face to the open sky, shivering in the sudden breeze, and his colorless eyes find a smattering of stars. How long does it take to be good?
Chapter 2
Alice Madison drives into the first light of the morning. Her own car smells fresh—not perfumed, just very clean and slightly leathery—and Madison drives it at the legal speed limit. From the speakers Arcade Fire blasts “No Cars Go” loud enough to knock any thoughts about what happened in the convenience store right out of her.
When news of her transfer to Homicide had come through, Brown and Spencer had done the usual checks. It was an unofficial tradition: a few phone calls here and there, and even Madison’s college records could have been pulled from the University of Chicago. What they learned was what they needed to know; the rest would take care of itself soon enough.
Alice Eleanor Madison was born in Los Angeles and had attended six different schools in six different cities before she arrived in Seattle at thirteen and apparently decided to stay put. University of Chicago, degree in psychology and criminology, magna cum laude. Sailed through the Police Academy and, Spencer was pleased to add, in the sixty-seconds hand-strength test held an above-ninety average for each hand, with a Model 19 Smith & Wesson.
“Just what we needed.” It was Brown’s only comment.
She was single, drank little, didn’t smoke, and paid her bills on time. She socialized occasionally with other cops but mostly kept herself to herself.
Dunne’s contribution to the background check was the fact that Madison had been asked out by at least seven of his acquaintances in other precincts and politely turned down every one of them, even the unmarried ones.
For the past four weeks Madison had been working flat out, keeping her eyes and ears open, her years in uniform only the foundation of the house she wanted to build. Between them Brown, Spencer, and Dunne had forty years on the job, twenty of them in Homicide. It was like being in school again.
Three Oaks was a tree-lined neighborhood on the southwestern edge of the city limits. Two- and three-story houses nestled behind Douglas firs, boasting well-tended gardens and two-car garages. Behind the houses the lawns sloped down to the waters of the Puget Sound. Small neat piers for boats and a narrow pebble beach ran along many properties, Vashon Island a dark green strip across the water. It represented quiet wealth; professionals bought in or inherited from their parents. Madison had inherited from her grandparents.
This early on a Sunday the streets were empty, and only a few keen birds dared break the silence. Madison turned into Maplewood Avenue and some yards later into her driveway. For just one heartbeat she thought she saw someone in one of the first-floor windows, but she knew it was only the shadow of a tree.
She parked her car next to her grandparents’ Mercedes. It had not been driven now for over a year, and Madison didn’t notice it any more than she did the trees around her or the rocks that lay under the fallen leaves. It was simply landscape.
A padded envelope was propped up against the door, nothing written on either side of it. Madison smiled; it felt soft and full to the touch. She let herself in and opened the little catch on the back of the manila. The note inside it read, Brunch is at 12. Come when you can. See you later. Rachel.
Madison dug into the envelope and took a bite off a chocolate chip cookie.
Shawna Williams had thanked her for waiting with the kid, even after the girl had pointed a gun at her.
Vague shapes were only beginning to form through the large windows onto the patio at the back. Madison sat down on the sofa and looked out at the lawn and the water. She leaned her head against the back.
Her mind flashed back to the girl gripping a gun for dear life. Rose. Madison knew with complete certainty what she would have done if the kid had tried to take a shot at Brown. It didn’t surprise
Chapter 2
Alice Madison drives into the first light of the morning. Her own car smells fresh—not perfumed, just very clean and slightly leathery—and Madison drives it at the legal speed limit. From the speakers Arcade Fire blasts “No Cars Go” loud enough to knock any thoughts about what happened in the convenience store right out of her.
When news of her transfer to Homicide had come through, Brown and Spencer had done the usual checks. It was an unofficial tradition: a few phone calls here and there, and even Madison’s college records could have been pulled from the University of Chicago. What they learned was what they needed to know; the rest would take care of itself soon enough.
Alice Eleanor Madison was born in Los Angeles and had attended six different schools in six different cities before she arrived in Seattle at thirteen and apparently decided to stay put. University of Chicago, degree in psychology and criminology, magna cum laude. Sailed through the Police Academy and, Spencer was pleased to add, in the sixty-seconds hand-strength test held an above-ninety average for each hand, with a Model 19 Smith & Wesson.
“Just what we needed.” It was Brown’s only comment.
She was single, drank little, didn’t smoke, and paid her bills on time. She socialized occasionally with other cops but mostly kept herself to herself.
Dunne’s contribution to the background check was the fact that Madison had been asked out by at least seven of his acquaintances in other precincts and politely turned down every one of them, even the unmarried ones.
For the past four weeks Madison had been working flat out, keeping her eyes and ears open, her years in uniform only the foundation of the house she wanted to build. Between them Brown, Spencer, and Dunne had forty years on the job, twenty of them in Homicide. It was like being in school again.
Three Oaks was a tree-lined neighborhood on the southwestern edge of the city limits. Two- and three-story houses nestled behind Douglas firs, boasting well-tended gardens and two-car garages. Behind the houses the lawns sloped down to the waters of the Puget Sound. Small neat piers for boats and a narrow pebble beach ran along many properties, Vashon Island a dark green strip across the water. It represented quiet wealth; professionals bought in or inherited from their parents. Madison had inherited from her grandparents.
This early on a Sunday the streets were empty, and only a few keen birds dared break the silence. Madison turned into Maplewood Avenue and some yards later into her driveway. For just one heartbeat she thought she saw someone in one of the first-floor windows, but she knew it was only the shadow of a tree.
She parked her car next to her grandparents’ Mercedes. It had not been driven now for over a year, and Madison didn’t notice it any more than she did the trees around her or the rocks that lay under the fallen leaves. It was simply landscape.
A padded envelope was propped up against the door, nothing written on either side of it. Madison smiled; it felt soft and full to the touch. She let herself in and opened the little catch on the back of the manila. The note inside it read, Brunch is at 12. Come when you can. See you later. Rachel.
Madison dug into the envelope and took a bite off a chocolate chip cookie.
Shawna Williams had thanked her for waiting with the kid, even after the girl had pointed a gun at her.
Vague shapes were only beginning to form through the large windows onto the patio at the back. Madison sat down on the sofa and looked out at the lawn and the water. She leaned her head against the back.
Her mind flashed back to the girl gripping a gun for dear life. Rose. Madison knew with complete certainty what she would have done if the kid had tried to take a shot at Brown. It didn’t surprise
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