The Gift of the Darkness (32 page)

Chapter 33

Sunday morning, early enough to order food and call it breakfast. Amy Sorensen stepped into the diner and looked around for Madison, who sat at the counter with a cup of coffee and a notebook spread open in front of her. Madison wore black jeans and a black sweater; the outfit made her look pale, but her eyes were bright, and she smiled when she saw her. Sorensen noticed the leather holster under her blazer, the her weapon on her left side now.

They moved to a booth and ordered. Sorensen was just coming off her shift when she called Madison, waking her from a brief sleep, because for what they had to discuss, they needed a face-to-face. Madison had welcomed the chance to get out of the house, and the drive had been tricky but not impossible. Halfway through she had taken the splint off her arm and thrown it behind her onto the backseat.

Sorensen looked her over. “Nice stitches,” she said. “An inch lower and you could have had a pirate thing going.”

Madison smiled—she felt about ten years older since the last time they had seen each other. Then the smile went away. “Brown's still on the ventilator.”

“I know. I called the hospital earlier.”

They didn't need to say any more about it; they both cared about the man who was fighting for his life. The waitress brought them their order: French toast and bacon for Madison and a fruit salad for Sorensen.

I met Cameron last night. Nice fellow, good runner.
Madison took a bite of toast—everything tasted like cardboard. She liked Sorensen, and her opinion mattered a great deal to her, but what she was about to say might drive a wedge between them that their friendship would never completely recover from. A CSU investigator worships at the altar of forensic evidence, and Madison was about to pick up a hammer and smash the thing to bits.

“I heard about your meeting with Fynn.” Sorensen had never been big on chitchat. “It was all over the department, and there was a lot of bull about you saying the evidence was
tainted
.” The word itself was distasteful. “I'm here to hear your side and make sure you haven't lost your fucking mind. And, by the way, the blood in the Explorer matches the hairs in Sinclair's ligature.”

Madison had never heard Sorensen swear; in her crisp tones it was the equivalent of somebody else putting their fist through a window. It was simple: if the case against Cameron went to trial, Sorensen would be right there batting for Homicide.

“I don't want the complete history of the universe from the big bang; just give me the bullet points.”

“Fair enough,” Madison replied. “The hairs in the ligature—Brown asked you to run a check a couple of days ago. I'm going to tell you what you found, and we'll take it from there.”

“Shoot.”

Madison sat back in her seat. “Glue.”

Sorensen looked up from her food, and Madison knew she had her, and she went on, “You've found trace residue of an adhesive, possibly the kind used in your everyday Scotch tape. Also a cleaning agent in a minute quantity, sodium hypochlorite, bleach—you can find it under any kitchen sink. A tiny amount and concentrated at the tip of the hair, nowhere near the end holding the DNA.” She paused. “How am I doing so far?”

Sorensen had finished the tests herself two hours ago, and nobody else had had access to the results. She took a sip of coffee, and her eyes stayed on Madison's.

“So far so good. The hairs were washed in a very mild solution of water and bleach after they came into contact with the adhesive.”

Madison blew air out of her cheeks. “Excellent. It's what I was hoping for.”

“I'd say it was a pretty damn good guess. How did you get to glue and bleach? Neither was present in the immediate vicinity of the crime scene or the victims' bodies.”

“What you heard about me saying that the evidence was tainted—I never said that. What I said, what I think, is that someone manipulated the evidence.”

“Stop right there: you know that if I'm questioned by Quinn under oath, this conversation is going to make his day.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that in the last thirty-six hours—”

“You think this is funny?”

“Not yet, but it's getting there. You check it out yourself: every item recovered from the crime scene that carries John Cameron's fingerprints or DNA could have been brought
into
the house by someone else. We didn't find any prints on the bodies, on the furniture, on the kitchen surfaces. Nothing on objects that could not be dropped in, like a bedside table; everything we have could fit into a bag. Still, supposedly, he took off his gloves to pick up a glass and left it there for us to find.”

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“Not this week it isn't.”

Sorensen wasn't going to be turned quite so easily. “How did you get to glue and bleach?”

“Pull up your sleeve.”

“Why?”

“Indulge me.”

Sorensen rolled her eyes and pulled up the sleeve of her flannel shirt. Madison put her hand on Sorensen's bare forearm, leaned
forward as if to say something, and her other hand bumped the tall plastic tumbler of water. A little water spilled over the table, and they both dabbed at it with paper napkins.

Madison picked up her fork and speared a piece of bacon. “All done.”

“All done what?”

Madison raised her hand. Around her two middle fingers, like a child's pretend rings, two small clear circles of tape, on them a couple of fine blond hairs from Sorensen's arm. “The glue comes from the adhesive; the bleach is how he tried to wash off the glue without damaging the follicle and the DNA.”

Sorensen pulled her sleeve down.

“Did you feel the tape?” Madison asked her.

“I felt something, but if that's the only problem, it can be fixed with a big enough diversion.”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

Sorensen shook her head. “Neat trick. Do you think it'll work in court?”

“Did I give you something to think about?”

“You haven't given me a motive.”

There was no way around that one. “I don't have one yet. I've been having the same conversation over and over for the last forty-eight hours. Sometimes I do think I have lost my mind.”

“Do you feel strongly enough about it you're going to pin your career on it?”

“I'm looking for Brown's shooter, and it's not Cameron.”

“That's not what Ballistics says.”

“Ballistics says it's the same .22 that shot the Sinclairs. We don't have the weapon, we don't have Cameron's prints on the weapon, and we don't have a positive gunshot-residue test that says he shot the weapon.”

“Cameron is a killer,” Sorensen said quietly.

“I never said he wasn't,” Madison replied.

For a minute or two neither spoke. They finished their food and drank their coffees.

“We had a call this morning,” Sorensen said. “I don't know why I'm telling you this, because it has no connection whatsoever with the case. A private investigator called very early today—he calls us on a Sunday—to ask whether we're holding the paperwork for a homicide that happened a few years ago upstate, in the Bones. The name of the victim was George Pathune, and as it happens, it wasn't our jurisdiction at the time, so he wasted his dime. However, the name of the PI is Tod Hollis; we've crossed paths before, and his main client is Quinn, Locke & Associates, specifically Nathan Quinn. I thought you might like to know that.”

“No connection whatsoever with this case?”

“You're the one with the bright ideas.”

“Quinn has a PI looking into a prison death?”

“So it seems.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.”

“Thank you. I mean that,” Madison said.

“I haven't decided whether I should wish you luck or not,” Sorensen admitted.

Madison shrugged on her jacket. “Take another crack at it—that's all I'm asking.”

They stood outside Brown's room. “I've seen people come back who looked much worse,” Fynn said to Madison and possibly to himself. “There's media outside; they'll be on you faster than you can spit.”

“I have nothing to say to them.”

“It's never stopped them before. By the way, I'll have the Sinclair keys in my hand by end of shift today, right?”

“No problem.”

“I didn't think it would be. Do you need someone to get your car for you?”

“No, thank you. I'll go now.” She turned back as she was leaving. “How are Spencer and Dunne doing?”

Fynn didn't know Spencer had told her about the lead on Cameron's boat.

“They're working it,” he replied, revealing nothing except for the hollow place between them.

“Good,” Madison said, and she felt a sudden, biting sadness. Neither was going to say any more about anything.

Madison took the elevator to the ground floor. As she walked down the corridor, a door opened to her left, and a nurse came out, closing it behind her. The pungent hit of chloroform found Madison and stopped her where she was. Her body recognized it for what it was: the smell of the man who had tried to kill them. She looked around: nobody was paying attention. A cold sweat broke out, and her heart was drumming fast.
What the hell
. It was hard to breathe. There was a small sofa a few steps ahead, and she found it and sat on it and put her head between her knees, dark spots before her eyes.

The blue fabric had a checkered pattern, the texture rough under the damp palms of her hands. Madison closed her eyes.
It's only chemistry. I'm fine. It's nothing but an automatic reaction to stress, Breathe slowly. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three . . .

“Are you feeling all right?”

Madison looked up: the nurse was standing by her side. She was in her twenties, Japanese-American, and pretty, an electric-blue streak in her jet-black hair held back in a ponytail.

“I need a minute.”

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“I can get it.”

“Stay where you are.”

She came back with a paper cup. “What happened to you?”

“It was nothing. I just got a little dizzy.”

The nurse eyed her cut and bruises. “Do you want to see a doctor?”

“No, it's not necessary. Thank you.”

Ten minutes later, a half dozen camera lights came on as she walked out the glass front doors. She made for her car with her head down and managed to reach it without having to physically remove anybody from her path. As she eyed the pack in her rearview mirror, she almost wished she'd had to.

Madison bought as many Sunday newspapers as she could find at a stand on Sixth Avenue and drove home. She thought of George Pathune and how his murder fit into the case, and before she knew it, she was turning into her drive.

She dropped the bundle of newspapers onto the table in the living room and drew the curtains wide open. Alice Madison had never had a panic attack in her life: what had happened in the hospital was a kind of post-traumatic-stress reaction, that's all. No need to get worked up about it; anybody who's ever been assaulted goes through it on some level. It was to be expected.

Madison had a degree in psychology and could rationalize the hell out of it, but what bothered her the most, what made her mad enough to wish she could have picked a fight with a reporter, was the shot of fear that had coursed through her when she had smelled the chloroform.

Madison needed clarity, and if she wasn't quite there yet, she wanted light. She turned on every switch. She put on a pot of coffee and waited for it in the kitchen with
the Times
. Front page, an unbelievably young photograph of Brown from his days in uniform, next to a snapshot of the Sinclairs, all victims shot by the same gun and by the same man. John Cameron. His ancient arrest photograph was also on the front page, together with a couple of the sketches they had shown around Sea-Tac airport.

Till now he had been very careful and very lucky, but with this kind of exposure, Madison didn't know how long he would last out there. Fynn was right about one thing: if they were going to take Cameron down, it wouldn't be dainty.

The doorbell rang as she was going back to the table, a mug in one hand and the paper under her bad arm. She wasn't expecting anyone, and Rachel would call before dropping by. Madison did not rush: she placed the cup on a side table and the paper next to it. She let the doorbell ring once more and looked through the peephole. One guy, forties, glasses, shirt and tie under a windbreaker.
I can take him
, Madison said to herself, because she needed the small joke. She opened the door, and the man smiled warmly.

“Detective Madison, so good to meet you. I'm Fred Tully from the
Star
. Do you have a couple of minutes?” He was still smiling.

This was the worm who had splashed the details of the case all over his paper; OPR was still itching to find a leak in the department. She looked him over, her temper rising.

He continued. “I've been to the hospital. The doctors say—”

Madison lifted one finger, and his voice sort of petered out. She stared a hole through him.

“You've got to be fucking kidding,” she whispered, and she slammed the door shut.

Given that Madison seemed less than cooperative, and the woman was licensed to carry, Tully had probably thought it best not to force the issue. She heard him drive off as a patrol car slowly cruised past—Officer Giordano was still keeping an eye on her. Madison went back to work.

The dining table was covered with all the notes and paperwork and sketches she had managed to take with her from the precinct. Hidden somewhere in all that information were the details that could triangulate the identity of the killer.
George Pathune
. Madison checked her watch. About now her contact in the Bones would be having lunch with her kids.