“This is what I’ve been thinking about—we’ve never met before tonight, but I watched you with Detective Spencer from the observation box,” Madison said. “And I asked myself, What is this man afraid of? What does this man want?”
Henry Sullivan didn’t speak, but she had his full attention.
“You haven’t asked for a deal to make things easier for you. Why is that? A little information to keep the King County prosecutor’s office happy would go a long way to keep the needle from your arm. It’s a long list: Warren Lee, Ronald Gray, Jerry Wallace, Thomas Reed.”
“Detective—” Bowen interrupted.
Madison stood up and made to leave. “I just wanted to tell you that tomorrow morning every single media outlet will carry an item to the effect that Henry Sullivan—not your real name, but who cares; Conway will know it’s you—is helping the Seattle Police Department with our investigation, and, in fact, you are being so cooperative that we are considering giving you immunity for all your charges. And if your lawyer denies it, it will only look as if you’re trying to protect him from the only thing you’re afraid of: Peter Conway.”
“You cannot do that,” Bowen said.
“Maybe I should not do that, but I sense that the time of should and shouldn’t has come and gone. Do you have a family, Mr. Sullivan? By that I mean, do you have a family Conway knows about? A wife, children, old and vulnerable parents, perhaps? Once he’s done here, once he’s finished what he started, where do you think Conway will go next? What if your family becomes his next project?”
“Stop right now.” Bowen stood up.
Madison thought of the eyes that had stared at her in the burning building and sought to find that place in herself without humanity or regret. She spoke again, and her voice was low and her words distinct.
“I will find their pictures, their addresses, the place where your kids go to school and your wife does her hair, and I will put it all in your file. Protected, yes, but not so well that someone with a will couldn’t find a way. And if, by any chance, you’ve kept your private life hidden from Conway, in the end he will know so much about you, you’ll think you have a twin. Prison will not protect you, and anybody else in your life—well, that’s just collateral damage.”
“Stop talking right now, Detective. This interview is over.”
Henry Sullivan blinked.
“You have one hour to decide. I want the place where they’re holding John Cameron and the name of the man who paid you to do this. I want everything you know, and God forbid you hold anything back and I find out about it. A trial by jury is the last thing you should worry about. One hour,” she repeated, and she left the room.
Richard Bowen followed her into the corridor. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t—”
“Go back in there, Richard, and convince your client that the sane thing to do is to share every little scrap of information he has with us.”
“You’ve just threatened his family.”
“I don’t even know whether he has a family, but Jerry Wallace had a daughter, and he’s dead. Thomas Reed had two daughters, and he’s dead. I’ll be happy to forward you the autopsy reports for Warren Lee and Ronald Gray. Your client’s not afraid of anything we wave in his face because the man he works for is much, much worse than anything you or I or a maximum-security prison can ever do to him. And that man’s holding a live hostage right now, this minute. Do you want to keep playing legal tic-tac-toe, or do you want to help me get the hostage back alive?”
“I want to protect my client’s rights.”
“If you want to help your client, tell him to talk to us.”
Bowen shook his head and went back in.
Madison leaned against a wall: she had found the voice, all right. Or maybe it was the other way around, and the voices of the lost had found her. A wave of clammy coldness rose in her gut, and she barely made it to the nearest restroom just a few feet away.
Madison splashed water on her face and drank from the faucet, and when she went back down the hall, Bowen was waiting for her.
“Some things he knows, some things he guessed, and others Conway just kept to himself, because that’s how he works.”
Senior Deputy Prosecuting Attorney Sarah Klein walked through the doors of the Seattle jail a few minutes after midnight. Madison was waiting for her. Klein looked the way she always did: whatever hour of the day or night, Madison knew that she would be immaculate in silk and Italian wool. Klein was sharp and crazy enough to dare argue against attorney-client privilege in front of Judge Martin and win one for the team. Madison was glad to have her on board.