home.”
“Mr. Cameron,” Brown said.
“Yes. He’s out of town on business. Is it about the burglaries on Surber Drive?”
“No, it’s a personal matter. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
“Sure.” He put the bag on the ground by his feet. He was in good shape for his age; his walking boots looked as if he had put some miles on them.
“What, exactly, do you need with Jack?” Although Brown was clearly the senior officer, Clyde Phillips had turned very slightly toward Madison. “Is everything all right?”
She picked up the ball. “We need to talk to him very urgently. Do you know where he is or when he’s coming back?”
“And you are . . . ?”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “Detective Sergeant Brown and Detective Madison, Seattle Homicide.”
Phillips moved his head back an inch. Homicide was not a polite word in Laurelhurst.
“Oh,” he said, and then it registered. “Is it about the family in Three Oaks?”
The media were still feasting on it; the same footage was being played over and over again.
“Yes, they were acquaintances of Mr. Cameron’s. That’s why it’s important that we talk to him as soon as possible.”
“Is Jack in some kind of danger?”
Jack.
What would be most helpful? Telling the man that they suspected his neighbor of at least four brutal murders? Would that get them his cooperation?
“He might be in danger; we don’t know yet.”
Score one for the pants-on-fire team.
“He comes and goes, but . . . I tell you what. I have a telephone number for a friend of his in case of emergency, for the house. He would know where Jack is. Let me get it for you.”
He came back with a piece of paper. His writing was neat.
“I hope this helps. I hope Jack is going to be all right.”
“I’m sure he will be.”
“Please tell him we send him our best wishes.”
“I will as soon as I see him.” Madison shook his hand, feeling like a thief. “Thank you.”
She turned and started toward the car. Brown was already inside, talking on the radio. She looked at the piece of paper. In red ink and well-spaced letters was Nathan Quinn’s work number.
They wove in and out of the traffic, driving south on I-5.
“So, say the house is on fire: Phillips’s second call would be to Nathan Quinn,” Brown said.
“Yes.”
“And Quinn knows how to reach Cameron.”
“Yes.” Madison drummed her fingers on the dashboard. “Is Quinn dirty? Has there ever been any talk?”
“It would be easier if he was, wouldn’t it? He’s a pain in the neck, but as far as I know, he’s clean.”
“By the way, I ran a check on both the senior Sinclairs. Neither of them has ever had any arrests.” Madison flipped through the notes she had taken in the library about the Hoh River kidnappings. “In one of the papers from the library, last night, there was a picture of David Quinn’s memorial service. The Sinclairs were there.”
“That case was a disaster,” he said. “There were no leads. No ransom demands. The boys wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about it. There was absolutely nothing to go on. They never even recovered the third boy’s body. A total mess.”
“I remember. A lot of parents feared it could be the start of a wave of kidnappings.”
“No.” Brown tapped the steering wheel. “It wasn’t about that. It was personal to those three boys and their families. Except, of course, nobody was saying diddly-squat to us. Also, we didn’t have the forensics we have today. The crime scene was no good to anybody.”
“Quinn is Jewish,” Madison said after a pause. “The custom is to hold the funeral as soon as possible after a death.”
The flat gray waters of Lake Union were a blur past Madison’s eyes.
“They buried some of the earth from the place where they think he died,” she said.
“Hell.”
Madison didn’t know whether Brown meant it as a comment or a state of mind, but it didn’t matter; it fit too well one way or the other.
“The thing
“Mr. Cameron,” Brown said.
“Yes. He’s out of town on business. Is it about the burglaries on Surber Drive?”
“No, it’s a personal matter. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
“Sure.” He put the bag on the ground by his feet. He was in good shape for his age; his walking boots looked as if he had put some miles on them.
“What, exactly, do you need with Jack?” Although Brown was clearly the senior officer, Clyde Phillips had turned very slightly toward Madison. “Is everything all right?”
She picked up the ball. “We need to talk to him very urgently. Do you know where he is or when he’s coming back?”
“And you are . . . ?”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “Detective Sergeant Brown and Detective Madison, Seattle Homicide.”
Phillips moved his head back an inch. Homicide was not a polite word in Laurelhurst.
“Oh,” he said, and then it registered. “Is it about the family in Three Oaks?”
The media were still feasting on it; the same footage was being played over and over again.
“Yes, they were acquaintances of Mr. Cameron’s. That’s why it’s important that we talk to him as soon as possible.”
“Is Jack in some kind of danger?”
Jack.
What would be most helpful? Telling the man that they suspected his neighbor of at least four brutal murders? Would that get them his cooperation?
“He might be in danger; we don’t know yet.”
Score one for the pants-on-fire team.
“He comes and goes, but . . . I tell you what. I have a telephone number for a friend of his in case of emergency, for the house. He would know where Jack is. Let me get it for you.”
He came back with a piece of paper. His writing was neat.
“I hope this helps. I hope Jack is going to be all right.”
“I’m sure he will be.”
“Please tell him we send him our best wishes.”
“I will as soon as I see him.” Madison shook his hand, feeling like a thief. “Thank you.”
She turned and started toward the car. Brown was already inside, talking on the radio. She looked at the piece of paper. In red ink and well-spaced letters was Nathan Quinn’s work number.
They wove in and out of the traffic, driving south on I-5.
“So, say the house is on fire: Phillips’s second call would be to Nathan Quinn,” Brown said.
“Yes.”
“And Quinn knows how to reach Cameron.”
“Yes.” Madison drummed her fingers on the dashboard. “Is Quinn dirty? Has there ever been any talk?”
“It would be easier if he was, wouldn’t it? He’s a pain in the neck, but as far as I know, he’s clean.”
“By the way, I ran a check on both the senior Sinclairs. Neither of them has ever had any arrests.” Madison flipped through the notes she had taken in the library about the Hoh River kidnappings. “In one of the papers from the library, last night, there was a picture of David Quinn’s memorial service. The Sinclairs were there.”
“That case was a disaster,” he said. “There were no leads. No ransom demands. The boys wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about it. There was absolutely nothing to go on. They never even recovered the third boy’s body. A total mess.”
“I remember. A lot of parents feared it could be the start of a wave of kidnappings.”
“No.” Brown tapped the steering wheel. “It wasn’t about that. It was personal to those three boys and their families. Except, of course, nobody was saying diddly-squat to us. Also, we didn’t have the forensics we have today. The crime scene was no good to anybody.”
“Quinn is Jewish,” Madison said after a pause. “The custom is to hold the funeral as soon as possible after a death.”
The flat gray waters of Lake Union were a blur past Madison’s eyes.
“They buried some of the earth from the place where they think he died,” she said.
“Hell.”
Madison didn’t know whether Brown meant it as a comment or a state of mind, but it didn’t matter; it fit too well one way or the other.
“The thing
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