“What? The shooting in Montlake?” I leaned forward. Nate set a heavy tray on the rattan ottoman, and returned a moment later with a stainless steel vacuum pot.
“When Mrs. Halloran said she wanted to call you, I agreed because we know your friendship,” Tracy said. “And we know this is a shock.”
Last winter, Laurel and I had found the body of an up-and-coming young chef. In that encounter, and others, I thought Tracy had come to see me as helpful. But he might not want to admit that in front of the FBI.
If Tracy could be subtle, I could be humble.
“Same gun, same neighborhood,” Eric said from his post by the French doors leading to the deck, one arm around Kristen’s shoulders. She looked as stunned as I felt. “Any other connection between the crimes or the victims that you know of?”
“They were acquainted,” Tracy said.
“Who?” I asked. “Who is he? How is he?”
“Is anybody going to pour that coffee, or are we just going to let the smell torture us?”
Our questions were reasonable, but clearly, Tracy wasn’t ready to answer. Such is the power of Vitamin C. Laurel poured and I passed out cups and saucers, along with a plate of almond biscotti from Ripe, her downtown deli. I forced myself not to fall on them like a starving hyena.
Up to this point, Special Agent Greer had said nothing more than her name and that she was pleased to meet us. When we all had coffee, doctored to taste, and a cookie, she spoke. “I’m here because Mr. Halloran was an Assistant United States Attorney, which makes his murder a federal offense.”
“But only if he was murdered because of his official duties,” Eric interjected. “Making this a joint investigation. Is the new victim also a federal employee?”
“No,” Greer said. “Unfortunately, she’s not in any condition to talk to us.”
“She?” That surprised me. “Who is she?”
Tracy slipped a plastic sleeve out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Laurel. I stretched an arm behind her and peered over her shoulder.
“Oh my god.” My hand flew to my mouth.
“You know her?” Tracy asked.
But when I raised my head to answer, I didn’t look at him. I looked at Kristen.
“It’s Maddie Petrosian.”
Two
Burning coffee grounds mixed with bay leaves is said to repel almost any bug.
“NOT THAT I SHOULD BE SURPRISED,” DETECTIVE TRACY SAID. “But this is Seattle, not Mount Podunk. Suppose you tell me how you know Ms. Petrosian.”
“Is she okay?” I asked him. “Tell me she’s okay. How did we not know?” I asked Kristen.
“It’s a relief to see that the SPD can keep some secrets,” Tracy replied. “She’s still unconscious. Head shot. The docs repaired an intracranial bleed. They won’t know if there’s any lasting damage until she wakes up. In the meantime, we have no witnesses and little to go on.”
I’d spent part of my childhood in Montlake, so when the nightly news mentioned a shooting in the old grocery on Twenty-Fourth East, my ears had perked up. But the report had been short on detail and hadn’t named the victim.
“How did we not know?” I asked Kristen again.
“I wondered why Tim wasn’t at soccer practice,” she said. “He called when we were getting ready tonight, but I didn’t answer and he didn’t leave a message. I’ll text him now.”
“Might be good to hear what the detective has to say first,” Eric suggested.
“Wait.” Greer held up a hand, her gaze darting from me to Kristen and back. “You knew both the first victim and the second?”
I felt myself flush, as though I’d been accused of wrongdoing and the explanation, simple as it was, would only make things sound worse.
“We went to school with Maddie, from kindergarten on,” I replied, then glanced at Nate, his face creased with confusion. “Kristen sees more of her than I do. I never knew Pat Halloran. He died before we became friends with Laurel.”
“You knew Pat, though, didn’t you? From cases you’d had?” Kristen asked Eric, who nodded. She turned her attention back to Greer. “Maddie’s kids and our girls are close in age. They go to the same schools. We see Maddie and Tim, her husband, at soccer games and school events. And we’ve been to their place on Whidbey Island.”
“As I recall,” Tracy said. “From when Mr. Halloran was killed.”
Maddie Petrosian had been the Golden Girl in our class. Her great-grandparents survived the Armenian genocide and immigrated to Seattle, where they worked their tails off and amassed a fortune, mostly in real estate. Made sense for people driven from their homes to value land in their new country. Maddie and I both went to Seattle University after high school, but unlike me, she’d been a serious student. I dropped out after junior year, then stumbled into a career in HR at a prominent law firm, eventually finding my true calling in retail. Maddie, on the other hand, was magna cum everything. She went on to get an MBA, graduated first in her class, married the man who finished second, and took over the family business.
She was everything I wasn’t. And impossible to dislike.
“Her name’s in the file,” Tracy said to Greer. “In the interviews with the Neighbors United folks.”
So Greer was new on the case. New in town, too?
“As to why you didn’t know, we kept her name quiet at her husband’s request, until he could reach her mother,” Tracy continued. “She’s in Europe on some kind of tour, and he didn’t want her to hear the news from someone else. We released the name to the press this evening.”
