The Gift of the Darkness (25 page)

Chapter 28

Alice Madison woke up on the sofa. Daylight said it was sometime in the middle of the morning. For a couple of seconds everything was fine; then she remembered.

The telephone was on the table. She extended a leg from under the comforter and tried to straighten up. Every muscle in her body hurt. She reached for the phone and pulled it toward her, still sitting down and a little woozy with the movement. She dialed the hospital and was transferred to Dr. Taylor. There was no news: they had moved Brown to the Intensive Care Unit as expected, but he was still on a respirator. His sister was with him, the doctor said. No one was allowed to visit aside from family, she said finally—no exceptions.
Got the message
, Madison thought.

She walked to the kitchen slowly and found a bottle of water in the fridge. She twisted off the plastic top and drank half where she was standing. She could still smell the hospital in her hair and clothes. After she put on the coffee, she unhooked the clasps on the splint and spent fifteen minutes under a hot shower, washing her hair while attempting to keep her stitches dry.

When she came out, she dried herself with a towel and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom closet. She
looked at the bruises on her arms and back. No big deal: she could already feel the benefit of the heat on her skin.

She tested her right arm: the elbow was painful—no way around that one—but at least it wasn't broken. The cut? Well, that was just an annoyance.

She pulled on jeans and a navy hooded top and padded barefoot back to the kitchen. She poured herself a mug of coffee; it wasn't espresso, but it did the job. From the icebox Madison dug out the remains of a bag of frozen peas, molded it to her wrist, and tied a dishcloth around it.

She folded the comforter and put it back in the bedroom. She took her duffel and put it on the dining table, which was to be her new office.

She arranged all the notes and papers into separate piles. Then she sat down at the long side of the table and looked over her small domain. She had been in a conversation with Brown ever since they had walked into the Sinclair crime scene, and now it was done. She could worry about him with tubes sticking out of his chest, or she could hunt down the man who'd shot him. She couldn't do both.

She dialed Spencer's cell. He picked up instantly.

“It's Madison.”

“How are you doing?”

“I'm okay. Any news?”

“Hold on.”

It sounded like he was indoors somewhere: he had put his hand over the mouthpiece and said something to somebody else.

“We're at the lab,” he continued. “There was a pane of glass rigged at the back of the yard. They haven't put the thing back together yet, but he could get the glass to shatter when the time was right.”

“That's what we heard when we got there.”

“Exactly. There were fibers from the uniform on your clothing and the bushes by the fence. But nothing definite yet—they've only had a few hours to work the crime scene.”

“All right.”

“There's something else. We got the casings checked first.”

Madison knew what his next words would be.

“They match the casings from Blue Ridge: it was the same gun that shot the Sinclairs.”

There was a beat of silence, and Madison realized that she was expected to say something.

“Damn,” she said, and her voice sounded odd even to her. Face-to-face, Spencer would have known, but a phone could hide many sins.

“You tussled with John Cameron, Detective,” he said.

“Yeah, well, that's definitely something worth thinking about.”

“You okay?”

“Just a little off, you know?” Suddenly she wanted out of the conversation fast. The next words out of her mouth would have to be a lie.

“I'll call you later. Just relax and take care of yourself.”

“Sure thing.”

Madison hung up. This was not going to work. She couldn't not tell Spencer. He was working the shooting; he had the right to know.

Lieutenant Fynn picked up on the second ring.

“Sir, it's Madison. I've just spoken with Spencer. They've already matched the casings. I have to tell him.”

“Madison, how are you?”

“Fine, sir. But Spencer ought to know.”

“You called the hospital yet?”

“Yes. I'll go over later.”

“They're only letting family in.”

“I know. Sir—”

“Madison, has anything changed between last night and today?”

“No. But we can't let Spencer investigate without all the facts. He thinks that Cameron shot Brown, and I don't believe that's true.”

“Have the facts changed since last night? Can you give me anything else except for a guess inside a hunch wrapped in a leap of faith?”

“No.”

“Then let Spencer work with the facts he does have.”

There was a long silence on the line. The papers on the table and all her notes were puny ammunition, and the 3:00 a.m. strength of her logic had faded.

“Okay, but you will let
me
work this angle, right?”

“You're on medical leave, Detective. What you do with your time is up to you.”

“All right.”

“Just, whatever it is you're going to do, do it fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, thanks so very damn much.
She wouldn't tell Spencer, not yet. Still, she might have to at some point soon, and if Fynn was going to boot her back to Traffic, she was not in the mood to care. Not today.

The telephone rang, and her “hello” was maybe a touch crisper than normal.

“Alice?”

Rachel's voice. Sanity in a world going to hell.

“Hey—”

“Oh, sweetheart, I heard it on the news, and I wanted to call but didn't want to wake you. And I thought maybe I should just come over and check on you with the spare set of keys. Except the last thing you want is somebody coming in while you're asleep.”

“It's just a couple of bruises, I swear.”

“How's your partner?”

“Not good.”

“I'm so sorry. Do you want me to come over?”

“I'm kind of in the middle of something, and I'm going to the hospital later. You really don't have to worry.”

“You're working?”

“Just looking over some papers.”

Rachel was her friend, but she had also years of experience in dealing with victims of trauma and post-traumatic stress disorder issues.

“How . . . was it?”

“Quick—it was very quick. It started, and it was over.”

“You'll talk to me if you want to, right?”

“Yes.”

“You should rest. Why don't you come over for a bite later?”

“Thank you, I will.”

“Listen, Tommy overheard us, and he understood you were in a traffic accident like his Uncle Robert. I'm going to let him believe that.”

“Fine with me.”

“Babe, take care of yourself today.”

“Don't worry.”

“Take a taxi to the hospital. No driving.”

“Don't worry.”

Her coffee had gone cold, and when Madison went into the kitchen for a refill, she realized exactly how hungry she was. The fridge looked almost as desolate as the one in the precinct, minus the health hazards. She found three eggs within their best-by dates and scrambled them in a pan. She tried to move the pan with her right hand, and
that
really did not work, the arm refusing to carry the weight. She managed somehow, poured them onto a plate, and carried the food to the table with a fresh coffee and a bagel.

It was late enough in Virginia to call Fred Kamen on his home number.

Madison sat at the table, looking at the number in Brown's neat writing, finishing her eggs. She'd better have something else to say to him aside from “Good morning,” because right now he was the only person she could talk to about the whole damn business.

She had had less than twenty-four hours to get her bearings—it wasn't much, but it would have to do. In her mind, she ran through each day starting from Monday: what they did, what they found out, whom they'd talked to.

She dialed Kamen's number. It rang an impossibly long time, then a soft click, and Madison prepared herself to leave a message.

“Hello?” It was a man's voice.

“Hello. My name is Alice Madison. I'm a detective with Seattle Homicide. May I speak with Fred Kamen?”

A beat of silence.

“I know who you are. Stay on the line—I'm going to pick up in my study.”

Another click. Thirty seconds later the voice came back. It was more Boston academic than East Coast FBI and deeper than Madison remembered from the college lectures.

“I saw it on the news. How is he?”

“Not good. They moved him to the ICU after surgery, but he's still on a respirator, and they won't say much. We're going to have to wait till he wakes up to see . . . we're just going to have to wait.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I'm okay. Sir, I'm calling because before we were ambushed, Brown and I had a conversation, and the subject of the conversation was the man who set up John Cameron for the Sinclairs' murders.”

“I see.”

“Now, I do believe that the man who shot Brown is also the Sinclairs' killer, and I need to know everything that passed between you on this point.”

“You told Lieutenant Fynn?”

“Yes. I can keep looking into it. Technically I'm on medical leave, but he is still pursuing the Cameron angle, and he can't dismiss the evidence without solid proof.”

“That's why Brown was reluctant to approach him a few days ago.”

“Brown told me about the trail the killer left. He said that as much as it leads to Cameron, we can walk it backward, and it'll lead us to him.”

“Yes. The final objective of his work is the destruction of his target in every possible way. However, the manner in which he achieves that has more to do with his own compulsions and circumstances.”

“We're getting the list of Academy rejects.”

“Good. Something else: it is important that you start seeing Cameron as a victim. You have to consider how he was chosen, how the subject knew where he would be vulnerable, how he used the evidence against him. In any crime you have to work out how the victim was picked from the crowd. This is an unusual situation, but the same rule applies.”

“It's going to be a change of perspective.”

“I know.”

“This man, he's thorough—he must have been planning this for months. He didn't hesitate to attack two police officers. I'm thinking he must have done something like this before. You just don't get to
this level of—I was about to say ‘competence'—without honing your skills somehow.”

“I agree. I wouldn't be surprised if he had worked his way up to Cameron.”

“The man who attacked us, he was between thirty-five and forty, maybe early forties. He was very calm, in control; there was nothing out of place when we met him on the street. He was just waiting for us, cool as he could be.”

There was a small pause. “Did you take his call?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have Brown's number?”

Madison thought about it for a second.

“Yes, the neighbor had both our cards. The killer must have seen us there.”

“He chose to call you.”

“I know, and I walked us right into it.”

“No, he called you, and he shot Brown. He could have called him and shot both of you. Am I correct to say he was in a position to shoot you?”

“Yes.”

“He made a choice. This man does not do anything he has not planned and rehearsed in his mind. You are alive because he let you be.”

“I know.”

“Do you have any police surveillance on your home?”

“I don't think I need it. You said it yourself: he could have gotten me then.”

“What I mean is, with a lot of these types—obsessive, rigorous planners—I wouldn't be surprised if he drove past your house, just to see if your car is in the drive, how you're doing with your injuries.”

“Yes, well, I can see that,” Madison said maybe a touch too quickly. “I'll keep my eyes open.”

“Good. Look, if you need to start somewhere, I'd start with Cameron.”

“Yeah, I'd love to have a chat with him myself.”

“I can believe that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kamen. I really appreciate this.”

“You call me anytime. Do you have my cell number, too?”

“Yes.”

“Use it.”

In the bedroom, she opened the safe and pulled out her off-duty weapon, a short .45 for concealed carry. She slipped it into a holster that lay flat behind her left hip, put the splint back on, and replaced the navy hooded top with a black sweater and a blazer. The lining of the jacket fell away easily from the leather.

She checked the windows, set the alarm, and locked the door. The air was crisp, and Madison could smell the water behind the trees. She was about to get into her car when she heard the blue-and-white braking softly.

Officer Giordano stepped out. “You need a ride somewhere, Detective?”

“No, thanks.”

“You going to the hospital, by any chance?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn't be any trouble to drop you off. Give your arm a little rest.”

She could drive herself, with difficulty, or she could accept the help and be grateful.

She rode in the back of the patrol car, and when they got to the Northwest Hospital, she thanked Giordano and his partner, and they knew she meant it.

Two officers had been posted downstairs. Madison took the elevator to the ICU. When she got there, she was about to ask the nurse at the reception desk, but she saw the uniform standing at the end of the corridor.

A woman came out of the room; when she turned to Madison, she recognized her eyes and the pale ginger hair.