Murder One Page 7

  “Dustin Pedroia? Are you kidding me? The guy had a career year. He’ll never sniff those numbers again.”

  The annual bet was widely known around the courthouse. The spouse whose team finished lower in the pennant race had to wear the other team’s hat for one solid week, night and day, Cerrabone’s court appearances being the only exception.

  Crosswhite provided Cerrabone with a five-minute snapshot of the crime scene and Vasiliev’s likely ties to the local heroin trade. Cerrabone reached for the laptop. “Let me take a look.”

  Rowe stepped aside and stretched his back, walking out the kink in his hip, which burned despite the ibuprofen. He could feel his shirt sticking to his chest.

  “Tell me something,” Crosswhite said to Rowe. “How many people in this neighborhood would know that when you call in a gunshot, especially on a night with thunder, you might get a patrol out here within the hour?”

  They were starting to think alike. A common misconception among the public was that a report of gunshots would bring a cavalry of police. In reality, such calls were common and usually false alarms. The police had become somewhat desensitized. Call in a prowler, however, and the response could be instantaneous. That and an anonymous caller on an untraceable cell phone made the situation unusual.

  Cerrabone handed him the laptop. “Looks good . . . broad. I’m not sure you’ll get the computer records.”

  “Who are you thinking about calling?” Rowe asked.

  The judge who issued the warrant was automatically disqualified from being the trial judge on the case, if it ever got that far. So the PA ordinarily didn’t want to burn one of his first trial-judge choices. But in this instance, they were also seeking a search warrant broader in scope than normal, and Cerrabone would want a judge predisposed to granting expansive searches.

  After discussing a few names, Cerrabone said, “Let’s call O’Neil.”

  Rowe attached the recording device to his cell phone, plugged in the earpiece, and called Judge Thomas O’Neil’s cell phone. When the judge answered, he apologized for the hour and explained the circumstances. O’Neil swore him in as the affiant of the facts to justify issuing the warrant, and Rowe read what he had typed, including the time of the 911 call to dispatch, the fact that the residence was registered only to Vasiliev, and everything Adderley had related. Then he got to the request.

  “I am requesting a warrant to search the residence for firearms, weapons, and bills and receipts.” And now the reach. “I am also seeking all computers and business records located inside the residence.”

  “Computer records?” O’Neil’s voice sounded like a smoker’s, deep and brusque from the early hour. “What for?”

  “The victim was recently the subject of a federal investigation for trafficking in narcotics. Heroin.”

  “What was the outcome, Detective?”

  “The matter is unresolved.”

  “And the reason you want the computer records?”

  “Given the manner in which the victim was killed, Your Honor, I would like to pursue known associates. I think this could have been an execution related to the victim’s involvement in narcotics. Forensic evidence is likely to be minimal.”

  “Alleged involvement.”

  “Alleged involvement. But I believe it to be a logical theory to pursue based on the physical evidence.”

  Rowe looked to Cerrabone, who shrugged.

  After nearly a minute, O’Neil said, “All right, Detective. I’m orally granting the search warrant. Have a written copy sent to my chambers today, and I’ll sign it.”

  Rowe disconnected the call, shut off the recorder, and removed the earpiece. “We’re in,” he said.

  UNITED STATES ATTORNEY’S OFFICE

  FEDERAL BUILDING

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  The last time Sloane had been in the green-copper-trim Federal Building, it had led to the forced resignation of the secretary of defense. He held no such lofty expectations from his visit this morning. Reid had set up a meeting with Assistant U.S. Attorney Rebecca Han to discuss the Vasiliev investigation. Sloane thought it best to meet Han alone so she could be as forthright as possible.

  After greeting Sloane in the lobby, Han led him to her office on the fifth floor—small, utilitarian, and cluttered. A stack of files teetered on the edge of her desk, the shelving units equally well stacked.

  Han gestured to seven Bekins boxes lining a wall. “Filyp Vasiliev. I’ve spent more time with him the past six months than my husband.”

  “I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

  “You’ve met him?” Han asked.

  “Unfortunately,” Sloane said.

  “I felt like showering every time I got within five feet of the man.” Han adjusted a headband. She had a small mole just above her right eyebrow. “So . . . wrongful death, huh?” She sounded skeptical.

  “Maybe. Just looking into it at this point.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to. Kozlowski’s ruling was flat-out wrong.”

  “Will you appeal?”

  “They’re still kicking it around upstairs, but I don’t think they’ll pull the trigger.”

  “Why not, if the ruling was wrong?”

  “We’ve spent a lot of money already and without a guarantee that we’ll get it reversed . . .” She sighed. “I wanted to challenge him, but we don’t like to do that, either. It sets a bad precedent.”

  A challenge allowed an attorney to ask a judge to recuse himself from a case for any number of reasons, but often because the attorney didn’t think the judge could be impartial. It was not an accusation to be made lightly, especially by a member of the Justice Department against a federal district court judge. For Han to suggest she had considered it piqued Sloane’s interest.

  “On what grounds?”

  “It’s pretty widely accepted in the office that Kozlowski’s had a thing against women attorneys since his divorce. Frankly, I thought it was BS, but he’s been a burr in my ass for the past year.”

  “But not exactly a good reason for a challenge,” Sloane said with a smile.

  “Not exactly. Whatever the reason, he isn’t doing wonders for my career. But this one I know I did by the book.”

  “So what happened?”

  Han explained the months-long investigation. “The DEA had been after Vasiliev for a while. Then they came to us to get wiretaps.”

  “Let me guess,” Sloane said, though his recollection of criminal law was fuzzy. “Kozlowski ruled there was no probable cause for the initial decision to search the trunk of the car.”

  “Vasiliev’s lawyer argued that because the driver had a thick eastern European accent, the police officer had racially profiled him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “The joke in law enforcement is if you say the words ‘Russian mafia,’ it’s redundant. Kozlowski ruled the heroin inadmissible, and since the wiretaps were obtained as a result of the heroin . . .”

  “Tainted fruit,” Sloane said, recalling that any evidence uncovered as a result of the original misconduct was considered tainted and subject to being excluded.

  “I don’t have a problem with him finding no probable cause for the initial search but I do have a problem with him linking that to evidence subsequently uncovered through an operation done by the book. Are you hiring? I might need a job.”

  Sloane knew Han to be joking, though at the moment there wasn’t much humor in her voice. “Barclay said you could help with the chain of distribution.”

  “Maybe. Our case against Vasiliev was for drug distribution. Barclay and the U.S. attorney are acquainted. She wanted us to go after Vasiliev for supplying the drugs that killed her daughter. Given who she is in the legal community, I was told to try. But without first getting a conviction for distribution, that couldn’t happen.”

  “So you don’t have much on the organization.”

  “Vasiliev didn’t keep the drug records with his business records, and likely for just that re
ason—in case he ever got raided. He probably kept them at his home or someplace else. If we could find where the money goes, what offshore accounts, we might be able to trace it to determine who is ultimately profiting.”

  Han looked at the clock on the wall and walked around the desk to shake his hand. “I have to cover a hearing. Listen, I’ll help any way I can. If I get the word we’re not going to appeal, I’ll send you what I have.” She slipped into a blue jacket that matched her skirt and adjusted her hair over the collar. “I’d like to see someone wipe the smile off Vasiliev’s face.”

  A female voice called out over the speakerphone on Han’s desk advising that she had a call from Jeff Behrman.

  “Put him through.” Han spoke to Sloane. “He was the lead DEA agent on Vasiliev. If you think I’m pissed, you ought to talk to him.”

  Han picked up the receiver. “Were your ears burning?” She didn’t say much after that. When she did, it was brief. “You’re kidding. When? Okay. Call me back when you know more.” She hung up.

  “More bad news?” Sloane asked.

  “Depends on your perspective; I don’t have to worry about confidentiality anymore. I can give you the whole file.”

  “No appeal?”

  “No need. I don’t have a case. But neither do you. I’ve heard you’re good, but I don’t think even you can sue a dead man.”

  LAURELHURST

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Search warrant in hand, Rowe and Crosswhite donned blue nitrile gloves and booties to walk the house with Kathy Stafford, the lead CSI detective. Because of the breadth of the subpoena, CSI made a call to the latent’s unit at the Washington State Patrol crime lab and asked that it send out civilian fingerprint analysts to assist with the process.

  Passing through a room with a vaulted twenty-foot ceiling, thick white rug, and leather furniture, Rowe considered a large painting of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square hanging above a river-rock fireplace. “Who said crime doesn’t pay?”

  “The guy in the other room with a bullet in his head,” Crosswhite said.

  Upon entering the back room, Stafford noted the single hole in the sliding-glass door, calling it a defect. They were trained not to say “bullet hole,” as it could be considered a conclusion that a good defense attorney might later try to exploit.

  A fireman on scene took two seconds to confirm Vasiliev dead, which was also standard procedure, even though the “defect” had blown away half his skull. Rowe deduced a large-caliber weapon, a .38 or a .45. Given the damage to the front of Vasiliev’s skull, and because the bullet had to pass through the double-paned glass, he doubted the shooter had used a hollow point, which was designed to peel open upon impact to maximize damage and usually stayed inside the body. Rowe expected to find something like ball ammunition.

  “I’m guessing it’s around here somewhere,” Rowe said, meaning the bullet. “What do you think about getting Barry out here?” he asked Crosswhite. With the forensic evidence looking more and more likely to be thin, he figured they could use all the help they could get, and Barry Dilliard was as good as it got. The supervising forensic scientist for the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab, Dilliard was generally considered the guru on everything to do with firearms.

  “Can’t hurt,” Crosswhite said.

  “What about the tracker?” he asked.

  After finding footprints in the lawn, Crosswhite had suggested they call for Kaylee Wright, a man-tracker with the King County sheriff’s office special operations unit. Crosswight had used Wright on another investigation and said she could evaluate shoe prints and broken vegetation to determine the number of people at a crime scene, where they stepped, and whether they were running or walking.

  “On her way.”

  “Can she put her ear to the ground and hear the buffalo, too?”

  Crosswhite rolled her eyes. “Nice, Sparrow. You’ll like her. She’s your type. She breathes.”

  “Funny.” He considered his watch. “My type is at home asleep or cooking breakfast for three boys.”

  They agreed CSI should roll up and take the Persian rug, along with the sofa. Though the killer had shot from outside, it was possible he and Vasiliev were acquainted. If so, the shooter might have been inside Vasiliev’s home at some earlier time and left behind a print or a DNA sample they could match to a weapon, were they ever to find one.

  It would take CSI nearly an hour to photograph the house and the backyard, after which the fingerprint experts would go to work on the interior. Two detectives worked on the crime-scene sketch.

  In the backyard Crosswhite introduced Rowe to Kaylee Wright, an athletically built woman who stared out across the lawn toward the lake. Except for the auburn hair and dark complexion, she and Cross-white looked like they could be related.

  “What do you need to get started?” Rowe asked.

  “Nothing,” Wright said. “I’ll do a cut around the house for footprints.”

  “We had two patrol officers . . . dispatch reported a prowler. They walked the house trying to gain access.”

  “I’ll need to talk to them and eliminate their boots. They look like Danner,” she said, referring to the boot preferred by patrol officers.

  “We also had a lot of rain last night,” Rowe said.

  Wright shrugged. “It’s the Northwest. This is typical for me.”

  They left Wright alone when Stafford advised they had found the bullet wedged in a piece of hardwood molding at the base of a wall. Though the bullet was distorted, Rowe’s hunch had been right—a .38 ball round.

  When Rowe returned to the backyard half an hour later, the lawn looked as though a greenkeeper at a miniature-golf course had gone berserk with tiny red and yellow flags.

  Wright provided her initial impression. “There are three distinct sets of prints. They lead from the water to the patio and back to the water.”

  “So three people came?”

  “Can’t say.” She led him to a narrow strip of beach and pointed out a lone print in the sand on the far right of the property. “See how the ball of the print is deeper than the heel? The person pressed down and vaulted onto the bulkhead.” She pointed to a straight line of yellow flags leading to the concrete patio.

  “The person who made this print also made those prints,” she said. She walked him up the yard to the patio, then pointed out sand and dirt granules. “The person stood here.” Wright turned and pointed toward the water. “See the red flags?” The red flags delineated a path from the patio to the water, though it veered to the left into a thicket of trees. “The same person started for the water, diverted to the trees, then continued on to the water. What time did you say dispatch got a call of a prowler?”

  “Right around three,” Rowe said.

  Wright nodded. “These prints were made within that time period.”

  “How close can you get?”

  “Within four hours.”

  “And those flags over there?” Rowe pointed to yellow and red flags on the left side of the lawn.

  Wright ran him through the same analysis, starting with multiple shoe prints on the beach. “They also came out of the water and moved up the lawn quickly.” The prints were bigger, size 10½ and 12.

  “Could one of them have been the shooter?”

  “That’s not my area of expertise. That’s for Barry. They left, running. As they approached the bulkhead, they slowed to climb down the wall. The footprints in the sand are twisted in different directions.” She used her hand to demonstrate.

  Rowe considered it. “If someone had a boat, they’d jump down, turn around—maybe while untying a rope—and jump into the boat.” He pointed across the property to the flag for the lone print. “So what the hell was that person doing way over there?”

  “Don’t know, but that person got to the patio first.”

  “I thought you could only limit the time to within four hours.”

  Wright led him to a spot containing both a red and a yellow flag. “See how some
of the blades of grass in the smaller impression are lying flat in the direction of the concrete patio? That’s the person walking to the back of the house. Now, see how some of the blades of the larger print are lying over the top of those diagonally? That tells me they were made after the smaller print . . . but by how much, I can’t tell you.”

  COLUMBIA CENTER

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Sloane stepped from the elevator onto the fifty-fourth floor, wiping sweat from his temples. He asked the receptionist for Barclay Reid’s assistant, Nina Terry. His calls to Reid’s cell phone had gone immediately to voice mail. When he called the office, Terry said Reid was in a morning meeting. She reiterated that information when she met Sloane in the reception area but said they were finishing up.

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  Terry led him to an interior conference room without windows and brought him coffee. Ten minutes passed before the door pushed open and Reid entered with an uncertain smile. “David?”

  “I’m sorry to take you from your meeting.”

  “Is everything okay? Nina said you called.”

  “I just came from Rebecca Han’s office.”

  Reid’s shoulders sagged. “She won’t help?”

  “No, that’s not it. While I was there, she got a call from her chief investigator on the Vasiliev matter.” He paused. “Vasiliev is dead, Barclay. Someone shot him last night.” Reid did not immediately react. Then she pulled out a chair and sat, eyes focused on the tabletop. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel.” She looked up at him. “I’m not going to lie . . . part of me is glad he’s dead. But part of me feels like he just cheated me all over again.”

  “Do you want to get a cup of coffee, take some time?”

  She shook her head. “I have meetings this morning and this afternoon . . .”

  “You could reschedule—”

  She cut him off. “No. I’m not going to let him affect my life any more than he already has. Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it.”