Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (37 page)

Dan jogged down the hill toward the Don Armeni Boat Ramp. He could feel the impact of the pavement in his shins and knees, and suspected the pounding wasn’t great on forty-two-year-old joints. Though the temperature remained cool, low fifties, the sun had come out and the warmth felt good on his face. Once he reached Harbor Way and his lungs warmed, Dan kept up a brisk pace, his ultimate destination the Alki Point Lighthouse.

Running had always been therapeutic for him, a time to think through problems or to just clear his head. Tracy had hit him with a lot to consider, namely the possibility of her moving back to Cedar Grove and the two of them starting a new life together. He knew part of her decision was the disappointment of being pulled from the task force, which was why he initially wanted her to take her time, but after what had transpired later, the killer showing up in her backyard, Dan wanted to get her back to Cedar Grove that day, someplace where he could protect her and keep her safe.

He was worried about her. He’d always been concerned that she’d never fully dealt with Sarah’s death. She hadn’t had the time to properly do so. The events that unfolded in Cedar Grove had been fast and furious. Then when Tracy returned to Seattle, she was thrown immediately into more insanity with the deaths of the dancers. Dan suspected she saw those victims as she saw her sister—her responsibility—and he was worried about the stress that guilt created.

Forty-four minutes into his run, Dan was back at the foot of the hill leading up to Tracy’s house. Round-trip, the run was just over six miles, but the hill made it feel like ten. Sherlock and Rex would have loved the run along the water, but they would have taken one look at that hill, sat their big butts on the concrete, and made it very clear the only way they were going up was in the back of the Tahoe. This morning, his adrenaline pumping, Dan didn’t hesitate. He hit the hill hard. When he reached the top, he was breathing heavily and sweating profusely. He intertwined his fingers behind his head as he walked down the block to Tracy’s gated entrance, stopping there to take some deep breaths. When he could once again breathe normally, he entered the new code on the keypad and pushed through the gate into the courtyard.

Tracy spent an hour reading the documents Polanco had dropped on her desk, highlighting dates and times and beginning to construct a timeline. Though nearly bored to tears, she was glad to have something to pass the time. Still, she was relieved when her desk phone rang, thinking it Kins.

“Detective Crosswhite, this is Detective Sergeant Rawley with OPA. We had a meeting at one thirty.”

Tracy looked at the clock on her computer, surprised to find that it was 1:40. “I was told to wait until my attorney called.”

“Your attorney is here.”

“News to me. I’ll head over.”

She hung up, retrieved her jacket and purse and started from her desk when her cell rang. She fished it from her purse and saw the number for the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab. “Mike?” she said, looking around as she headed quickly to the elevator bank.

“There’s a place called Hooverville on First Avenue, far enough south and just divey enough that nobody but the cool kids go there. Buy me a beer and I’ll spill my guts.”

Tracy looked at her watch. “Be there in ten minutes.”

Detective Sergeant Rawley was not going to be happy.

He maneuvered the van to the curb and looked at the reflection in the side mirror. He could see the spiked fence enclosing the courtyard leading to Tracy Crosswhite’s home. A nice security measure, like the motion-activated floodlights in the backyard. It just meant he had to be more resourceful.

He knew the attorney had gone for a run, because he saw him jogging along the water’s edge. If he kept to the same route he’d been running, he’d be back in less than an hour, which was more than enough time to get set up.

He stepped from the van, put on an orange reflector vest and yellow hard hat, took out a transit level, and set it on a tripod so that the lens was facing the house at a forty-five-degree angle. The attorney was right-handed.

He went back to the van and removed a can of fluorescent orange spray paint and sprayed a few lines and random numbers on the pavement. Then he waited.

The attorney came down the block a few minutes ahead of schedule, but with his hands clasped behind his head, struggling to catch his breath. Maybe he wasn’t in such great shape after all, though there was no doubt he was what Tracy wanted. There was no refuting that. He’d seen it for himself. He felt like such a fool. She’d made him feel like such a damn fool. She’d had a boyfriend the whole time.

He set his eye to the lens and adjusted the focus, scribbled random numbers on a small pad of paper for effect, and acted as if he were adjusting the level. The attorney turned and looked at him as he approached the gated entrance, but it was only a passing glance.

He focused the lens on the keypad for the lock. The attorney made no attempt to conceal it. He pressed four numbers, 5-8-2-9, then the pound sign. Tracy had changed the combination, as he’d suspected she might. She was a smart, well-trained detective after all. The attorney pushed the gate open, shut it behind him, and walked across the courtyard.

He shifted the transit and quickly adjusted the focus to see clearly the keypad to the front door. The attorney entered the same four numbers, wiped his feet, and went inside.

She was smart. He was smarter.

Melton hadn’t oversold the bar. Hooverville wasn’t much to look at from the outside, understated with a green-and-white sign over the door that simply said “Bar.” Metal cages covered the two windows facing the sidewalk. Inside, Tracy’s boots crunched peanut shells strewn across the floor. Vintage chandeliers hung over retro dinette tables. Melton stood at a pinball machine in the corner, pushing levers and shaking the machine, making lights flash and bells ring. Tracy waited until he mistimed the flippers, and the silver ball rolled down the chute.

“Hate this game,” he said. “Let’s grab a booth.”

He carried a pint of beer to a cracked leather booth and sat shucking peanuts and tossing the shells. A waitress in a white T-shirt, sporting a fair number of tattoos approached.

“Iced tea,” Tracy said.

Melton tapped his pint of beer. “Bring her one of these, Kay.”

The waitress left, and a different woman brought out a tray of what appeared to be fixings for tacos. She set it on a table against the wall and departed without saying a word to anyone.

“Lunch,” Melton said, already sliding from his seat. “Come on, they do this occasionally for the regulars. Grab one. They won’t last.”

Tracy followed Melton’s lead, returning to the table with a shell overflowing with ground beef, cheese, and tomatoes. She was grateful for the taco. She hadn’t eaten all day. She crunched the shell and leaned over her plate as some of the filling squirted out the other side.

Melton wiped at his beard with a paper napkin. “Heard you got a scare last night.”

Tracy finished swallowing, set down her taco, and wiped her fingers. “Came to my home, Mike.”

“Too bad you didn’t shoot his ass,” Melton said.

“Can you help me with that?”

Melton reached into his coat pocket and slid a folded sheet of paper across the table. “DNA from Beth Stinson.”

Tracy picked it up, reading.

“Not a hit for Wayne Gerhardt,” Melton said.

Tracy knew it. “And?”

“Sorry. Not a hit for anyone in the system.”

She sat back and considered the information. She’d had visions of Melton giving her a name and her driving to the police station to tell Johnny Nolasco to take the job and shove it. “Would have made my job easier, but as Faz likes to say, it ain’t nothing.”

“I heard it’s not your job anymore,” Melton said. “Nolasco called. Told me not to do the analysis, not to spend the money.”

“But you’d already done it.”

“I hadn’t,” he said, wiping his beard again. “I just needed the right motivation.”

CHAPTER 50

T
racy met Kins early the following morning at a coffee shop in the Madison Park neighborhood. She was nursing a hangover. She and Dan had gone out to dinner, and she’d indulged in two martinis. On top of the two beers she’d had with Melton earlier that afternoon, it was more than she’d drunk in months. She didn’t mention her evening to Kins, suspecting he’d worked another late night.

“You need to look into Nicole Hansen and Gabrielle Lizotte,” she said, her head pounding like it might split. “Find out if they told anyone they had a date that evening, or if they had any service repairs done at their apartments, on their cars, anything at all.”

“You really think this guy knows his victims?”

“Melton ran the DNA analysis for Beth Stinson.”

“I thought Nolasco told him not to.”

“He’d already run it,” she lied. “He didn’t get a hit for Gerhardt. Think about that. The guy’s fingerprints were all over the house, but no DNA?”

“And since he’s spent the last nine years in prison, we can be reasonably certain he isn’t our Cowboy.”

“Exactly.”

“Did Melton get
any
positive hits?”

“No one in the system.”

“So not Bankston, Gipson, Taggart, or Tomey,” Kins said, each of whom had either been convicted of a crime, served in the military, or had voluntarily provided a DNA sample. That leaves Nash.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Kins sat back, hands cradling his cup of coffee. “Nolasco’s up to something. He’s leaving the building but not telling anyone where he’s going. Amanda Santos called looking for him yesterday. She said he left her a message to call him ASAP but didn’t say what about. She also said he’s asked the FBI to become more involved. He’s playing things close to the vest, asking us all a lot of questions but not sharing much.” Kins looked at his watch. “I better get moving. He called another meeting. If Justice had windows that opened, Faz would have jumped by now.”

They stepped outside. The temperature was brisk, but at least it wasn’t raining. The cold air felt soothing on Tracy’s headache.