The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(104)

Henry Sullivan had been assigned a public defender from the King County’s Office of Public Defense. Spencer decided to give him a couple of hours’ grace and then resume the interview. The Crime Scene Unit had been working nonstop in the Silver Pines Motel, and an unofficial list of their initial findings had been sent over. It was a very brief list, and, aside from the illegal weapons, it made for very dull reading. Sullivan’s wallet had contained a driver’s license—fake—and $357.23 in cash. No credit cards, no plastic of any kind, and none of the insignificant receipts that chart the existence of a person from when he gets up in the morning to when he goes to bed at night. Henry Sullivan had materialized at the entrance of the Silver Pines Motel, and the rest of his life was a blank.

Madison was on McMullen duty: though the man had been in prison for years, he must have associates who could organize a cleanup operation of that size on his behalf. It was not the kind of thing that could be handled by a stranger; if McMullen asked someone to do this for him, it would be someone he knew before his arrest, someone he trusted implicitly with his life, because that was exactly what was at stake here.

There was an issue that had bothered Madison from the beginning, and there really was no way around it: Conway was expensive, very expensive. Whoever had hired him had paid top dollar for his services. Madison scanned McMullen’s file and looked for signs of potential wealth. Most, if not all, of his capital would have been frozen and then impounded as illegal gains as soon as he had been sentenced.

“I want to talk to McMullen,” she said to Kelly, hoping to God he had some previous engagement that could not be canceled.

“Why?”

“Because I need to see his face when I ask him about the Hoh River case.”

“Why?”

“Because on paper he has all the credentials to have been involved in it at the time, but I don’t see how he would have the capital to pay for Conway’s crew.”

“If your neck is on the line, you find whatever money you need to shake off the noose. We don’t know that he wasn’t owed favors by people who could take care of the bill.”

“He’s divorced—twice—with three kids, none of whom have visited him unless they’ve done it under assumed names. Before his sentencing, he cut a deal with the prosecution and delivered at least four wanted felons. None of that would have created instant goodwill in prison, and he spent some time in administrative solitary for his own protection. I’m saying, I looked at this file, and it doesn’t seem to me like he has the pull to do this. That’s why I need to see him.”

“Okay.” Kelly shrugged, stood up, and grabbed his coat.

“Okay,” Madison replied.


The McCoy State Prison, also known as the Bones, sat in a valley north of Seattle. They had called ahead and were expected. Officer Starecki met Madison and Kelly and led them through the labyrinth that housed over a thousand convicts.

“You know his parole is coming up in days, right?” he said over his shoulder as they proceeded down the corridor.

“We know,” Madison said. “What’s your impression of the man? You’ve been dealing with him since he arrived.”

Officer Starecki stopped, clearly rather surprised that someone was asking his opinion on the matter of Jerome McMullen. “He’s a model prisoner,” he replied. “Never any trouble, never gets involved even if other people want trouble, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“He’s older than a lot of the guys here, and some of them look up to him a bit, but I’ve never heard him take advantage of it. He should sail through the parole hearing. What do you need to speak to him about?”

“He might be able to help us with a cold case.”

“I’m sure he will if he can. He’s found religion, too, after his heart attack two years ago.”

“Right. Good to know,” Madison replied.


Jerome McMullen stood up as they entered the room. He was wearing immaculate prison clothing, and his salt-and-pepper hair had been slicked back. Madison’s first impression was that the man had been carved out of bone: he was lean and tall; his eyes were brown and striking against his pale skin. He was sixty years old and looked ten years younger—within the jail population that was highly unusual. They sat around the table. He was ramrod straight and took measure of them.

“How can I help you, Detectives?” Jerome McMullen asked, and Madison knew instantly that once he was out of that parole hearing and far away from the walls of the Bones, he would shed religion and good manners like a cheap suit. I know you, she thought, and she sat back in her chair.