The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(82)

“Yes.”

“That’s really not the way to go about it, Counselor.”

“At that point I didn’t know whether I would call it in at all,” Quinn replied.

Madison understood what he meant: if Hollis had picked up a device, they might have left it in place and used it to their advantage. It would have been the most dangerous course of action and absolutely typical of Nathan Quinn.

“Perfect,” Madison said.

“They just had a look around and left?” Kelly said.

“Yes,” Quinn replied.

“Let me understand, our little theory here is that this—” Kelly gestured at the house around them—“intrusion is connected to the whole mess started by your television appeal, right? So if they didn’t come for your hidden treasures, what were they looking for?”

“Information,” Madison interjected, and her eyes found Quinn’s. “The single piece of information that made the appeal dangerous for the killers: how you found out about Timothy Gilman’s connection to the abduction and who else knows.”

“I imagine so, yes,” Quinn replied.

They had been over this at the hospital, and he didn’t seem any more inclined to reveal his source.

“You’re absolutely sure they didn’t manage to find your notes, your documents, whatever in the name of all that’s holy you’ve got hidden away, then copied them and left them for you to believe they hadn’t found anything?”

“That information is not to be found on any paper and never has been.”

The Crime Scene Unit van rumbled to a stop in the drive, and Quinn left to open the door for them.

“I have to make a call,” Kelly said, and he went back to the car.

Frank Lauren and Mary Kay Joyce walked in carrying their equipment, nodded hello, and began their sifting and sieving.

“A B-and-E—how refreshing,” Joyce commented, looking around. “No blood-spatter chart for once, Madison.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied.

Madison and Quinn went out to a side deck and left the CSU team to it. The pale sun offered little warmth, and they were both wearing their coats with the collars up.

“I’m not even going to say anything about you not calling this in straightaway; it would be a waste of breath,” Madison said. “But this you should know: have you ever heard of a man named Jerry Wallace?”

Madison told Quinn about the phone call from Fred Kamen, about Peter Conway and his crew, about the file sitting on her desk and what it contained.

“There’s every reason to believe these are the men who went after Lee, Gray, and, in all probability, Wallace. We’re hoping that the evidence will link all the crime scenes,” she concluded.

“And you are protecting the fourth man?”

“Yes, protecting and interrogating him, as far as his condition allows.”

It was to Quinn’s credit that he had not asked her to let him meet Vincent Foley. Technically speaking, Foley was still merely a patient in a psychiatric facility.

“I have to ask you about your parents,” she said, treading lightly in a territory that was both unfamiliar and perhaps difficult to navigate.

“What about my parents?” Quinn replied evenly.

“At the time of your brother’s abduction, and also before and after, did you ever hear them mention the names Eduardo Cruz, Leon Kendrick, or Jerome McMullen?”

“No, they never did mention those names, not once. Not at the time or ever,” Quinn said. “Years later, when I was working in the prosecutor’s office, I made my own inquiries and read the file and came up with the same names, for all the good it did.”

“If the men who broke in last night didn’t find what they were looking for, they might very well come back for it,” Madison said. “And they might be inclined to ask you personally.”

“Last night’s was a subtle job, Detective; they didn’t want to attract attention to themselves. I’ve been in a hospital—without any security or protection—for long enough that if they wanted to pay me a visit, they could have done so at any time of their choosing.”

“Don’t take this lightly, Counselor.”

The view was lovely, the water reflecting the bright sky for those brief moments when the sun was showing itself, while they spoke of the ugliest things a person could do to another. A small sailboat with three young sailors in bright red life jackets bobbed past; their voices floated up to the deck.

“This is how it works, Detective,” Quinn said, his dark gaze following the boat. “You have to kick the tree to see what falls out of it.”