First Watch: An exclusive prequel to The Gift of Darkness (Alice Madison) Read online

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prelims

  Chapter One

  The Gift of Darkness

  First Watch

  V.M. Giambanco

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Quercus

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London

  W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2013 by V.M. Giambanco

  The moral right of V.M. Giambanco to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 84866 347 3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  V. M. Giambanco was born in Italy. She started in films as an editor’s apprentice in a 35mm cutting room and since then has worked on many award-winning UK and US pictures, from small independent projects to large studio productions. She lives in London.

  First Watch

  January was already halfway gone and soon it would be dark. The traffic inched its way along 8th Avenue and all along the Alaskan Way Viaduct and the on the bridges scattered throughout Seattle the flow of headlights would begin to flicker and glow. Alice Madison wondered what had pulled her back after graduating college in Chicago nine months earlier.

  She wished she could see a sliver of Elliott Bay from the corner of Virginia Street where she was standing – even a quick glimpse of water between the buildings would do – but she knew she was in the wrong place.

  Madison stomped her feet to keep warm. Heavy clouds were rolling in from the west and she could almost smell the snow in the air; tonight the homeless shelters would be packed, and Patrol would find the embers of garbage can fires lit to help the lost and the vulnerable get through the night.

  ‘Officer Madison,’ the secretary called out from inside the glass door.

  Madison nodded and automatically adjusted her buckle: she wasn’t yet used to the full weight of the belt, the Glock .40, and all the various add-ons, and – to her immense annoyance – she tended to fidget with the handcuffs case when nervous.

  The inside of the building was unpleasantly warm after the chill outside. Madison followed the secretary – forties, professionally coloured hair, maroon trouser suit – down the pale green corridors of the Settle Police Department Headquarters. She was familiar with the building but she had never been in the suite of offices and meeting rooms on the first floor, and she’d have been pleased to keep it that way.

  The secretary rapped twice on a door and showed Madison inside; seven people turned to look – only one of them wore a uniform, she noticed.

  ‘Officer Madison, do come in and have a seat.’ Sgt. Pete Richards, Office of Professional Responsibility, gestured to an empty chair at the long table. It was a smart room in shades of oatmeal; on one wall, a picture of Chief Torres next to a picture of President George W. Bush.

  Pitbull Richards, Madison thought. Everyone in the department knew him by that name, chances were even his family called him Pitbull, and with very good reason. He looked like a wrestler with a buzz haircut and deep-set eyes the colour of lead.

  ‘Right. Now that we’re all here we can start. Officer, a few introductions.’ Richards went around the table. Five men, two women. The uniform was Captain Lowell – Madison knew him by sight. The others, whose names she hoped her brain had somehow retained, were other O.P.R. detectives, a union rep, a secretary who was taking minutes, a member of an ethics review board she didn’t even know existed and the department’s consultant psychologist. Madison, who had a degree in Psychology & Criminology, was not entirely sure she liked the combination of skills assembled in the room.

  Richards introduced everyone and then sat back in his chair at the head of the table.

  ‘This is an informal chat, Officer,’ he said, and smiled briefly in the way another person would use a comma.

  Sure thing, Pitbull, which is why Jenny there is taking notes.

  ‘I understand,’ Madison replied.

  ‘Let’s just have a little context first. You’re assigned to Patrol, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And how long have you been on patrol duty?’

  ‘Twenty-seven days,’ Madison replied.

  A couple of people looked up from their paperwork.

  ‘Twenty-seven days? You’re still a probationary officer?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll finish my one year in December.’

  ‘So, you’ve gone through the Academy, the advance training, the field training, and now you’re twenty-seven days into your first real experience of patrol work in Seattle. Correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Madison read him easily because he didn’t care whether she saw his game – the hand had been dealt and she was stuck with the cards she had been given.

  ‘We’ve all read the reports, we’ve all seen the pictures. What we are interested in here, today, is those fine distinctions that sometimes don’t make it into a report. We hope you can help us with that. Your record at the Academy and during your training has been exemplary, and there are great hopes for your future in the department.’ Richards gave her a ‘comma’ smile. ‘You are the kind of officer we want on the street.’

  You have no idea what kind of officer I will make, and neither do I. Madison bristled quietly but hung on to the manners her grandmother had taught her.

  ‘What kind of fine distinctions did you have in mind, Sir?’ she asked.

  ‘A police report deals in facts, we know the facts of the case in question. What we need from you are “shading in” details,’ Richards said. ‘Tell us what happened on the night of January third, Officer Madison. You were on first watch, East Precinct.’

  *

  First watch is 3 a.m. to noon and your body doesn’t get used to the shift in sleeping patterns for quite a while. By the time you rotate shifts again you are so used to being wide awake in the middle of the night that it’s impossible to even lie down before 2 a.m.

  If you’re working first watch you have few friends and no social life. Madison didn’t mind, her badge was so shiny and new it practically glowed. She arrived early and was happy to stay as long as needed.

  Her partner was Sgt. Carrie Weston, who had twelve years in SPD, all in Patrol, and Madison knew she had lucked out: Weston was capable, experienced and, best of all, a great teacher.

  The night of January third the Shift Commander beckoned Madison as she reported for duty.

  ‘Weston is at Harborview with appendicitis—’

  ‘Is she—’

  ‘She’s going to be fine but tonight you’re going to partner with someone else because we’re busier than heck and I need everybody on the street. Walsh!’ the Commander called out. ‘Come meet your new partner.’

  Sgt. Frank Walsh
had fourteen years in Patrol; Madison knew him, that is to say she knew of him.

  *

  ‘At that point, had you met Sgt. Walsh before?’ Richards asked.

  ‘No, I had not.’

  ‘Any common friends? Acquaintances maybe?’

  ‘No, but I’d heard about the Lavelle case.’

  Everyone in the department had heard of the Lavelle case. Clinton Lavelle had filed a complaint against Sgt. Walsh for use of excessive force during an arrest. Pitbull Richards had handled the complaint – the third against Walsh over ten years, the second one he had handled – and, in spite of his best intentions, he had failed to make a case for dismissal.

  *

  It was unusual to put a probationary officer with someone like Walsh, who couldn’t care less about teaching.

  In spite of the stories, nothing had ever stuck, Madison reflected as they made their way to their car. She hated rumors and had no time for office politics; in the end the man would show her his character on the street because that’s the only place where it mattered.

  ‘You Tommy Madison’s kid?’ Walsh asked her as he fished out the car keys.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You sure? You look like you could be Tommy’s kid; he’s a SWAT shift Commander.’

  Madison had not seen or spoken to her father since she was twelve. He might be cutting the deck in Joey Cavizzi’s basement in Vegas, waiting to double up on a good hand of Texas hold’em. Madison didn’t know and was glad not to care.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said.

  ‘I heard about you,’ Walsh continued. ‘Norton, the gunny, said you’re a good shooter and you’re going to compete in the Open.’

  J.B. Norton, former Gunnery Sergeant and current firearm instructor at the SPD, had a mighty good day when he found Madison in the batch of new recruits – the kind of day the swim coach had the first time Michael Phelps splashed feet first into a pool.

  Madison shrugged – a hopelessly juvenile gesture she was doing her best to eliminate.

  ‘I do okay.’

  Walsh smiled. ‘Jeez, may the Good Lord protect us all from modesty.’

  The car rolled out into the road. Walsh was early forties; he could have been a farmer in early 1900s photographs – tall and skinny but with a kind of wiry resilience.

  Madison kept quiet as they drove along and Walsh scanned the street. She was getting to know the East Precinct night after night: she had lived in Seattle since she was thirteen but always in the South West neighborhood of Three Oaks. The East Precinct at 3 a.m. was another world and she felt like a tourist with a badge.

  *

  ‘What time did the call come in?’ Richards said.

  Madison didn’t need to consult her notebook, the whole night was etched on her skin.

  ‘It came in at 3:57 a.m. – a disturbance call. Dispatch had three different calls from the same street with a noise complaint about one specific address.’ Madison replied. ‘We responded; we were the first to arrive.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  You know exactly what we found.

  ‘We arrived there and we heard it just as we made the turn into Leonard Street. A lot of the neighbors were out in the front gardens, the whole street had been woken up. The music was coming from a two-storey single residence and it was beyond loud. It was . . .’ Madison closed her eyes for a second. The house was blazing in the street’s gloom: every window was glowing and a river of sound was streaming out. It was difficult to describe it because the sound was more than decibel level: it found all those soft human bodies in the street, thumped on their chests with a vibration that went right through the bone and carried a sense of menace that had made the fine hairs on her arms rise against her sleeves.

  *

  ‘What the hell?’ Walsh said, and she almost lost his words in the booming chaos. ‘Is your vest in the trunk?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your vest!’ he yelled. ‘Is it in the trunk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Put it on, put it on now.’

  The noise was even worse out of the car. They opened the trunk and slipped on their ballistic vests as the neighbors crowded around them.

  ‘I want everybody back into your houses. I mean it, folks!’ Walsh hollered, looking around at the group. ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘I did.’ A woman in her sixties edged forward, she wore a green Gore-Tex jacket thrown over a flannel nightshirt.

  ‘When did it start?’

  The three of them huddled close to be able to hear each other.

  ‘About fifteen, twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘You know the family who lives in that house?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, there’s four of them. Mum and dad and two teenage kids, a boy and a girl. The girl started college last autumn.’

  ‘Family name?’

  ‘Bailey.’

  ‘Okay, thank you. Now you go home, let us do what we do.’

  The woman nodded again and wandered off towards her house with one last look over her shoulder.

  Walsh turned to Madison. ‘This is about to go sideways.’ He said and tightened the Velcro straps on his vest. ‘This kind of thing . . . someone wants cops to come along and check it out.’

  ‘I understand.’ Madison felt the slow drip of adrenaline that had started as they’d turned into the road. Adrenaline is normal, she told herself – her hand on the cuffs case – she would be foolish not to be on full alert.

  ‘We’re going up to the front door, if that’s locked and we get no answer, we’re going around that side.’ He pointed to the right hand side.

  Walsh started moving and they left the road – the glow from the windows throwing light on the hard ground – they crossed the front garden, walked up the steps to the porch and all the time Madison felt the music pounding through her. And then she knew what it was: the Ronettes, ‘Be My Baby’. Over and over and over again: the drum opening, the chorus driving the beat, and, behind it, the violins telling their own story.

  Walsh knocked on the front door three times – the glass panes shaking with each rap. He called out, his lips moving to form words they could barely hear. He tried the handle but it was locked.

  Madison’s hand rested on the butt of the Glock and she understood two things: the first was that she needed to keep her focus because every cell of her body felt scattered by the music; the second was that unless they kept a clear line of sight between them, it would be impossible to communicate with Walsh and for one to know where the other was or what he was doing.

  There was no reply at the door and from where they stood they could only glimpse the hallway – there was nothing special there: a coat rack, a bench, a pretty little table with a bowl for the keys. Walsh studied the room and suddenly he pointed to a spot on the floor a few inches from the inside of the door: they had to stand on tiptoe to see.

  Madison looked, saw and nodded. They both automatically undid the safety strap on their pieces. Five large and perfectly round drops of blood shone slick and dark on the polished wooden floor.

  Walsh indicated with his chin the side of the house and took point. Madison, who had always been keen on forensics, knew enough about blood spatter patterns to know that the shape of the drops meant the person who had been injured was standing by the threshold and the blood drops had fallen at a right angle.

  It could mean many things: a sudden nosebleed, a plain domestic fall, or a forced entry where someone was hurt.

  They rounded the corner of the wooden house and saw the large window almost at the opposite end, the light from it fell on the narrow space between the building and a side fence.

  Walsh proceeded with confidence and Madison followed close. They reached the edge of the windowsill a few inches above their eye-line; Walsh stopped and so did she. He peeked out; it was a rapid movement that Madison had done countless times in training. He flattened himself back against the wall and drew his weapon. His expression had not changed. They switched sides and Madi
son prepared to peek above the windowsill: one swift movement and let the eyes do their job.

  Madison stood, looked, and quickly withdrew to where Welsh was standing: he pointed at the radio hooked by her collar-bone and he pointed to the street. Madison nodded and ran, her steps soundless in the stream of music.

  She needed to be heard, she needed to speak on the radio and be heard clearly.

  Madison reached the car, got in and spoke through the radio crackle: ‘Request immediate back-up and SWAT support, we have a hostage situation. One intruder – possibly more – armed and dangerous, four hostages, at least one of them injured . . .’ She kept it straight and simple and was very glad Dispatch replied in measured tones that back-up and Fire’s medics were on the way.

  It had been barely a glimpse into the room but it had been enough: four people were tied with wide silver duct tape to the dining room chairs, cloths had been shoved into their mouths and they had been blindfolded. The chairs were lined up: as the neighbor had said, ‘mum, dad and two teenage kids – a boy and a girl’. A young man in his early twenties was moving about the room – tall and muscular, in his right hand a kitchen knife the length of Madison’s forearm, in his waistband the butt of a gun.

  Madison clicked off the radio and got out of the car. She ran across the empty street to the side of the house where she had left Walsh. There had been a moment of startling silence between the end of the track and the beginning of the repeat; her steps were ridiculously loud in the break and her ears were ringing. She had to remember that, she told herself. The song was about two and a half minutes long, maybe less, then a three second beat of silence and back again to the Ronettes.

  This is absurd, this is surreal. By the side of the house, the window about six steps ahead of her, Madison skidded to a stop. Walsh wasn’t there anymore. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he might make a move without her and she swore under her breath.

  Madison looked at the Glock in her hand and saw the infinitesimal tremor in the muzzle; she breathed deeply, steadied her heart and dashed under the windowsill and past it. She would have seen Walsh if he had come back, he could only have gone forward.