The Gift of the Darkness by Valentina Giambanco Read Free Book Online

things pretty nasty for a prosecution witness.”
    “Yeah, well, most cops would rather stick pins into their eyes.” Brown smoothed down his tie with the flat of his left hand.
    They stepped out on the ninth floor and entered the offices of Quinn, Locke & Associates, where they showed their badges and asked to see Nathan Quinn. They were directed to a waiting area and asked if they wanted anything to drink, which they declined, and were told Mr. Quinn would see them in a few minutes. Madison looked around at the expensive art on the walls and remembered pictures in the papers of charity events Quinn had attended.
    They were shown to his office, and Nathan Quinn stood to greet them. He was somewhere in his forties; his eyes appeared black with the same grave quality Madison had noticed in court. Up close, he didn’t have the manner of detached affluence one might expect from a partner in a successful law firm with corporate clients. He looked likea man who would take somebody apart with whatever the legal system gave him, and, failing that, he’d simply use his bare hands.
    “Sergeant Brown. Detective Madison. What can I do for you? Please sit.”
    This was a man who was used to dealing with the police, and Madison realized that he probably thought they were there because of a case he was working on.
    “Mr. Quinn, is James Sinclair an associate in this firm?” Brown asked.
    Quinn sat back in his chair. “He’s been a partner for the last four years.”
    “How long have you known him?”
    “What is this about?”
    “I’m sorry,” Brown said. “I have some very bad news.”
    Quinn pulled himself back.
    “There is no good way to say this. James Sinclair was found dead this morning in his home. Murdered. His family . . .” Brown paused. “His wife and children, too.”
    “Annie . . . and the boys?”
    “Yes.”
    “What—what happened?”
    “An intruder. We think sometime on Saturday night.”
    Nathan Quinn leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his brow on his hands. For maybe a minute the only sound was the clicking of a computer keyboard somewhere nearby. When his gaze finally rose to meet theirs, he spoke again, his voice steady. “Where are they now?”
    “If you think you’re up to it, we’d like you to make a formal identification at the coroner’s.”
    “I understand.”
    “There are some questions we need to ask you—to ask the people who worked with Mr. Sinclair.”
    “Whatever I can do.” Quinn hesitated. “How did they—”
    “We’ll know more later on,” Brown said, avoiding the word postmortem.
    “Was it a burglary?”
    “It’s not clear yet.”
    “You said you had questions you’d like to ask me . . . ?”
    “We’d like to get a clear picture of the family. You knew them well?”
    “Yes, very.”
    “When was the last time you saw them?”
    “I saw James in the office on Friday. He left at about five, five thirty. I left a little after he did.”
    “Did you notice anything strange, anything unusual in his behavior in the last few weeks? Did he seem worried or concerned about anything?”
    “No. Everything was normal.”
    “How well did you know Mrs. Sinclair?”
    “As I said, quite well.”
    “Did you also meet the Sinclairs outside of work?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Did you visit their home?”
    “Yes.”
    “As far as you know, did they have any enemies, someone who might want to do them harm?”
    “Absolutely not. James is a tax lawyer, and Annie teaches in primary school. They are—they were—decent and kind and generous. They had no enemies.”
    “Nobody from an old case?”
    “No.”
    “You understand, Mr. Quinn, there are some personal questions we have to ask, as well.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “To your knowledge, were either James or Anne Sinclair having an affair, or were they engaged in any illegal activities?”
    “No,” Quinn said.
    “Would you know if they had been?” Brown asked gently.
    Quinn’s eyes held Brown’s for a