Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (39 page)

With the light fading, he’d decided to take the whole box, and now he carried it to the back of the Tahoe. As he shoved the box in the back, lights came around the corner of the row of buildings. Alita Gotchley rolled her Jeep to a stop and stepped out, leaving the engine running and the headlights mixing with the murky dusk.

“You found what you were looking for?” she asked, looking at the box.

“I hope so,” Dan said. “I haven’t had the chance to look too closely. I’m assuming it’s all right if I take the box with me?”

“Be my guest and Godspeed,” she said. “I came to see if you wanted to get that bite to eat before heading home. Traffic heading south will be a bitch this time of night.”

“I appreciate the offer, but since I’m this far north I’m going to sneak home to Cedar Grove and get my dogs. I’ve been gone so long I’m sure they think I’ve abandoned them.”

“I like to go antiquing up that way, and there’s a hot spring to die for. A friend of mine turned me on to it. I don’t suppose I could convince you to join me some weekend? You wouldn’t need a suit.”

Dan smiled. “Alita, I don’t think I could keep up with you.”

“Story of my life. Your physique, I figured you had a shot.” She gave him another wink and slipped back into her Irish brogue. “I guess this is good-bye then, Dan O’Leary. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine upon your face, the rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.”

“Ditto,” Dan said and gave her a hug.

Johnny Nolasco stepped back inside the shed, stomach and mind churning. The FBI had sent two agents to the Home Depot warehouse to arrest David Bankston. According to his supervisor, Bankston was working there that afternoon, but when the agents went to find him, Bankston was gone. No one had seen him leave, but his van wasn’t in the employee parking lot. When Nolasco got word that Bankston wasn’t at his job, he had a critical decision to make. He’d already texted Vanpelt, who was en route to Bankston’s home. The plan was for her to stumble upon the search and to call in a news helicopter. Timing was critical.

Nolasco made the call to go forward, figuring the odds were Bankston was either at home or they’d pick him up on his way. But that hadn’t been the case. And that was a problem.

At the back of the shed, Bankston had built a false wall with an interior door secured by a second padlock. When Nolasco stepped in, the first thing he saw was the nylon rope on the table. He felt elated, certain his instincts had been validated. He’d found the Cowboy. There was also a spiral notebook with handwritten entries, like a diary, and multiple scrapbooks containing articles and photographs meticulously cut out and glued to the pages—seemingly every news story on each of the four killings, with words underlined and paragraphs highlighted. It further confirmed Nolasco’s certainty that he had his man. What was troubling him were the dozens of photographs lining a side wall, a collage that seemed to have been meticulously put together—and in every picture a black
X
had been scratched across Tracy Crosswhite’s face.

Tracy grabbed a can of cat food from the cabinet and retrieved a spoon to bang on the top. The sound never failed to draw Roger’s attention. Daylight was fading fast, and raccoons and an occasional coyote roamed through the brush beneath her yard at night. Roger didn’t have the temperament for a fight. He was more likely to roll onto his back at the sight of a predator. And if he ventured down the hill to Harbor Way, he’d be certain roadkill.

She quickly descended the stairs and unlocked the door to the lower landing. With the curtains covering the windows facing east, the room was as dark as night. It wasn’t until Tracy had quickly crossed to the back door and reached to unlock it that she realized the deadbolt had been disengaged.

Kins bounced his BMW from the parking garage onto Seattle’s surface streets, the portable strobe lights flashing blue and red in the dusk. Faz gripped the handle above the passenger door. The other hand pressed his cell phone to his ear as he talked with dispatch.

Kins maneuvered around an SUV that had pulled only partway to the curb, slowed to let additional traffic congestion clear, and continued down the hill to the on-ramp to the Alaskan Way Viaduct.

“Tell them to get ahold of the officer watching her house and have him knock on her door,” Faz instructed dispatch.

“No good,” Kins said from the driver’s seat. “Nolasco removed the patrol. They’re not watching the house anymore. Have them send a patrol car out of the Southwest Precinct.”

Faz relayed the request.

“And tell them to bring the Ram-It,” Kins said.

Faz repeated that request as well. Then he hung up. “How fast can we get there?”

“Going to depend on traffic.” Kins merged onto the Viaduct and hit the brakes. A long span of red taillights snaked along the narrow elevated roadway. Faz gave a blast on the siren, but with just three lanes and no shoulders, the cars didn’t have a lot of room to move out of the way. Kins had no choice but to wait for cars to creep over.

“Bankston wouldn’t look at her,” he said.

“Who, Tracy?”

“When Bankston came in for his polygraph, Santos sat in for Tracy. Bankston seemed unhappy about it and kept asking about Tracy, saying he had information for her. He wouldn’t even look at Santos.”

Faz gave another blast on the siren. His lights lit up the interiors of the cars attempting to pull to the side. Kins weaved slowly forward.

“So he wouldn’t look at her. So what?”

“You’ve never seen Santos; most guys can’t take their eyes
off
her. Bankston wouldn’t even make eye contact. Then he failed the polygraph.”

“But not the questions about whether he killed them.”

“Santos says these guys can pass a polygraph because they have no conscience. They don’t believe they did anything wrong and feel no remorse. So maybe it fits. Maybe he couldn’t hide the fact that he knew the women, but he felt nothing about killing them, or he doesn’t believe he
is
killing them.”

“You lost me.”

Kins had to stop again to wait for an SUV trying to get out of the way without much success. “Santos says that the elaborate strangulation system the Cowboy uses may be a way of divorcing himself from the actual act of killing.
He
isn’t killing the dancers.
They’re
killing themselves. Move!” Kins yelled, slapping the steering wheel in frustration.

“Sounds like a bunch of pyschobabble shit to me,” Faz said.

“Call dispatch back. Find out if they’ve got Bankston in custody. And try Tracy’s cell again. Hopefully this is one giant wild-goose chase.”

Tracy turned and ran. In her peripheral vision, she saw him burst from the shadows. She grabbed the wooden handrail and took the stairs two at a time. She’d nearly reached the top when she felt him grip her right ankle. She slipped, fell to her knees, and kicked backward, but the intruder hurled himself forward, pinning her to the stairs. He was heavy, and strong. His hand pressed down on the back of her head, smashing her face against the step. She rammed an elbow into his side and heard him groan. She rammed it again, then reached back and grabbed a hunk of hair, yanking hard. He screamed, enraged, but let go of her head to grab her hand. She’d dropped the can but not the spoon, and she used it to stab at him just below his rib cage. When he retreated, she rolled over.

David Bankston. And he was holding a noose.

She kicked at him with both legs, knocking him off balance, but he managed to grab hold of her as he fell backward. They tumbled down the stairs together, rebounding off the walls. Tracy reached for the wooden handrail to stop her descent, then heard it crack and splinter as a piece yanked free of the wall. She tumbled again, heels over head, and landed on her stomach, hard. Bankston landed on top of her, and she heard a pop and felt a sharp pain in her collarbone. The blow had knocked the wind out of her. Trying to gulp in air, she lifted her head.

When she did, David Bankston slipped the noose over her head, cinching it tight.

Rex and Sherlock began to bark and howl with delight the instant Dan pulled the Tahoe into the driveway. He could see them side by side inside the plate-glass window, front paws resting on the sill, chests raised, ears perked, tails whipping the air. They became even more frantic when he exited the car.

“Hey, guys. I’m happy to see you too,” Dan called out, trying to calm them as he approached the house. The trick was going to be greeting them without getting trampled. Unconditional love was great; he just hoped it didn’t get him seriously injured. It was also why he decided to leave the box with the Dirty Ernie documents in the car. As he neared the front door, the dogs began to prance, nails clicking against the window and the sill. His neighbor had taken them out for daily walks and let them run at the park in Cedar Grove. Dan didn’t even want to think about what they would have been like if they hadn’t exercised. They’d likely come straight through the window.