The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(18)

“I agree. Quinn’s message was about greed, fear, and that one name.”

“When is your physical, Sarge? When can we expect you back?”

“I have some tests tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m done. Boredom is worse than getting shot in the head.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’re going to see Quinn?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“First time since?”

“Yes.”

“Look, that man is made out of some kind of metal we don’t even have a name for. You can push him if you need to.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going with flowers and balloons. He’s still the same person he was before the forest, and so am I.”

Later, as she was parking her Civic next to her grandparents’ car, Madison wondered if she had, in fact, lied to Brown—unintentionally, sure, but a lie nevertheless. It had slipped out so very easily, and Madison was glad that they had not been face-to-face. Once Brown was back, she would have to accept that the “all good, nothing to talk about” bull she had delivered to Dr. Robinson would go right out the window.

The file from Jefferson County contained pictures of the boy’s remains in situ, the depressed skull fracture evident even before what remained of the body was moved. Madison asked herself if Gilman had been involved and, if so, what he had left of himself in that hole.

She made herself a grilled cheese sandwich—Jarlsberg and sourdough. She had it on the sofa with a glass of milk, watching The Philadelphia Story, and she fell asleep just as the True Love sailed in the marble pool.





Chapter 9





Manny Oretremos made the sign of the cross once, and then, for safety, he made it again. Inside his cell in the King County Justice Complex he sat on the bed—because kneeling would have been too obvious—and prayed for rain. Not just a few drops or a little drizzle—he prayed for the heavens to open and for a rain to fall that would bring to mind a flood of biblical proportions. Failing that, a heart attack that would incapacitate him and send him to the medical wing. Anything that would prevent him from having to go and do.

Instead, as the minutes passed, he sat on his bunk, gripping the thin blanket with his sweaty hands and waiting for his yard time . . . and his doom.

Manny was small—never a good thing if you were involved with the kind of people he had known all his life. So, in order to gain their respect and a modicum of acceptance, he had found himself doing a series of things that—as many a high school teacher had predicted—would land him straight in a place with no front-door key.

This incident was only the last of a long list of must-do’s, have-to’s, can’t-get-out-of’s that had pushed and dragged him to a new level of complete misery.

It had started weeks earlier, it relied on both determination and chance, and—one way or the other—it would surely end in disaster.

The vial had been passed to him at breakfast time, small enough to be easily concealed in the brown bag that had contained his takeaway lunch. He had then eaten his dry eggs and hash from the molded tray as if the food was radioactive. Still, all he needed to do was carry the vial until the time was right, then use it quickly.

Manny was already doing twenty-five to life; being part of this would be a ticket to make the rest of his life there a little easier, something to be proud of when he was old and frail and still incarcerated.

The plan required a number of people to be in exactly the right positions at exactly the right time. Opportunity and readiness, they had told him. They had made it sound like a military operation, and yet Manny knew that betting money was involved, and a status hike for each participant—maybe up to a dozen inmates. Some of the guys couldn’t wait to get out there.

The transfer had been made weeks earlier, and since then the two-inch glass vial had been burning a metaphorical hole in his mattress. Something, he reflected, the contents would have done if any had spilled on his skin.

Manny shut his eyes and prayed for rain.


Madison woke up in her bed and with sudden clarity remembered that she was due in court later that morning to be a witness for the prosecution in a six-month-old robbery/homicide case. She didn’t know precisely when she would be called, and she might very well be tied up for hours.

She groaned out loud and made a mental note to call Carl Doyle as soon as courtesy allowed—and the precinct to remind the boss she’d be out of play. This could very well turn out to be a waste of a day, she thought, then promptly chastised herself, because her testimony was part of a case, and that was how the legal system worked.

Holding a mug of coffee, she stood in front of her open wardrobe and picked pants and a blazer that would be acceptable in court. Nothing to write to Vogue about, but they’d do.