Ten years earlier, Faz had put Little Jimmy’s father in prison. Big Jimmy lasted six months. A rival gang member killed him with a shiv.
Little Jimmy smiled, then he made a gun with his thumb and index finger and took aim at Faz, imitating the kick of the barrel as the gun discharged.
CHAPTER 2
Tracy Crosswhite grimaced as the defense attorney, Leonard Litwin, tilted the plastic pitcher from the counsel table. A miniature waterfall cascaded into his paper cup, the splatter the only sound in the courtroom. Ostensibly, Litwin needed to quench his thirst, but from her seat on the elevated witness stand, Tracy suspected Litwin had a different motivation for leaving the lectern. Litwin was stalling, like a battered and beaten prizefighter desperate to reach the final bell.
Ordinarily, Tracy wouldn’t have cared what Litwin did, or how long it took him to do it, but for thirty-seven of the fifty-three minutes since the court had last recessed and she had retaken the witness stand, she’d had to pee. Really pee. It seemed unlikely that Litwin, or anyone else in the courtroom, could detect Tracy’s urgent problem, or the sixteen-week baby bump causing it, but that didn’t change Tracy’s circumstances. Judge Miriam Gowin certainly wasn’t going to rush a defense attorney representing a client facing the death penalty, and Tracy wasn’t about to bail out Litwin by asking for an early recess. With each passing minute, however, she thought of Beth Duchance, the poor girl who’d wet her pants in the second grade. Duchance had forgotten her homework and when pressed by their teacher, responded like a frightened miniature poodle before the alpha dog. For the remainder of what had to have been an eternal eight years, Beth Duchance suffered the humiliation only immature boys and nasty grammar school girls could wreak—they called her Beth “Wet My Pants.” Tracy had no desire to become similarly etched in the memories of courthouse personnel.
Litwin tilted the cup to his lips and drank in painfully slow gulps. Rather than set the glass on the counsel table, he carried it to the lectern and methodically considered pages of notes and testimony in his binder.
“Detective Crosswhite, you said . . .” Litwin looked as if he were about to read, but turned another page, and another. In her peripheral vision, Tracy noted several jurors glancing at the large wall clock across the room. The second hand buzzed and lurched past the twelve. Finally, Litwin continued, “You said that . . . that you found no fingerprints on the knife. Is that correct?”
Tracy paused to allow the prosecutor, Adam Hoetig, time to object. She’d answered the question twice before. But Hoetig sat with his head down, as if he had taken a sudden interest in his loafers.
“That’s correct,” she said.
“So you have no evidence the knife belonged to the defendant—isn’t that also true?”
Tracy’s bladder begged her to let the question go, but she couldn’t bypass the opportunity to take another shot at Litwin and his client. “Other than the fact that the defendant told me the knife matched the set of knives in the kitchen drawer? No.”
Her response drew sidelong glances from several of the jurors.
Litwin’s back stiffened. “I’ll rephrase. You have no evidence, Detective Crosswhite, that the knife was used to . . . no forensic evidence the knife was used to stab his wife.”
This is like shooting fish in a barrel. “Other than the fact that the knife handle was sticking out of Mrs. Stephenson’s chest and she had seven stab wounds? No.”
The number of glances multiplied. Several jurors smiled.
Litwin bristled. His cheeks splashed a splotchy red. “Detective, you have no forensic evidence linking the murder—”
Tracy cut him off to speed up the process. “The defendant’s fingerprints were not found on the knife sticking out of his wife’s chest. That is correct.”
Predictably, Litwin turned to the bench. “Your Honor, the defense requests that you admonish Detective Crosswhite to allow me to complete my questions before she answers.”
Gowin glanced at the clock before directing her gaze to Tracy. “Detective, let counsel finish his question.” For one interminable moment, Tracy thought Gowin might allow Litwin to continue. Then she said, “Counsel, it’s four fifty-four. Do you believe you will complete your cross-examination of Detective Crosswhite within the next six minutes?”
Not a chance.
“I estimate that I have another hour,” Litwin said.
He didn’t, but Litwin and Tracy were both about to get a much-needed reprieve.
“Then we’ll end for the day,” Gowin said, “and pick up tomorrow morning with Detective Crosswhite on the witness stand.”
When the last of the jurors had collected their belongings and departed to the jury room, Tracy hurried from the witness stand to the courtroom doors. In her peripheral vision, she saw Hoetig fast approaching, likely to set a time to meet and discuss Litwin’s expected areas of cross-examination in the morning.
“I’ll call you,” she said, deflecting Hoetig’s advance before he could speak, and hurried out the courtroom door.
CHAPTER 3
Faz watched the red Chevelle until it drove out of sight, the music lingering for several more seconds.
“Little Jimmy’s not so little anymore,” Del said. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
“Yeah, he’s now a grown-up shithead,” Faz said. “Amazing how the garbage never falls far from the trash can.”
“He seems to remember you,” Del said.
Little Jimmy had been fourteen when Faz put Big Jimmy in prison. “And he was already a punk then.”
Big Jimmy had run drugs in South Park. A rival gang out of Los Angeles tried to step in. A war erupted. Thirteen gang members died in two weeks. Faz’s investigation led to the arrest of eight Sureño gang members, including Big Jimmy, though Big Jimmy never pulled a trigger. The jury determined that Big Jimmy had ordered the hits on the rival gang members, and King County prosecutor Rick Cerrabone convicted him under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. A jury sentenced Big Jimmy to twenty-five years in prison.
“I don’t like guys pointing a gun at me, fake or not,” Faz said. “Maybe we pay Little Jimmy a visit, determine whether that drive-by was a message to those watching from across the street.”
“Little Jimmy can count on it,” Del said.
Faz turned from the road and walked to the body. He crouched, lifted a corner of the sheet, and considered Monique Rodgers. He guessed early thirties. A deep-red stain had blossomed on the front of her shirt, and blood ran along the cracks in the concrete. Faz lowered the sheet and stood, his knee cracking when he did. He turned to Billy while eyeing the apartment complex. “Which apartment?”
Williams pointed to a corner of the horseshoe-shaped building. A police officer stood on the exterior landing. “Last door.”
Faz followed Del up a concrete-and-wrought-iron staircase to a second-floor breezeway cluttered with chairs and charcoal barbecues. Residents stood in the open doors of their sweltering apartments. Several gave Del and Faz the stink eye.
“Feeling the love?” Del said.
“I’m all warm and fuzzy inside,” Faz said.
Chatter spilled from the speaker clipped to the officer’s shoulder, and he reached to turn down the volume as he handed the clipboard to Faz.
“How are they doing?” Faz scribbled his name and badge number and handed the board to Del. “Are they talking?”
The officer frowned. “Not a lot.”
“Anyone in with them now?” Faz asked.
“No,” the officer said. “They’re in the kitchen. I told them that detectives wished to speak to them.”
Faz and Del stepped inside to a living room of worn furniture. To their left, an African American man sat at a kitchen table looking stunned. In his lap, a young girl pressed against his chest, her thumb in her mouth. Across the table, a woman, perhaps early fifties, held a young boy. A third seat, bathed in a stream of light from a window, remained empty. The room smelled of burned coff
ee.
“Mr. Rodgers?” Faz introduced himself and Del. “I’m very sorry about your wife, sir.”
The woman got up from her seat carrying the boy. She held out her free hand to the father. “I’ll take her?”
“Where?” Rodgers shook his head. “Where are you going to go that’s safe?”
“The other room,” the woman said. “I’ll take them to the bedroom.” She paused, but when the little girl ignored her hand, she departed with the boy. Faz and Del would talk to the woman in private and determine what she had seen and heard on the playground.
Rodgers shifted his attention to Faz. “So, what are you going to do about it?” He arched his eyebrows in question.
“We’re going to work very hard to find the persons responsible.” Faz chose his words carefully with a child still in the room.
“And then what?”
“We’ll work very hard to arrest them.”
Rodgers shook his head, as if bemused. “The guy who did this . . . A nobody. Likely a wannabe gang member and this was his initiation. Kill the squeaky wheel.” Faz didn’t disagree. “Getting him won’t do anything.” Rodgers grimaced as if it hurt to say the words. “It’s not going to get rid of the drugs, and it’s not going to get rid of the gangs, and it isn’t going to bring Monique back.”
Faz proceeded delicately. “If the shooter was following orders, we can bring charges against the person who gave that order. We used that law to get rid of Big Jimmy when he was running drugs down here ten years ago.”
“Yeah? And who are you going to get to testify?” This time it wasn’t a question.
“We’ll take it one step at a time,” Faz said.
“You said Big Jimmy,” the man said. “Little Jimmy’s father?”
“You know Little Jimmy?”
“Everybody down here knows Little Jimmy. He runs the drugs and he runs the gang. He’s the problem.”
“I understand your wife was a community activist?”
Rodgers fought back tears. His daughter pressed her head to his chest. “Didn’t start out that way,” he said. “Monique just wanted to get the community together to get rid of the drugs and the guns, to build a better place for our kids. She pushed the community leaders and the supervisors to establish after-school programs so the kids weren’t on the street where the gangs can get at them.”
“Had she been threatened by anyone?”
Rodgers chuckled, but it had a sad quality to it. “All the time, man. All the time.” He shook his head. Then he repeated himself. “All the time . . . But Monique . . . She didn’t care. She just went about her business. The gangs used to follow her home. They’d drive by with their music blaring.”
Faz glanced at Del. Little Jimmy’s drive-by had been more than a flippant display of disrespect. It had been a warning.
“Monique set up a community watch program so people could report things they saw to the police.”
“What was the community’s reaction to her efforts?” Faz asked.
“They were scared,” Rodgers said without hesitation. “She set it up so that everything was anonymous, but people were still scared.”
“Was she getting any traction?” Del asked.
“They shot her, didn’t they?” Rodgers looked away, his gaze not focused on anyone or anything. “Mothers and kids were out there playing,” he said, voice soft, “but they don’t care. They don’t care who they kill.”
He lowered his chin, resting it on his daughter’s head, clutching her, holding her tight. Faz knew it was a poor substitute for a mother’s embrace.
CHAPTER 4
Tracy’s walk from the courthouse to Police Headquarters on Fifth Avenue wasn’t far, but it was uphill, and the heat gods had decided this would be the week Seattle burned. By the time she reached Police Headquarters, she was sweating, and her bladder beckoned yet again. When she stepped off the elevator to the seventh-floor lobby, she nearly collided with Kins. Her partner wore his jacket, preparing to go home. Since his hip replacement four months earlier, Kins had been easing his way back into work.
“Tracy. Hey, I’m glad I caught—”
“Give me a minute.” She hurried past him in the direction of the bathroom. When she pushed in the door, she almost hit a woman standing on the other side. “Sorry,” Tracy said.
“Detective Crosswhite.” The woman spoke Tracy’s name as if they knew one another. After several high-profile cases, many officers in the department knew Tracy. She’d also become a mentor to some of the younger female officers, especially those who needed shooting training to pass their qualifying exam. She didn’t recognize the woman with shoulder-length auburn hair.
The woman extended a hand. “Andrea Gonzalez.” The name also did not ring any memory bells.
Gonzalez looked down at Tracy’s stomach. “How far along are you? Six months?”
Tracy pulled closed her suit coat. She’d only told Kins the news. SPD rules mandated that a pregnant officer be put on limited duty, which basically meant desk duty. No thanks. “Who told you?”
The woman shrugged. “No one. I can just tell. Though you look great.”
Tracy didn’t look great. Her face was puffy from water retention, and her hair had wilted from the heat. She’d also put on ten pounds and felt fat. Gonzalez, on the other hand, looked as fresh as if she’d just come in to work. Maybe she had. She wore creased black slacks and a matching jacket over a blue shirt that accentuated what Faz would have referred to as well-developed assets.
“I guess I’ll be taking your place when you’re out on maternity leave.” Gonzalez’s voice inched higher, as if she meant it as a question, though it came out a statement.
“What do you mean taking my place?”
Gonzalez smiled. “I’m just assuming that’s why they hired me.” She paused. “I’m sorry, I thought your department would have told you I was starting this week. I’m the A Team’s new fifth wheel.”
No one had told Tracy anything. “What about Ron Mayweather?”
Gonzalez shrugged. “Who’s he?” She moved to the counter, checking her appearance in the mirror, then turning on the water and washing her hands.
“He’s our fifth wheel, has been for several years.”
“I don’t know. I was just told to report to the A Team, today.” Gonzalez glanced at Tracy’s reflection in the mirror. “So I guess we’ll be working with each other—for a few months, at least.” Gonzalez dried her hands and deposited the towels in the trash. “Nice meeting you,” she said and departed.
Tracy watched the door swing shut. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, focusing on the baby bump. She’d bought several shirts and jackets cut to hide her pregnancy. No one in the office had mentioned anything to her. Then again, she worked with three men who wouldn’t ask a woman if she was pregnant unless she was giving birth. Still, the ease and the rapidity with which Gonzalez noted Tracy’s condition made her wonder if someone had told her. And if someone had, it made her wonder if that was why Gonzalez had been hired—not to fill in, but to take Tracy’s place.
CHAPTER 5
Tracy tossed a paper towel into the garbage bin and stepped from the bathroom to the lobby. Kins leaned against the wall, trying to look engaged on his phone.
“Did you know about this?” she asked.
Kins nodded like a busted teenager. “I didn’t know she was in the bathroom, but . . . That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. She just showed up this morning. Nolasco introduced her, said she was starting as our fifth wheel.”
“She knows I’m pregnant.” Tracy lowered her volume as more people entered the lobby. “How the hell does she know I’m pregnant?”
Kins shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t tell her.” He looked around the lobby and nodded for Tracy to follow him down the hall. They slipped into a conference room and he shut the door.
“Look, I’m heading to South Park. Del and Faz got a murder and need help with interviews, so I don’t have a lot of time.
Did Gonzalez say how she knew?”
“No. She said she could tell, which I find unlikely since we’ve never met.”
“And she said she was taking your place?”
“She said she assumed that’s why she’d been hired.”
“I’m sure she meant it was just for your maternity leave,” he said.
“So then why did Nolasco move Ron? Why not just let him step in, like when you went out for your hip?”
“Ron’s been reassigned to the C Team.”
“When did that happen?”
“I just found that out late this morning when Gonzalez showed up. Apparently, Arroyo is retiring in January.”
That news caught Tracy by surprise. “Arroyo is retiring?”
Kins shrugged. “Apparently.”
They were getting off topic. “Ron’s been working with us for three years,” she said. “Why would Nolasco reassign him?”
“Maybe because none of us is going anywhere. You’re not, are you?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I assume you’re coming back, after you have the baby. You are, aren’t you?”
“This is no different from your hip surgery. You were out, Ron filled in, now you’re back.”
“Yes, but I didn’t have to leave my hip at home, Tracy.”
For a moment she didn’t speak, uncertain of Kins’s point. Then she said, “What?”
“You know how it is. That’s your baby you’re leaving at home. And you don’t have to work. We all know Dan does well . . . better than well.”
Tracy and Dan had married a year earlier. “Dan just hired someone so he could spend more time at home. I’m not planning on quitting, Kins.” Kins had a strange expression, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, terrified to jump. “What?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I got to go.”
“If you think I’m acting irrationally, tell me.”
He looked at his watch. “Okay, look, just promise not to bite my head off, all right? This is just a friend talking to a friend—someone who’s been down this path before.”
A Steep Price (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 6) Page 2
