Murder One (14 page)

“We directed all questions on Vasiliev’s murder through media relations,” Crosswhite added.

Media relations was Etta Kimble, who sat at the table and had also sworn that she had released no information on any suspects, persons of interest, or anything else.

“Well, somebody let them know,” Clarridge said. “And now I have the governor calling, a state senator, and two city council members asking what the hell is going on.” Clarridge’s cheeks had lit up like red Christmas bulbs, a dramatic contrast to his otherwise Slavic complexion.

“Nobody in this unit,” Laub said. “Not a chance.”

Clarridge sat back. “So what
do
we have?”

Crosswhite gave the assembled a detailed accounting of the investigation, something she, Rowe, and Laub had agreed upon prior to the meeting. Rowe tended to get confrontational when questioned about his decisions. Crosswhite, the ex–high school teacher, was used to it.

Rowe’s testiness also stemmed from a lack of sleep. His joints ached, and his hip burned from the lack of rest, and he had a plethora of better things to do than sit in a room pacifying nervous bureaucrats. Before going home, he and Crosswhite had made an extensive to-do list while wolfing down Dick’s hamburgers, fries, and shakes, and the list wasn’t getting any shorter sitting here. They
needed to draft and get out search warrants for Sloane’s and Reid’s businesses and cell phone records. They needed to review the reports summarizing the interviews of Vasiliev’s neighbors and follow up, though they were being told by the interviewing detectives that the neighbors had little information of interest. No one had admitted to being the anonymous telephone caller, or to having made the second and third sets of shoe prints. No one had heard the gunshot. Initial attempts to track the phone used to report a prowler had been unsuccessful as well.

Also on the list were interviews with Sloane’s and Reid’s assistants, colleagues, and neighbors, and Rowe wanted to talk again to the tracker, Kaylee Wright. He’d reviewed the report from the K9 unit that had arrived late in the afternoon of the murder. Freddy, a Belgian Malinois, had alerted to three distinct scents that followed the same trail laid out by Wright, except Freddy did not stop tracking at the single shoe print on the beach. He’d continued twenty yards south. A phone call to the dog’s handler revealed that Freddy had continued to track the person’s scent even after they had entered the water and likely swum parallel to the shore. Harbor Patrol had searched the area at Rowe’s request and reported a wooded public access half a mile from Vasiliev’s home. Rowe wanted Wright to determine whether she could match any shoe prints at that easement with the prints found in Vasiliev’s backyard. They’d already lost a day, and if the access was open to the public, it meant a greater chance that what evidence might have been there had already been destroyed.

“Ms. Reid is a triathlete; she runs, bikes, and swims long distances,” Crosswhite continued. “We’ve confiscated five pairs of running shoes. All size seven. We’re waiting on a further comparison of the soles to determine if any are a match with the print in the sand.”

Wright had said there were two websites containing photographs of the soles of hundreds of different models of shoes. Unlike the automated fingerprint system, there was no automated system to compare and match shoe prints. It had to be done by hand and could be laborious.

“What about the other shoe prints?” Clarridge asked. “Can we eliminate them?”

Crosswhite nodded. “They were not made by the shooter. Dilliard is working on it, but initial reports are that the angles are off. The shooter was the size seven print.”

“Tell me about the ex-husband,” Clarridge said.

When Rowe and Crosswhite interviewed Dr. Felix Oberman in person he had quite the story to tell about his ex-wife. Then again, Reid had pretty much predicted what he would say—blaming her for everything, bitter and angry. Rowe had asked Mayweather to pull the Superior Court file from their divorce and to speak to the attorneys for both parties.

“He’s certain about the statement she made, but the divorce appears to have been acrimonious . . .” Crosswhite considered her choice of words. “Let’s just say that the husband might have his own reasons for being vindictive.”

“What’s her alibi?”

“She has none,” Crosswhite said. “At home in bed, asleep.”

“And this guy Sloane?”

“Initial indications are the other sets of shoe prints are size ten and a half and size twelve. Sloane wears a twelve. We dropped off his shoes early this morning for comparison.”

“And you say Vasiliev threatened him? Threatened to harm his son?”

“Day before,” Crosswhite confirmed.

“Sloane’s a marine,” Rowe added. “I think we can assume he knows how to handle a gun.”

“Does he own one?”

“He says he doesn’t,” Rowe said, “and I found no record that he does.”

Clarridge looked to Cerrabone. “What do you think?”

Cerrabone took up the torch. “I agree that these are inquiries that absolutely have to be pursued,” he said, confirming what Rowe liked so much about the man. Some prosecutors could be namby-pants when it came to charging crimes, but Cerrabone had a pair of cajones, and they had just grown a size larger, in Rowe’s opinion. More than ever, Rowe would need to keep Cerrabone involved in every step of the investigation.

Clarridge reconsidered Rowe and Crosswhite. “You said she’s coming in for a polygraph?”

Rowe looked at his watch. “Within half an hour.”

“I want the results as soon as you have them.” Clarridge pushed back his chair, signaling an end to the meeting.

Sloane stared at his one-inch-square mug shot just below a similar size picture of Barclay Reid—canned shots newspapers kept on file for people in the news. The paper had used the same picture of Sloane in the article reporting Tina’s death. Most people would have glossed over the photographs without interest but for the headline immediately above.

Prominent Seattle Attorneys Questioned in Drug Dealer’s Killing

Sloane had declined Yamaguchi’s request for a comment, pulled off the freeway, and bought a newspaper. The article was cryptic though accurate. Citing an anonymous source, Yamaguchi reported that both Sloane and Reid had been separately questioned but could not be reached for comment. Seattle homicide had further declined to confirm or deny the accuracy of the report. Sloane knew Yamaguchi to be a good reporter and doubted he would have published the story unless the source had been reliable. The question was whom?

Yamaguchi led with the most sensational facts, though he tempered those by also reporting that Reid’s daughter had died of a drug overdose and the federal government had recently conducted an investigation of Vasiliev for dealing narcotics. The implication was that the police could have been questioning Reid because of those circumstances. There was no such excuse provided for Sloane.

Halfway through the article, Sloane’s cell phone rang. Carolyn.

“I’m reading it now,” he said when she told him about the article. She said the phone at the office had been ringing off the hook and that the morning news had aired a short segment.

“Tell anyone who calls I’m not in and won’t be commenting on
the article or on Mr. Vasiliev’s death. And let the security officer in the lobby know no one is to be allowed access to our offices.”

“When will you be in?”

“Later this afternoon.” When he disconnected, he pulled Detective Rowe’s business card from his pants pocket.

Rowe hung up the telephone and downed his second Red Bull of the morning. Crosswhite remained entrenched in a telephone call. When she hung up, he said, “That was Sloane. He saw the article.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Knew nothing about it until the reporter called him this morning to get a comment. He declined. He said he’s not the source and wants to know if we have any idea who is.”

“When is he coming in?”

Rowe tossed the can across the aisle, aiming for Crosswhite’s trash and missing off the rim with a clunk. “On his way. Asked if there was a private entrance in case the anonymous source was someone in the department and a horde of reporters is gathering at the front gates.”

Rowe had told Sloane that was unlikely, but as a concession, he’d advised him to drive around the back of the building and enter the parking garage from Sixth Avenue. He’d agreed to meet Sloane and escort him into the building. That was as private as it would get.

“Good, because that was Mayweather,” Crosswhite said. “One of Sloane’s neighbors says she saw him early yesterday morning in a sweatsuit and that he looked to be out of breath and sweating.”

Rowe retrieved the errant shot. “How early?”

“Around four
A.M.”

Rowe crushed the can. “What’s the neighbor doing up that early?”

“She’s a technician on the morning news for KIRO. She gets up at three-fifteen and leaves her house at four.”

“She got a clear look? She’s positive it was Sloane?”

“She told Mayweather it was still dark when she drove down the street, but she thought it was Sloane.”

“Thought?”

“She said the person was standing by Sloane’s white Cadillac, bent
over, like he was catching his breath, and using his shirt to wipe his face.”

“Or maybe trying to conceal it,” Rowe said.

“She kept watch in her rearview mirror and said the person pulled open the wooden gate and went into Sloane’s yard.”

Rowe dropped the can in the wastebasket. “She ever seen Sloane up that early before?”

“Let’s hope Mayweather thought to ask.”

The phone on Crosswhite’s desk rang. After a few sentences, she hung up. “She’s here,” she said, meaning Reid. “I’ll bring her up.”

Crosswhite met Barclay Reid in the lobby off the Fifth Avenue and Cherry Street entrance. No horde of reporters waited to hurl questions at them. Reid signed in at the security desk, and Crosswhite led her to the bank of elevators.

“I assume you saw the article in the newspaper?” Reid asked, sounding testy.

Crosswhite nodded.

“Any idea of the anonymous source?”

Crosswhite shook her head. “You?”

“It’s not exactly something I would advertise, Detective.”

“Nor would we.”

Crosswhite led Reid from the elevator through the halls. The polygraph examiner, anticipating a test that morning, had already set out signs advising others that a test was in progress and requesting quiet. Unlike the hard—or even the soft—interrogation rooms, the anteroom outside the two rooms where the polygraph tests were administered was all about comfort—an open space with leather chairs, a potted plant, soft lighting. The goal was to put the examinee at ease. It was a fallacy that a polygraph detected a person lying. What it tracked was a person’s physiological responses, their breathing and heart rate while answering questions. The calming atmosphere was intended to minimize any argument that the environment had caused anxiety. For the same reason, the examinee was provided the questions in advance—to eliminate argument that a question had been a surprise and falsely registered as an elevated physiological
response. The examiner started with simple control questions, such as asking name and date and place of birth. This established a baseline physiological response. After having established a baseline, the examiner could measure the elevation in the person’s physiological response to a particular question, as well as the decrease in tension after the person answered it.

If Reid were the least bit intimidated or nervous, she hid it well. Attired in a navy blue pin-striped suit with a cream-colored blouse and a strand of pearls, she walked into the anteroom with her arm outstretched and greeted the examiner like a fellow attorney before a deposition. “Let’s get started,” she said.

The file dropped from above, landing with a thud. Rowe jerked back from the computer screen, nearly knocking his coffee mug off the edge.

“What the fuck, Bernie?”

Bernie Hamilton’s grin stretched his thick black mustache from cheek to cheek. With dark curly hair and black-framed glasses, he looked like a guy at a costume party wearing a Groucho Marx disguise. “Christina Anne Sloane,” he said.

Rowe opened the file. “The wife? What does it say?”

“Says she’s still dead. Hey, did I tell you this one? Knock knock.”

“I got the husband coming in any minute, Bernie. What does the file say?”

Hamilton thrust his hands into his pockets. “Home invasion. Sloane gave a statement. Said he was in his office late when a man suddenly appeared in the doorway with a gun. Sloane and the guy got into it, and Sloane took a bullet in the thigh and one in the shoulder. The wife came down the stairs, and the guy shot her once in the chest. The son called nine-one-one.”

“How old was the kid?”

“I believe it says fourteen.”

“Did he confirm the shooter?”

Hamilton nodded. “Said the shooter pointed the gun at him but fled when he heard the sirens.”

Rowe studied the file. “They never caught the guy?”

“Nope.”

“No known motivation for the break-in?”

Hamilton shook his head. “Sloane has had a series of high-profile cases. He’s no stranger to controversy. He represented the family of that National Guardsman a few years back. You remember? He took down that chemical company . . . what was its name?”

“Argus,” Rowe said, continuing to review the file.

“Right. Argus International. And Northcutt had to resign. That I was glad about, he was a prick—”

“He had a gun.”

“That’s usually where bullets come from, Sparrow,” Hamilton said, but Rowe had stopped listening.

Sloane wiped the ink from each of his fingertips with an alcohol swab.

“You mind if I ask you a few more questions?” Rowe had sat through the fingerprinting process. Sloane didn’t think he was being friendly.

“The newspaper seems to think I’m a suspect, Detective.”

“They didn’t get that from me or anyone in this unit.”

“Am I a suspect?”

Rowe folded his arms across his chest. “You’re a lawyer, Mr. Sloane. I’m not going to bullshit you; you can figure it out. You were in Barclay Reid’s home and had access to her gun the morning before Vasiliev was shot. The gun is missing. Vasiliev threatened you and your family.”