Madison had spent an hour with the prosecuting attorney a couple of weeks earlier to prepare for today and go over the details. The defendants had been in the middle of a gas-station holdup when the victim walked in. The case was based on eyewitness testimony, ballistic evidence, and DNA from both defendants found on shards of broken glass. The defendants had hired separate defense attorneys, tried to cut separate deals, failed, and decided to claim coercion. Madison hoped Judge Hugo would be in a particularly foul mood and keep the proceedings as short as legally possible.
As she sat on a bench outside courtroom E-207, Madison’s mind kept going back to Nathan Quinn’s televised appeal, to its barely veiled threat and the promise of a financial reward as dangerous as it was irresistible. Madison looked around at the ordered comings and goings of the courthouse: Quinn had set something in motion, and dark tides were already churning under the still waters of Elliott Bay. Those who knew something would be dragged to the surface or drown in the process, and the clock had started ticking last night as Quinn’s video had faded to black.
After a restless morning, Madison grabbed a bagel for lunch, was sworn in, testified, and was released, and the sun had already set by the time she walked into the precinct to check her messages.
Lieutenant Fynn waved her over.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Okay, I think. The evidence is pretty overwhelming.”
Something in Fynn’s manner told her that this wasn’t about her testimony.
“Boss?”
“Brown passed the physical but failed the firearms qualification test.”
“But . . .”
“I know. He’s going to take it again soon; clearly it’s a consequence of the head injury. His hand-eye coordination is out of whack—medical term—so he cannot carry a gun, so he cannot carry a badge.”
It had never occurred to Madison that Brown could fail the test. It had never occurred to her that he could fail anything.
“He told me he’d tried to reach you, and I explained you were in court. Look, let him be tonight. You know him—he sounded pretty calm, but I’m reasonably sure he wanted to put his fist through a window, which really wouldn’t help the situation.”
“I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
Madison went back to her desk and sat down. Brown’s desk opposite hers was clear of papers, and suddenly that alien tidiness bothered her a great deal. The truth was that Brown had been on medical leave for as many weeks as they had actually worked together. Nevertheless, he was the job he had been teaching her; his questions had provoked her, irritated her, and ultimately advanced her critical thinking.
She could very well imagine his frustration at this point and, worse, the bite of that voice that had told him he might never pass the test.
Madison picked up her cell and speed-dialed. One ring. Two rings. Maybe Fynn was right, and he didn’t want to talk.
“Hello,” Brown said.
“Sarge.”
“You heard?”
He sounded all right. Contained, sure, but that was Brown.
“Yes, I did.” She specifically did not say “I’m sorry,” because that was no help to anyone. He knew how she would feel. “Sarge, you passed the physical. That was the major hurdle. Shooting is technique; it can be relearned. The body and brain can adapt, the same way we correct the sight on a sniper’s rifle.”
“Very well put.”
“When you’re ready, let’s go down to the shooting range, take apart the technique, and build it up again.”
“I heard you were a good shot before you joined the squad. Is that so?”
“Yes,” Madison replied simply.
She could feel Brown beginning to smile.
“How good are you, exactly?”
“National Championship good. Twice.” Madison paused. “With both hands.”
He was definitely smiling now. “I’ll think about it.”
“You do that.”
“You sound eerily positive.”
“You’d better believe it.”
They hung up, and Madison let out her breath. Damn it.
Her eyes fell on the round wall clock, and she realized that although it was pitch-black and evening in Washington State, it was much earlier in Maryland, and it wouldn’t be rude to call. She dug out a piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans.
“Detective Frakes? This is Detective Alice Madison, SPD Homicide.”
“Glad you called. Let me just find a quiet spot.”
Madison heard voices in the background.
“I’m visiting my wife’s people in Bethesda,” he continued.
“Shall I call at another time?”
“No need. Her sister’s Italian, and we’re getting seven meals a day. They can start without me.”