Murder One (19 page)

“I had a couple of beers,” Joshua volunteered, not waiting for his father’s permission, his voice defiant.

Ordinarily, Rowe would have asked the witness to accompany them to the Justice Center to consider a montage of photographs, but he had deduced that asking the Blumes to do so for Joshua’s trip
down memory lane would be far enough outside Richard Blume’s controlled environment to get him to follow through on his desire to call his attorney. Legally, there was not much a lawyer could do, but that never stopped some from becoming as big a pain in the ass as possible.

“We’ll bring back some pictures tonight for you to consider, if that’s all right,” Crosswhite said, letting Rowe know they were on the same page. They would keep things within the comfort of the Blume castle walls as long as they could.

“That would be fine,” Richard said.

Rowe looked at Crosswhite, only one more question to ask, and they both knew it. Crosswhite nodded. Rowe sat forward.

“Joshua, this person you saw . . . Can you tell us if it was a man or a woman?”

C
AMANO
I
SLAND
W
ASHINGTON

Charles Jenkins entered from the garage, about to drop his keys on the counter, when he saw the ghostly silhouette at the sliding-glass door and didn’t want to disturb the image. Bare-chested and barefoot, his pull-up diaper sagging almost to the floor, CJ stood in the fading light with one hand on the glass, the other holding a bottle. Head tilted back, bottle angled, he sucked on the nipple as he watched his mother hose off the patio furniture. Water dripped down the glass, and Jenkins deduced why even before Alex turned and shot a blast from the hose, causing CJ to slap the glass, stiff legs dancing with delight, and emit a sound of pure pleasure.

Who was Jenkins to judge?

When Alex had told him she loved him, his first thought had been it would never work. Midfifties, he was twenty-five years her senior. He liked the Rolling Stones and the Beatles; she listened to Sting and Tom Petty. He had been drafted and spent thirteen months in a hellhole in Southeast Asia. She had graduated from college and backpacked through the same country on vacation. No one would have given them two minutes, let alone two years. And yet it had worked
somehow. When she told him she wanted a child, he had the same doubts: thinking how stupid he’d look at the school events, everyone believing he was the child’s grandparent, not possibly his father. But next to Alex, CJ had been the single greatest joy of his life. That, too, had worked, despite the odds.

So who was he to judge?

Jenkins made a loud raspberry with his tongue and lips. CJ startled, and turned, wide-eyed. When he saw his father, he beamed, the nipple stuck between his teeth. “Wa-ter,” he said, slapping at the window. “Wa-ter.”

Jenkins picked him up and felt the significant weight of his pull-up, another indication that CJ had been banished to the house after he got his clothes soaking wet. With the sun going down, the temperature had dropped. They watched Alex together. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and wisps of curls hung free about her face. She wore Dolfin running shorts and her pink skintight running top with the zipper, the one Jenkins loved to slowly unzip and watch her breasts emerge. With the suds running down her forearms and thighs, it reminded him of the scene in the movie
Cool Hand Luke
when the woman washed her car wearing only a sundress while dozens of inmates cleared weeds along the road.

He tapped on the glass with his wedding ring. Seeing him, Alex shot another blast. CJ squealed and threw his bottle, then, alarmed to have lost it, he reached down, squirming. Jenkins lowered him to the ground and watched his son hurry off in a stiff-legged gallop to retrieve his bottle.

As Jenkins slid open the door and stepped onto the patio, Alex turned and pointed the nozzle, causing him to flinch. “Don’t!” She laughed and gave Jenkins a short mist.

“Are you hosing me down
before
I even try anything?”

She held the nozzle at her side like a gunslinger. “On the count a three, I’m a-gonna draw, partner. And I don’t mean draw with a pencil.” She chortled, the way she did when she found herself funny.

“You’re getting a big kick out of yourself, aren’t you?” he said.

“Somebody has to.”

He walked closer. “You know I think you’re funny.”

She whipped the nozzle at him. “Back off. You’re not touching this zipper until I finish the patio furniture.”

“Why so motivated?”

“I gave the dogs a bath.” The dogs lay sprawled in the grass where a patch of sun still remained amid the shadows. “So I decided since I had everything out that I’d tackle the deck, too. Help me with the table.”

He helped her turn over the table, then stepped back as she soaped and hosed down the underside.

“Did you talk to David?” She wrung out the sponge and looked over at him.

Jenkins had not just stopped by Sloane’s house to find out what had happened at the Justice Center. He had information. Alex had checked with the organization that held the event at the Rainier Club, the one at which Sloane had been the speaker. Barclay Reid had not preregistered for the dinner; she had provided the organization with a credit-card number that day. By itself, it meant little, but it bothered Jenkins, who didn’t believe in coincidences.

“He loves her, Alex.”

She put the sponge on one of the chairs. “Are you sure?”

“He said he did. And they sure looked like it.”

“She was there?”

“In her birthday suit. Him, too. In the kitchen.”

She covered her smile with her hand. “Tell me you did
not
walk in on them.”

“It’s not funny,” he said, though he laughed.

Alex removed her hand, no longer smiling. “You didn’t tell him . . .”

Jenkins shook his head. “He’s happy, Alex. For the first time since Tina’s death, he seems happy.”

T
HREE
T
REE
P
OINT
B
URIEN
, W
ASHINGTON

Summer in Seattle, Sloane had concluded, was the reason people in the Northwest tolerated the nine miserable months of gray and rain.
God must have chosen Seattle to spend His summers; there was no other way to describe the beauty that befell the place almost immediately after July Fourth. The snowcapped Olympic Mountains to the west looked close enough to touch, and the water brightened from a bland gray to a sparkling blue, with everything beneath a great dome Michelangelo could not have painted better.

Barclay minced cloves of fresh garlic on a chopping block, wearing one of Sloane’s red Stanford-basketball T-shirts. Jake had attended a camp at the school in the summer and had given Sloane the shirt. It extended to Barclay’s midthigh.

They had spent a lazy afternoon reading books in the two Adirondack lawn chairs. Then Sloane had driven to the grocery store with a list of ingredients for dinner, a necessity if they expected to eat. Since Tina’s death, the contents of his refrigerator had ranged between bare and almost bare.

He felt the comforting glow from the red wine as he bent to manipulate the radio, pausing on the Mariners baseball game, hoping to catch the score. He caught the tail end of an inning, the third out, and as they went to station break the announcer informed that the Mariners led the Angels, 5–3. He switched to FM and channel-surfed until he recognized a song by Green Day, a band Jake favored.

“Don’t you want to listen to the game?”

He refilled her glass of wine. “I’ll catch the score later on the news.”

The sound of the knife hitting the wood block stopped. “Warm summer night, screen door open, steaks on the barbecue. Perfect night to listen to baseball.”

“You’re a fan?” he asked.

She mocked him, wide-eyed. “Oh my God! A girl who likes baseball!” She continued mincing. “My father used to take me to the Kingdome. And the firm has a suite at Safeco.”

“A suite? I knew I liked you for a reason.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck.

She reached behind, massaging the back of his head. “Be nice to me, and I just might take you to a game.” He let his hands wander but she squirmed free. “Uh-uh. We have work to do.”

He kissed her neck. “We could eat later.”

“You’ll be busy later.” She slapped him lightly across the cheek with a bundle of parsley, then handed it to him. “Chop.”

As Sloane set to the task, she scooped the garlic with the knife and lifted the lid on the pot to add it to the sauce. The room filled with the aroma of tomatoes simmering. “What did your friend want?” she asked.

Sloane looked up from the parsley. “Charlie? Nothing important. He’s working on another case in the office, a prevailing-wage claim. He just stopped by on his way home.”

“What does he think about us?” Sloane didn’t have a ready answer. “He’s worried, isn’t he?”

“He’s my friend. He wants what’s best for me.”

She continued chopping. “Everyone needs a friend like that. You’ll let me know, won’t you?”

He looked over at her. “Let you know what?”

“If it’s moving too fast. If you’re not ready.”

“I’ll let you know,” he said, and stepped toward her, stopping when he heard the doorbell ring.

THIRTEEN

K
ING
C
OUNTY
J
AIL
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

T
he walls seeped the dull malaise of institutionalization—muted grays, opaque yellow lighting, and spartan furnishings.

The feeling of institutionalization and claustrophobia increased as Sloane ventured farther into the jail. When he stepped from the elevator onto the seventh floor, the Psych Unit for those never before incarcerated, he covered his mouth and nose, the pungent smell a cross between the rot of food and the smell of urine in a public bathroom poorly masked by disinfectant and deodorant cakes. Though he stood in a glass foyer, it did little to mute the incoherent screams and shouts of the inmates milling about in red jumpsuits.

He hated the thought that Barclay was among them.

An hour earlier, when Sloane had pulled open his front door, Detectives Rowe and Crosswhite had flashed their identifications as if they’d never met. Whereas Rowe had previously entered Sloane’s home polite, even a bit apologetic, this time he looked like a man who had been hard at a task and cocksure he was about to accomplish his mission.

When Barclay walked from the kitchen into the living room, holding the wooden spoon above the pot of spaghetti sauce, Rowe wasted no time advising Reid she was under arrest for the murder of Filyp Vasiliev.

After the initial shock, Sloane had stepped forward. “Wait a minute.”

But Rowe would have none of it, warning Sloane not to interfere or he would arrest him for obstruction. Rowe was not to be reasoned or argued with; the time for debate had long since passed. Rowe had already moved to action.

Crosswhite read Reid her Miranda rights and accompanied her upstairs to change clothes. When Reid emerged, she wore the blue-gray pin-striped suit. She had removed her contacts and put on glasses. Rowe asked her to turn around and applied handcuffs.

After Rowe and Crosswhite escorted Reid to their car, Sloane called Carolyn at home, instructing her to find John Kannin. Then he threw a change of clothes in his gym bag, locked the house, and left for downtown, uncertain when he might be back.

If I had known he was going to walk, I would have just put a bullet in him and been done with it
.

Sloane hadn’t believed Barclay capable when she’d made the statement and still didn’t, but he hoped he never had to tell Rowe or a prosecutor she had said it.

Sloane pushed a button on another call box and informed the guards in a raised circular tower that he was there to visit Barclay Reid. A guard directed Sloane to a booth with thick glass separation.

“I want a visit face-to-face,” Sloane said, continuing to follow Pendergrass’s instructions. He’d called Tom Pendergrass on the drive to the jail. A military lawyer before joining Sloane’s practice, Pendergrass had handled several small criminal cases and gave Sloane as much assistance as he could over the phone. He’d offered to come to the jail, but Sloane had declined, telling Pendergrass he would call later.

A guard led Sloane to a windowless room no bigger than a broom closet with battleship-gray walls, a square table, and two plastic chairs.

“Leave the door open,” the guard said.

“How long can I stay?”

“How much money did you put in the parking meter?” When Sloane didn’t respond, the guard said, “As long as you want; we’re open twenty-four/seven.”

After several minutes, he heard footsteps. Barclay shuffled in
between two officers, her hands cuffed to a chain belt around her waist. She wore slippers, a red jumpsuit, and her black-framed glasses.

“Can those be removed?” Sloane asked, referring to the handcuffs.

The officers said no, then departed, leaving the door open.

Sloane struggled to project calm though he continued to feel lost in a system with which he had no prior experience. “Are you all right?” It sounded feeble and stupid under the circumstances.

Reid’s gaze shifted to one of the walls. She sighed audibly. “I have to know.” She looked at him. “I have to know that you believe me, David. I have to know that you have no doubt, because right now I need someone to believe in me. Otherwise, I am going to go stark raving mad.”

Sloane knew she felt as he did, a person used to being in control suddenly without any.

“I told you, I believe you.” Sloane took one of her hands, which was cold to the touch and they sat knees to knees. She looked pale, but it could have been the lighting. “You didn’t talk to anyone?”

She shook her head. “Who could have taken it, David? Who would—”

“Barclay, stop.” Her brow furrowed. “You can’t tell me anything,” he said. “Not anything that could be evidence.”

“What? Why not?”

“There’s no privilege.” He didn’t need to explain that the law accorded a privilege to communications between certain relationships: lawyer and client, physician and patient, husband and wife, even clergy and penitent. Sloane did not fit any of those. “If they subpoena me, I’d have to tell them anything you say.”