Murder One by Robert Dugoni Page A

considering a chart with rectangular boxes stacked like a family tree, some blank, some penciled in with eastern European surnames.
    “Maybe they knew,” Cruz offered. “Maybe someone found out.”
    Hurley said, “He was alone.”
    Willins understood. “If he had suspected anything . . .”
    “Maybe he didn’t,” Cruz said. “That’s my point. Maybe he didn’t know.”
    “Chelyakov spoke to him?” Hurley asked.
    “At the dealership,” Cruz said. “Day before.”
    Willins nodded. “He told him they had a problem with that attorney, that she was talking to a civil lawyer . . .” He looked at his notes. “David Sloane. Chelyakov said he didn’t want the woman pushing any more lawsuits. He wanted Vasiliev to handle it. Couple hours later, Vasiliev has his two guys bring in Sloane and he threatens him—tells him to convince the woman to let it go.”
    “What was this guy Sloane’s response?”
    “Sloane . . . he didn’t sound intimidated, man.” Cruz’s accent became more pronounced. “Not at all. Said he’d kill him if he touched his family.”
    “Said he’d kill him?” Hurley asked.
    “‘Touch my son and I’ll kill you,’” Willins said.
    “Didn’t sound scared, neither,” Cruz added.
    T HE J USTICE C ENTER
S EATTLE , W ASHINGTON
    The room, a windowless, colorless box, radiated white. Overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the nicked and scratched metal table and three chairs. Light blue soundproofing foam covered the upper half of the walls to deter a suspect from shouting to an accomplice in one of the adjoining rooms.
    The unit referred to the room as a “hard” interrogation room, though the “soft” interrogation rooms, located on the same narrow hallway, weren’t significantly bigger and didn’t come with any additional amenities. With the doors shut, the rooms brought the claustrophobic feel of a prison cell, which was the point—to let a suspect know they were deep in the soup and the only way to keep from spending a very long time, perhaps the rest of their lives, in a room just as small and just as sparse was to cooperate, maybe even confess.
    Rowe didn’t expect that to happen tonight.
    “What do you think?” Rowe asked.
    Rick Cerrabone and Crosswhite watched Barclay Reid from behind one-way glass. Around them knobs and lights on the video and recording equipment flashed yellow and green. Before transporting Reid to the Justice Center, Rowe had called Cerrabone to give him a heads-up. He’d googled Reid on the Internet and knew of her status in the community—a former president of the Washington Bar Association. They would need to do everything by the book. The brass would be breathing hard down their necks, and since they were located in the same building, they wouldn’t have far to go.
    “How did she react when you opened the box?” Cerrabone asked.
    Rowe had kept his focus on Reid when Crosswhite opened the gun box, revealing the Styrofoam cutout where the gun should have been. Reid’s eyes had widened, and she brought up a hand to cover her mouth.
    “Not much. She looked more confused than concerned. She didn’t panic,” Rowe said.
    “Does she look like the panicking type?” Crosswhite asked.
    Rowe and Cerrabone considered Reid again. She sat with her legs crossed, cleaning the ink from her fingertips with an alcohol wipe. She looked as if she’d just painted her nails and was waiting for the polish to dry. Rowe had interrogated a lot of witnesses, and few looked as calm as Reid did at that moment—even the few who turned out to be completely innocent.
    After opening the box, Rowe had handed Reid a search warrant he’d procured from Judge O’Neil to search her house and to impound her car. Rowe was interested in determining if they might find sand or water in the carpet.
    “She didn’t ask for an attorney?” Cerrabone scratched the back of his neck behind the ear. With bloodshot eyes, dark bags, and sagging cheeks, he resembled a basset