David’s thirteenth birthday had been in May; Nathan had made it to the bar mitzvah and had left quickly after.
“He misses you,” his mother had said, and he had easily found a dozen reasons why study, work, and social commitments had prevented him from spending time with his brother. Nevertheless, his mother knew that her words would stay with Nathan better than any reproach.
“God knows how he’s going to be a lawyer,” his father, an attorney himself, would say to her. “You can see every single thought in his face.”
The expensive camera was an apology. Maybe David had understood that, and maybe he hadn’t; Nathan couldn’t tell, and he didn’t care. He remembered them sitting on the kitchen steps, the sun setting in the purple sky, and his brother’s small hands fumbling around the back of the Nikon as he changed the roll of film.
“Show me again. I’m afraid I’m going to scratch it,” David said.
“Give it here. First, look at the sprockets . . .”
As a concession to his mature years, Nathan had been left to sleep late today while the rest of the family drove to Conrad Locke’s ranch for the Fourth of July celebrations; he would join them at some point later, depending on how his 1973 Ford Pinto decided to behave.
Chapter 20
Madison had spent the morning interviewing Ronald Gray’s colleagues and getting nowhere—a quiet guy, kept to himself, never spoke of his private life. She typed up her notes, however little value they held. So far the day’s only blessing was that Kelly had remained wrapped in his usual scowling silence.
The apartment and Gray’s body were both free of any traces of drug use, and his bank account, modest as it was, spoke of a life lived within its means.
Her phone rang, and she picked up.
“Homicide, Madison.”
“It’s Sorensen. Is Spencer there?”
“Sure—they put you through to me by mistake. I’ll transfer you—”
“No, I need you both. Could you get him over to your desk and put me on the speaker?”
“Hold on.”
Madison turned. “Spence . . .”
Ten seconds later Spencer and Dunne were there, and Amy Sorensen was on the speaker.
“Spencer, you’re the primary on the Warren Lee case, right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Okay. What I have here are flakes of paint recovered from the clothing Ronald Gray was wearing, and they match the paint on the chair that Warren Lee was tied to when he was found by the water towers.”
“Gray was one of the men who carried the chair? That’s how it got transferred?” Madison asked.
“No. Judging from how the flakes were grouped on the cloth, I think it was transferred from the shoe of one of the men who killed Lee when he kicked Ronald Gray.”
Madison sat back in her chair.
“Let me start from the beginning,” Sorensen continued. “Lee was tied to the kitchen chair with picture wire. As you can imagine, that created a lot of friction against the wood; the wire went through its first and second layers of paint. The flakes were all over Lee’s pajamas, and one or more of the killers was close enough to the chair that the chips transferred to their clothing, their shoes. Lee was transported with a garbage bag over his upper body—that limited the transfer a little, but they couldn’t avoid it altogether. When they attacked Gray, some of the flakes transferred on to him. We’re testing them for blood, as well; it should be a match to Warren Lee’s.”
“Silly question, Sorensen, but—” Spencer said.
“Am I sure it’s the same paint?” Sorensen interrupted him.
“Yes.”
“Absolutely. The chair had been painted twice in different shades of the same color. I used a stereomicroscope. It’s the same paint, coming from the same chair, sliced off by the same picture wire, on both your victims. They couldn’t have chosen a better kind of ligature, from our point of view.”
“It’s what they found in the house,” Spencer said.
“Thrifty as well as vicious. A charming combination.”
Madison leaned forward. “Do you have any news on the lump of ash and plastic found in the saucepan at Gray’s?”
“So far, I can tell you it’s a lump of ash and plastic. I’ll tell you more when I know more.”
Sorensen rang off.
“It’s a twofer,” Dunne said.
“I don’t know what ‘it’ is,” Madison said. Then she remembered something. “You need to see the bus-station footage. I really don’t think they picked Gray at random, and the man was on the run; chances are, Warren Lee was not picked at random, either.”