Madison turned off the water when it began to turn cold; she wrapped herself in a towel and sat on the sofa with a cup of coffee. Upcoming attractions in her future included a very long conversation with Seattle’s Office of Professional Accountability regarding the shooting, a standard investigation into the death of the bodyguard and—something she particularly looked forward to—an explanation of how she had deemed it appropriate to shoot the hostage she had been trying to save. Madison sipped her coffee. And the obligatory session with a psych counselor, of course.
She was trying to think things through and focus on her next step, but she kept going back to the gunshot wounds in the guard’s chest. She called Sorensen for the comfort and the dependability of physical evidence.
“I heard you shot up Whatcom County,” Sorensen said.
“Well, it was . . . I don’t know what it was, Amy, except pretty awful. I was wondering if you had any news.”
Any other day Sorensen would have reminded Madison that she would have called her if she had any, but that day she didn’t. “I’m throwing the odd glance at the monitor, and I swear to you, sometimes I think the computer is moving faster just because I’m watching it. However, the answer is: not yet. We recovered a print that matches Timothy Gilman—which didn’t surprise anybody—and the rest is just waiting.”
“Thanks, Amy.”
“Look, I heard you had to shoot one of the felons involved.”
“Yes, I did.”
“My advice is, talk to someone about it. Soon. Even when you’ve done the best you could and that was the last resort, you’re going to feel all over the place about it. Talk to someone who’s gone through the same thing, someone you trust.”
“I will. Thanks for that.”
It wasn’t the right moment to mention that the only other person she knew for sure had killed another human being was the hostage she had been trying to save. And Madison didn’t know exactly where the issue of trust stood between her and John Cameron.
She finished her coffee and got dressed. One of the consequences of the shooting was that she was now on administrative leave until the investigation of what had happened in Whatcom County had reached its conclusions. Even so, tomorrow Jerome McMullen would have his parole hearing.
One of the sheriff’s deputies had collected her Glock, and Madison wrapped the strap around her empty holster and laid it on her dresser. She cleaned, oiled, and dry-fired her backup .38 and holstered it on her ankle. She had seen Peter Conway die, and yet his presence had saturated the whole case to such a degree that if she hadn’t seen the medical examiner doing his checks and asking her for his time of death, she’d have been left wondering.
The drive to Seward Park took little time in the midday traffic. It was strange to be back in her Honda after all the miles in the pickup—Dunne had driven it back to Seattle himself—and Madison was suddenly aware of being that much lower on the road and closer to the ground.
Chapter 66
Nathan Quinn looked as if he’d had as little sleep as Madison. She wondered if he was still on medication and what effect all this had had on him.
He showed her in, and she almost smiled: his dining table was an exact replica of hers—notes, clippings, the files Hollis had dug out, everything jostling for space with a large cardboard box.
He didn’t need to tell her that he’d thought he’d never see Jack Cameron again, and she didn’t need to hear it. They sat at the table, and she told him about the field and the plane. Cameron himself could fill in the rest.
Quinn’s expression revealed great relief, certainly, and yet behind it was something else, too. It was proof of how much the last weeks had taken out of Quinn that Madison could even glimpse anything behind his officer of the court face.
“Are you going to be in trouble for shooting him?” he asked.
“A little trouble, probably, but not much. The SPD cannot be seen giving me a pat on the back for shooting a hostage, but the situation was what it was, and I doubt Cameron will sue me.”
“Can you identify the man in the suit?”
“I think so. The DEA, the FBI, and the ATF are all suddenly keen to get to know me and spend time with me. I’ve already made appointments to brief them, and I’m sure they’ll bring lots of pretty pictures for me to look at.”
“What about Conway’s possessions?”
Madison sat back in her chair. Standing next to Peter Conway had been the closest she had ever been to a real-life link with the hidden man, and now Conway was dead.
“The sheriff’s people collected three cell phones, five credits cards, four different fake IDs and driver’s licenses, and about $3,750 in cash. Most of it in a hiding place inside the van. We have already done the paperwork to work on the evidence from here, and I know they’ll cooperate. Jerome McMullen had motive and a way to pay for Conway’s services. Somewhere in there, there must be a phone call, a current account, some kind of link to his client. We’ll be getting some numbers later today.”