The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(99)

The break came half an hour later: Jerome McMullen might be in jail waiting for parole, which would give him motive, but Leon Kendrick had known Timothy Gilman personally: they were pals from way back and had been arrested together for a felony charge. It was a 9A.36.140 type felony, and Madison didn’t need to look it up: it was assault of a child in the third degree. A boy. But the victim had changed his statement, a witness had changed his statement, and the charges were dropped. At nineteen Gilman had attacked a twelve-year-old boy and gotten away with it: Kendrick knew that, and, maybe, when the time came, he knew he could count on him to do what he needed done, because Gilman would have no trouble abusing little kids.

Madison sat back in her chair. Yes, she could see how Jerry Wallace could be a threat to both Kendrick and McMullen. She turned to Dunne. “Do you know anyone in California we could ask a favor of?”

Dunne shrugged. “What department?” he replied.


Andy Dunne was better than whatever social network most people used to get in touch with one another. He called a guy who called a guy, and forty-three minutes later Detective Nolan from La Jolla called them back. They put him on speaker, and Spencer pulled up a chair.

“We sure know Leon,” he said. “Unfortunately, not well enough to put him away for anything, but he was flagged to us when he moved to California from one of our contacts in your Vice unit—just a friendly call to let us know who was coming into our neighborhood. We kept an eye out; however, he’s been clean ever since—rumors, sure, but nothing that ever came to anything. He’s a pillar of the community and all.”

“What’s he up to now?” Madison said.

Detective Nolan chuckled. “He owns a golf club. A pretty slick one, too, from what I hear.”

“Ever been to it?” Dunne said.

“I have four kids under twelve. Any free time I get, I lock myself in my car and sleep. Why the sudden interest in Kendrick?”

“He might have been involved in a kidnapping and murder twenty-five years ago while he was still in Seattle. The investigation has just been reopened with new evidence,” Madison replied.

A beat of silence at the end of the line.

“Is this the Hoh River case?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if even the smell of a connection blew anywhere near his classy setup, it would definitely spoil his day.”

They said good-bye, and Nolan offered to chaperone them should they ever need to travel south and have a chat with Leon Kendrick in person.

Spencer did a quick Internet search and pulled up a few items on the Golden Oaks Golf Club. He printed the articles and passed them to Madison.

“Snazzy,” she said.

“Gets even better,” Dunne continued. “It says here they’re in negotiations with a Japanese company that wants to invest in the operation. How’s Leon’s motive looking now?”


In his home in Seward Park, Nathan Quinn sat in his office. His desk was covered with the files Tod Hollis had brought to him. Some of them were good old-fashioned research on the subject at hand; others he had come by in a less straightforward manner.

Detective Madison had mentioned two names: Leon Kendrick and Jerome McMullen. Quinn turned the page: Hollis had printed a pretty picture of the Golden Oaks Golf Club and a description of the facilities for the members. Quinn couldn’t stand golf. He read the background check on Kendrick and calculated how big his share would be if the Japanese company bought the club—and how much he could lose if it didn’t.

Quinn stood up and walked about; his strength was slowly coming back. He would have to buy some ridiculous device like a stationary bicycle to build his stamina. He went out onto the deck to breathe, calm down, and focus on the most important job he had to do that day.

The water was dappled with light and rain, the weather seemingly unsure from one moment to the next what was required of it. There was a hint of warmth in the air, and he stayed out there for as long as he could, sleeves rolled up and tie undone.

After a while he went back to his office, put away Hollis’s files on Kendrick and McMullen, shifted the pile of mail that had begun to accumulate, and started to write the argument needed to get John Cameron out of KCJC.





Chapter 43





Vincent Foley sat on the cot that was his new bed and stroked the pale blue woolen blanket. This room was almost the same size as his previous quarters. He sighed and lay down on his side. His slippers were neatly arranged on the floor, but the room was bare of any other possessions.

He wasn’t afraid, really. For the last ten hours he had been sedated, and the familiar spike of fear that usually pulsed through his whole body was today only a dull ache in his chest. Two police officers stood just outside his room—he could see them through the small window in the door if he stood on tiptoe. He didn’t know where this room was, and he didn’t know why he had had to leave his old room. The previous night was a blur.