Murder One (8 page)

T
HREE
T
REE
P
OINT
B
URIEN
, W
ASHINGTON

Sloane exited the Cadillac and wiped beads of perspiration dripping down his face with the front of his sweatshirt. He heard a car engine and lowered the shirt in time to see a Volvo station wagon roll through the intersection, unconcerned about other cars at four in the morning. The neighbor down the block worked for one of the local television stations. No one else in his right mind would be awake and up this early.

Sloane pushed through the gate in the hedge and trudged up the back steps, his legs leaden. Just inside the door, he hung the keys on the life-size cardboard cutout of Larry Bird, Celtic legend, and filled the kettle with water, putting it on a lit burner. He retrieved a ceramic mug—world’s best dad, a birthday gift from Jake—and set it on the counter, then pulled down the box of tea and set a bag inside the mug. He pulled a cup from the shelf and filled it with tap water. He had drunk half the glass when he felt his throat constrict. He gagged and dropped the cup into the sink. The muscles of his stomach contracted, and he threw up the water, then endured half a dozen dry heaves.

He gripped the counter, trying again to catch his breath. The vomiting began not long after he returned to Three Tree Point following Tina’s death, a physical manifestation, he assumed, of his guilt and anxiety. Research on the Internet said such things were often associated with PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder. The first time had been a Friday afternoon, Sloane’s first trip back to the Tin Room. He had taken a seat toward the back, sipping a beer, trying to relax but unable to slow his mind or get rid of the image of Tina standing on the steps, calling out to him just before her chest exploded in a red bloom. The image flickered and clicked in his head like a movie reel
in constant rewind. He had gagged, began to retch, and barely made it into the alley before throwing up.

On the drive home, he had passed the St. Francis of Assisi church. Raised with no faith, Sloane had never been religious, but shortly after they moved to Three Tree Point he began attending mass with Tina and Jake. He hadn’t experienced any epiphanies; it had been a way to spend more time as a family. He parked and went into the church alone and sat in the pew staring up at the cross. Every so often a person would step from one of three doors at the side of the church, and another would enter, mostly older women. After about half an hour, when there was no one left in line, the middle of the three doors opened and Father Allen, the young Catholic priest whom Sloane knew through Tina and Jake, stepped out. If Allen was surprised to find Sloane in the pew, he didn’t show it. He asked how Sloane was coping, what he was doing to keep busy, and sought details about Jake’s life in California.

Sloane returned the following Friday, but neither the priest nor anyone else entered or exited the three doors. A woman at the rectory informed him that the three doors were the confessional and available only the third Friday of the month. Father Allen, she said, was in the schoolyard.

Sloane found the curly-haired priest wearing shorts that extended to his knees and high-top tennis shoes, shooting a basketball. When Allen tossed Sloane the ball, Sloane buried a jump shot from the top of the key. When Sloane buried a second shot, the priest challenged him to a game of horse, which Sloane lost. Horse led to what started as a friendly game of one-on-one that became a battle that left Allen, fifteen years Sloane’s junior, the victor and both men spent. The pickup games became part basketball, part counseling. During one of the games, Father Allen got down to the crux of their discussions. “You wanted to kill him,” he said, meaning Stenopolis.

“I thought I did.”

“And you’re wondering if that makes you a bad person to have those kinds of thoughts.”

“Does it?” Sloane had never given the concepts of heaven and hell much thought, but now, with Tina gone, he wondered.

“Thoughts of revenge are natural, David. You suffered a great loss, a great injustice. You wanted someone to pay for it. But always remember, it’s our actions that define us, not our thoughts, and even then God will forgive those who seek His forgiveness.”

“What about an eye for an eye? I thought I read that somewhere.”

“That’s the Old Testament. That was not Christ’s message.
Love
was his message. Even your enemies.”

“I’m afraid that’s not something I can bring myself to do.”

“Most of us find it a hard concept.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then you’ll be like ninety-nine-point-nine percent of us. Imperfect.” That caused Sloane to smile. “You’re not alone. You only think you are.”

“I don’t have your faith, Allen. The only time I’ve ever really prayed was when Tina was dying, and that didn’t turn out too well.”

“And what about when you punished this man? Did that make you feel any better?”

“No.”

“And do you think it would have if you had pulled the trigger?”

“You’re asking . . . if I had the chance, the chance to do it again . . . would I pull the trigger?”

The kettle on the stove whistled.

EIGHT

L
AURELHURST
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

A
crowd loitering in the street of an upscale neighborhood before dawn would normally generate police interest, but in this case, police interest had generated the crowd. Rowe had put everything on hold to prepare a search warrant, a necessity since he could not be certain the victim lived alone, and therefore he could not rule out if anyone else had a privacy interest in the residence. With the sleeves of his windbreaker pulled up his forearms, Rowe continued to hunt-and-peck on the laptop keyboard balanced on his knees, the screen a blue-white glow. At least he wasn’t lonely. Three CSI detectives, women dressed like triplets in black BDU cargo pants and black T-shirts and vests with gold letters proclaiming crime scene investigator on the back, sipped coffee and waited. The detective team next up in the rotation had also arrived, though Rowe had directed them to canvass the neighborhood, photograph license plates, and talk with the neighbors to determine if one of them had made the anonymous call or had seen or heard anything.

Rowe didn’t think so.

Normal cell phones registered the number with dispatch, making it a simple matter to run a reverse directory to get a name and address. But dispatch had indicated that the number of the anonymous caller was not registered, which meant the caller had likely used a disposable TracFone, which could be bought for ten dollars at almost any store.

Why?

Rowe had written that word in his notebook along with a reminder to determine if they could trace the phone to a particular retail store. If so, they could check sales receipts to determine whether the buyer used a credit card. Fat chance. The store might also have a video camera that recorded the transaction, including a beautifully clear picture of the purchaser. Even fatter chance. Rowe had also made a note to determine if they could use cell phone towers to triangulate the call to at least determine the GPS coordinates when the call was made.

Crosswhite approached. “He’s the only registered owner. Three in the morning. If someone else lived here, you’d expect to find them home.”

Rowe drafted the subpoena with that assumption. He wanted it as broad as possible, because his initial impression—shot fired through the sliding-glass door—was that the forensic evidence would be minimal. However, if Vasiliev had been moving large quantities of heroin and using his used-car businesses to launder the proceeds, he had to have kept records to account for the shipments and the money. Rowe had learned from his time on the narcotics unit that the drug trade was a cash business, and distributors like Vasiliev had suppliers and distributors to pay. If he had been executed, and it certainly appeared that way, Rowe wanted to spread a wide net to identify the man’s known business associates. Maybe someone would talk.

“Is that the search warrant?” Rowe looked up at the sound of a familiar voice and watched Rick Cerrabone make his way down the driveway wearing a blue and red Boston Red Sox cap.

Rowe made a dramatic gesture to check his watch. “Nice team spirit, Morty,” he said, borrowing a line from his favorite Bill Murray movie,
Meatballs
.

“Some of us need more beauty sleep,” Cerrabone said. “I’d recommend a week for you, Sparrow.”

“Everyone’s a comedian this morning.”

Cerrabone, a King County senior prosecuting attorney, was a member of the Prosecutor’s MDOP unit. The Most Dangerous Offenders Program had been started to involve the county’s most experienced prosecutors in the earliest stages of violent crime investigations.
Some detectives weren’t thrilled to have an attorney peeking over their shoulders. Rowe had been one of them until a four-month stint sitting beside Cerrabone at a homicide trial gave him an appreciation of what Cerrabone and his colleagues were up against. It didn’t take much for an enterprising defense attorney to exploit even the most insignificant mistake and blow it up to look like grievous police misconduct. Involving the prosecutor early in the game was intended to minimize those mistakes.

Rowe smiled. “Yankees ever going to win another pennant, Rick?”

Cerrabone shifted the hat back, revealing a bald spot. “Fucking Red Sox.”

Cerrabone’s language became more colorful and his Brooklyn accent more distinct when he discussed anything Boston. A diehard Yankees fan who resembled the former skipper, Joe Torre, with his thinning hair, high forehead, hangdog eyes, and perpetual five o’clock shadow, Cerrabone had somehow managed to marry an equally diehard Red Sox fan—a clerk for the Superior Court.

“Dustin Pedroia? Are you kidding me? The guy had a career year. He’ll never sniff those numbers again.”

The annual bet was widely known around the courthouse. The spouse whose team finished lower in the pennant race had to wear the other team’s hat for one solid week, night and day, Cerrabone’s court appearances being the only exception.

Crosswhite provided Cerrabone with a five-minute snapshot of the crime scene and Vasiliev’s likely ties to the local heroin trade. Cerrabone reached for the laptop. “Let me take a look.”

Rowe stepped aside and stretched his back, walking out the kink in his hip, which burned despite the ibuprofen. He could feel his shirt sticking to his chest.

“Tell me something,” Crosswhite said to Rowe. “How many people in this neighborhood would know that when you call in a gunshot, especially on a night with thunder, you might get a patrol out here within the hour?”

They were starting to think alike. A common misconception among the public was that a report of gunshots would bring a cavalry of police. In reality, such calls were common and usually false
alarms. The police had become somewhat desensitized. Call in a prowler, however, and the response could be instantaneous. That and an anonymous caller on an untraceable cell phone made the situation unusual.

Cerrabone handed him the laptop. “Looks good . . . broad. I’m not sure you’ll get the computer records.”

“Who are you thinking about calling?” Rowe asked.

The judge who issued the warrant was automatically disqualified from being the trial judge on the case, if it ever got that far. So the PA ordinarily didn’t want to burn one of his first trial-judge choices. But in this instance, they were also seeking a search warrant broader in scope than normal, and Cerrabone would want a judge predisposed to granting expansive searches.

After discussing a few names, Cerrabone said, “Let’s call O’Neil.”

Rowe attached the recording device to his cell phone, plugged in the earpiece, and called Judge Thomas O’Neil’s cell phone. When the judge answered, he apologized for the hour and explained the circumstances. O’Neil swore him in as the affiant of the facts to justify issuing the warrant, and Rowe read what he had typed, including the time of the 911 call to dispatch, the fact that the residence was registered only to Vasiliev, and everything Adderley had related. Then he got to the request.

“I am requesting a warrant to search the residence for firearms, weapons, and bills and receipts.” And now the reach. “I am also seeking all computers and business records located inside the residence.”

“Computer records?” O’Neil’s voice sounded like a smoker’s, deep and brusque from the early hour. “What for?”

“The victim was recently the subject of a federal investigation for trafficking in narcotics. Heroin.”

“What was the outcome, Detective?”

“The matter is unresolved.”

“And the reason you want the computer records?”

“Given the manner in which the victim was killed, Your Honor, I would like to pursue known associates. I think this could have been an execution related to the victim’s involvement in narcotics. Forensic evidence is likely to be minimal.”

“Alleged involvement.”

“Alleged involvement. But I believe it to be a logical theory to pursue based on the physical evidence.”

Rowe looked to Cerrabone, who shrugged.

After nearly a minute, O’Neil said, “All right, Detective. I’m orally granting the search warrant. Have a written copy sent to my chambers today, and I’ll sign it.”

Rowe disconnected the call, shut off the recorder, and removed the earpiece. “We’re in,” he said.

U
NITED
S
TATES
A
TTORNEY
’
S
O
FFICE
F
EDERAL
B
UILDING
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

The last time Sloane had been in the green-copper-trim Federal Building, it had led to the forced resignation of the secretary of defense. He held no such lofty expectations from his visit this morning. Reid had set up a meeting with Assistant U.S. Attorney Rebecca Han to discuss the Vasiliev investigation. Sloane thought it best to meet Han alone so she could be as forthright as possible.

After greeting Sloane in the lobby, Han led him to her office on the fifth floor—small, utilitarian, and cluttered. A stack of files teetered on the edge of her desk, the shelving units equally well stacked.