of the morgue and called him straightaway. “I'm coming to see you
right now; tell me how to get there,” he had said. And Cameron did. As he was driving to him, Quinn realized he was leaving deniability behind, and he called Cameron back and told him to meet him at his own house.

All he had to do then was hope that the question would never come up, but if it did—as it had, because Klein was not born yesterday—Quinn would fight for attorney-client privilege every step of the way, even get subpoenaed for it.

Once he got them all believing that they were fighting for every answer, he would give them the “safe” version, and they would think they had scored a victory and come away with bupkes.

Klein had not asked how many times they had spoken, and Quinn had not lied. The first time, he had called with his heart; the second, with the chilling knowledge that he might be talking to a murderer.

The news had turned to the weather: a cold front was going to hit the city in the next forty-eight hours, and a hell of sleet and snow was about to be unleashed over Seattle.

No surprise there, Madison thought.

They stood in Lieutenant Fynn's office. He was too mad to sit down at his desk and was leaning against the back wall. Brown and Madison stood next to the door and left the middle of the room to Sarah Klein, who was pacing it for all it was worth. Judge Martin's voice crackled through the speakerphone.

“I thought we had an understanding when we spoke in my chambers. The circumstances were
extraordinary
.”

“Your Honor, he is still under oath.”

“Did he perjure himself?”

“Not exactly.”

“Don't get cute. Yes or no?”

“No, but—”

“Do you have any new evidence not in your possession two hours ago?”

Klein looked at Madison. What they had was best described as a hunch.

“No, Your Honor. If I may, I'd like to explain our concerns regarding Mr. Quinn's testimony.”

“Miss Klein, if you asked the wrong questions, that is entirely your problem; you don't get two bites at the apple. Now, let's be done with this, and find me someone to indict for real.”

Judge Martin hung up, and the line went dead. Fynn turned the speakerphone off.

“That went well,” he said after a beat, taking his coat off the rack. “I'm going to the briefing now: get me a license plate for the Explorer by end of shift, or leave town.”

He opened the door, and the squad room fell silent. He ignored everyone and left.

“I'm sorry,” Klein said.

“Shit happens,” Brown replied. “Let's get over it and move on.”

Madison picked up the receiver and dialed Cameron's beeper number. It connected, but there was no message, just an open line and a beep.

John Cameron was now officially a fugitive, and as such he had just made the Ten Most Wanted list—before him a man who had shot his parole officer dead, after him a serial rapist who operated in the towns along I-5. The briefing went as predicted: the media lapped it up, and the evening papers changed their front page. A hotline was already in place for any tips from the public, as well as Quinn's reward, which had been intended for information that would lead to the arrest of the killer, not specifically Cameron. A subtle difference there, Madison thought, that might escape the general public.

A sandwich still in its wrapper sat on a corner of Madison's desk. She had been online for a while, tapping quietly and making notes.

Once the initial rush of understanding how Quinn had played them was gone, failure was a heavy knot deep in her chest.

“Do you know how many Ford Explorers are registered in the State of Washington?” she asked Brown without taking her eyes off the screen.

He had just put the phone down. In the first forty-five minutes after they had posted Cameron's picture, the hotline had received seventy-five calls. The good ones were starting to trickle through.

Brown knew the place where Madison was standing very well indeed; he had been there himself a number of times. Some of those times had had consequences.

“It wasn't your fault,” he said. “You made the right connections.”

“Sure, razor-sharp me. If I had been ten minutes earlier on that train, right now we'd be searching his real location.”

“Maybe, and if the Sinclairs had a dog, they might be alive today.”

Madison turned to face him. Sometimes she did not like him all that much.

“You don't have time to be sorry. The difference with Quinn is that now we know, and that is a good thing,” he said. “How many?”