Bodily Harm (12 page)

Sloane shook his head, uninterested in visitors, but Jenkins was already moving toward the hospital room door. Before Sloane could protest further, Jenkins had departed and Detective Tom Molia stepped into the room.

Sloane smiled at the familiar face. Tears welled in his eyes. “Tom.”

Molia walked in and handed Sloane a card, then bent and hugged him. Four years earlier the West Virginia police detective had helped Sloane track down the men responsible for killing his mother, but not before they had endured an ordeal together. The experience had bonded them, and the two men had stayed in contact despite living on opposite sides of the country. Sloane still kept the photograph of Molia’s green Chevy—on which the detective had written
Does not have air-conditioning
—beneath a magnet on his refrigerator door.

Molia did not try to hide his emotions. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “You know us Italians,” he said stepping back. “We’re criers.”

“How did you get here?” Sloane asked, knowing that Molia feared flying.

“I drove. It was time to come out and spend some time with my mother in Oakland,” he said. “I brought Maggie and the kids with me.”

“You drove the Chevy?”

“In this heat, without air-conditioning, are you kidding? Maggie would divorce me.”

The detective pulled up a chair and sat. “I heard about it on the news and called. Charlie filled me in. I thought I’d give you some time. I’m so sorry, David. I’m so damn sorry.”

Sloane nodded. What was there to say?

“I ran some checks through the normal channels and asked a friend at the FBI for a favor, but I didn’t find anything useful. Without a name or a fingerprint, something . . .”

Sloane shook his head. “I appreciate the effort.”

“I also ran a check on the company, Kendall Toys, and the guy, Malcolm Fitzgerald. Both came up clean too. Not even the hint of cheating on their taxes. And I put out an APB for Kyle Horgan, but so far nothing.”

Charles Jenkins’s research had also revealed nothing on Horgan’s whereabouts. There was no activity on his bank account and no record of a credit card. Horgan had never gone back to his apartment and Sloane had to presume that the young man was dead, his body someplace where it would never be found.

“I just wish I had something for you,” Molia said.

The two men spent an hour together then Molia stood. “I better let you get some rest,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do, you call me, you understand.”

“I know. Thanks, Tom. It means a lot to me.”

“You just promise me one thing. When you do find this guy, I want to be there.”

SLOANE SLEPT MUCH of the afternoon, but it had been fitful, filled with images of Tina in a cream-colored wedding dress, standing on the lawn at Three Tree Point. She slipped the gold ring onto Sloane’s finger, her face radiant, her eyes focused
only on him as the minister asked her to repeat her wedding vows. But as she started to speak blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, a small dribble that increased in volume until she began to choke on her words and blood spewed down her chin and the front of her dress. Sloane awoke in a start, gasping, his hospital gown drenched in sweat.

Charles Jenkins sat in the chair beside the bed, reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and a book in his lap but his focus was on Sloane. Sloane took a moment to catch his breath.

“The detectives are back,” Jenkins said. “The doctor told them you could talk if you feel up to it. I’ve already sent them away a few times. This time they decided to wait.”

Sloane knew he could not put off the meeting forever. “Let’s get it over with.”

When Jenkins returned, a man and a woman dressed in suits followed him. The man, somewhat overweight, introduced himself as Detective Spinelli. The woman was his partner, Detective Adams.

Spinelli thanked Sloane for taking the time to talk to them and offered his condolences. He spoke from behind a neatly trimmed mustache. Heavy, with jowls, he reminded Sloane of a walrus.

The detective opened an envelope and handed Sloane black-and-white photographs. When he considered them, Sloane felt an adrenaline rush that caused his jaws to clench. Though the images were grainy, the face was clear enough, one that Sloane would never forget.

“You recognize him?” Spinelli asked.

Sloane put the first picture behind the stack and went through the others, studying the face, trying to commit each distinct feature to memory.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the guy.”

“You’re sure, take your time.”

“I don’t have to take my time, detective. That’s him. Who is he?”

“We don’t know.” Spinelli reached for the photographs.

Sloane put a hand to his throat. “Could I have a glass of water?”

Spinelli turned and picked up a plastic pitcher from the tray beside the bed and motioned to Adams to grab him a cup from the counter. She was a good foot shorter than her partner and further dwarfed by Jenkins. Spinelli filled the cup and handed it to Sloane, who exchanged it for the envelope of photographs.

“Where did you get the photographs?” Sloane asked.

“Do you know a Kyle Horgan, Mr. Sloane?”

The question caught Sloane off guard. “Not personally. He came to my office building one morning but I didn’t have time to talk to him. Why?”

“Was that the only time you met him?”

“I didn’t meet with him. I had just finished a trial in superior court and I was hurrying because the clerk called to say the jury was back. Judge Rudolph isn’t the patient type.”

The two detectives shared a look and a grin. “We’ve been there. Rudolph used to be on the criminal calendar. He’s a ballbuster for punctuality. You’d never met Mr. Horgan before he came to your building?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see or talk to him again?”

Sloane suspected where the conversation was headed, and it raised another question. “Are you investigating my wife’s murder?”

Spinelli shook his head. “No, Mr. Sloane, that’s being handled by the King County Sheriff’s Office.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re with the Seattle Police Department. Could you answer my question?”

“No, I never saw him again. But I did go to his apartment building in Pioneer Square.” Sloane wanted to ask if they had found Horgan’s body somewhere, but that would only make the detectives question why Sloane thought Horgan could have been the subject of foul play.

“Why did you go to his apartment?”

“When he came to see me, Mr. Horgan said that a doctor I had just tried the case against wasn’t responsible for the death of a young boy. He said he was.”

“
He
meaning Horgan?”

“That’s right.”

“So you did talk to him.”

“That was the extent of our conversation.”

“What did you take that to mean?”

“No idea. I guess I initially thought he was crazy.”

“So why then go to his apartment?”

Sloane took a moment. “Because he said it with such conviction and it was such a random comment for someone to make that I thought it best to give him a chance to explain himself.”

“But he wasn’t there.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Did you speak to anyone else while you were there?”

“The building manager.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said he hadn’t seen Mr. Horgan in a week.”

“How long did you and the manager talk?”

“Not long. A few minutes. Listen, detective, what is it you want to know?” Sloane knew the connection but did his best to play it out. “Where did you get the photographs and what relationship does that man have to Kyle Horgan?”

“The photographs were taken from a hidden video camera at Mr. Horgan’s apartment building. It seems the owner was having
trouble with burglaries, people stealing tenant mail. He installed the camera about a year ago. You were also on the tape.”

Spinelli did not tell Sloane they thought the man was responsible for the building manager’s death but Sloane already knew that.

“I don’t understand. What was he doing at the building?”

“We don’t know. We thought you might.”

Sloane shook his head.

“You don’t know anything more about him, what business he might have had at that building?”

Sloane shook his head. “What did Mr. Horgan say?”

“We don’t know. We haven’t found him yet.”

“He’s missing?”

“Appears that way.”

“Do you know anything more about this man, his name, anything?”

Sloane knew the detectives could run a person’s name, fingerprints, DNA, or picture through a crime lab to determine whether there was any match with records stored in the system. He also knew from his conversation with Tom Molia that the man who killed Tina was not in that system, further confirming the man was a professional killer, not a random criminal.

“Not yet,” Spinnelli said. “But we’ll keep you posted.”

Spinelli handed Sloane a business card. “If you think of anything else . . .”

Sloane took the card and waited until the two detectives had excused themselves and exited the room. Then he sat up and disconnected the IV drip from his arm.

“What are you doing?” Jenkins asked.

“Getting out of here.”

“The doctor won’t release you. He said another few days.”

Sloane pulled out the photograph from beneath the covers, the one he had slipped there when the detective turned to get him a glass of water. Part of his sense of helplessness had been not
knowing who the man was, or having any way to find out. Now they had a chance, and that was all the motivation he needed to get better.

He handed Jenkins the photograph. “Find him for me, Charlie, whatever it takes.”

“Why not let the police know? Tell them what you know; maybe they can find him.”

Sloane pulled the clear tape off his arm. “He’s not in their system or they wouldn’t have been here asking me questions. If I tell them I think there’s a connection between this man and Horgan and Fitzgerald, they’ll question Fitzgerald, and that will only make him more guarded before I can get to him. I want Fitzgerald to think he got away with this. I want him to make a mistake.” Sloane pointed to the photograph. “Just like he made a mistake. And I’m going to make him pay for it, just like I said.”

Jenkins nodded.

“But first I’m going to get my son back.”

MONTGOMERY STREET
FINANCIAL DISTRICT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

THE DOCTORS HAD strongly recommended against Sloane leaving the hospital, but he could not be deterred, just as Jenkins could not be deterred from accompanying Sloane to San Francisco. Sloane had wanted to surprise the Larsens, but Jenkins had convinced him to call ahead.

“Jake’s been through enough,” he said. “The last thing he needs to see is a confrontation between you and his grandparents.”

Sloane compromised by calling Frank Carter, Jake’s biological father. The two men had always had a cordial relationship, though Carter seemed uncomfortable around Sloane, which could have
been due to any number of reasons, not the least of which was that Carter had never fulfilled his financial or emotional obligations as Jake’s father. Sloane sensed Carter to be even more sheepish than normal during their conversation, but he said he would try to arrange a meeting with the Larsens. It took more than an hour before Carter called back. When he did, he provided Sloane with a Montgomery Street address that turned out to be not far from the Transamerica Pyramid building in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district.

Inside the building lobby, Sloane confirmed the address to be an attorney’s office, the suite occupied by the Law Offices of Harper, Peters, and Cominos. Sloane stepped from the elevator into a modest reception area with dated furnishings and uninspiring prints hanging on the walls. He didn’t have to give his name to the receptionist; he could see Bill and Terri Larsen sitting at a conference table in a glass-walled room just behind the desk. Frank Carter had positioned himself at the opposite end of the table, and Sloane wondered if that was symbolic. At the head of the table sat a man in a button-down shirt, bow tie, and suit jacket who Sloane guessed to be either Harper, Peters, or Cominos.

Leaning on his cane and already beginning to feel exhausted, Sloane limped into the conference room, bringing the conversation to an abrupt halt.

He addressed his in-laws. “Bill, Terri.” Neither responded. “Frank.”

Frank Carter nodded. “Hi, David.”

The suit approached, hand outstretched. “Mr. Sloane, I’m Jeff Harper. Thank you for coming. Can I get you a cup of coffee or glass of water?”

Sloane declined.

Harper had a high-pitched voice and a ring of gray hair on an otherwise bald head. Sloane estimated him to be in his midsixties,
about the same age as the Larsens, and probably either their personal attorney or a family friend. The man’s breath had an acidic odor Sloane associated with nerves. He’d smelled it before on attorneys during trials. Harper likely spent the majority of his time behind a desk and not litigating in the courtroom.

“Why don’t we all take a seat,” Harper said, though only he and Sloane stood.

Sloane sat opposite the Larsens. Harper returned to the head of the table.

“We have some things to talk about,” Harper said.

Maybe it was the throbbing pain in his leg and shoulder, but Sloane had already tired of the charade. “I don’t know you, Mr. Harper. We don’t have anything to talk about.” He looked across the table. “You can’t talk to me directly, Bill? Terri?”

The Larsens could barely raise their eyes from the mahogany tabletop. When they did, their focus found Harper.

“My clients would prefer that all communication go through me.”

Sloane sat back. “Fine.”

“As you know, the deceased set up a trust and placed funds in that trust for the well-being of Jake.”

When Sloane and Tina married, she had a modest savings account and the equity from the sale of her flat in the Sunset District of San Francisco, real estate she had purchased with the financial help of her parents. When she sold it, Sloane encouraged her to place the funds in a trust for Jake, to be distributed in installments at various points in his life.