Kins had three sons. “Fine,” Tracy said.
Kins laughed uneasily. “Tracy, I know you. You’re listening but you’re ready to take me down and remove my gallbladder with your hands.”
She pulled out a chair and sat, crossing her legs. “I’m calm, okay? And I’m listening.”
Kins took a moment to either gather his thoughts or his courage. He stepped off the ledge. “This is your first child, so I think it’s safe to say that you can’t fully predict how you’re going to feel when the baby is born.”
“I know—”
Kins raised a hand. “Just hear me out.”
She raised both hands as if to say, Fine, continue.
“I know that when you have a kid you think nothing is going to change, that work isn’t going to change, but it does. Everything changes, and not for the worse. It just changes. That’s the hard part—leaving the best part of you at home, with someone else. The best part of you is being raised by someone else. I didn’t want that. Neither did Shannah. So she quit her job and stayed home even though we couldn’t really afford it. And, even with Shannah at home, it was still hard as hell for me, Tracy. I’d get to work and I couldn’t wait to leave, to get back home and see my boys.”
Tracy knew from years working together what Kins’s boys meant to him. She’d watched them grow and heard the stories.
“I couldn’t wait to coach them in Little League and to go to their high school games. I loved it. I’ve loved every minute of it. Now, in a couple months, we’ll be taking Connor off to college and I’m already dreading that day because I know it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt to know he’s not sleeping in his bed, that he has another bed and another life, with people I don’t even know.” Kins’s voice choked and Tracy knew he was fighting to suppress his emotions. After a pause, he blew out a held breath. “I know every parent goes through it. Every parent has to say good-bye, but trust me, that doesn’t make it any easier. So I’m just telling you, it goes by so fast. Before you know it, and much sooner than you ever expected, you’ll be driving them off to college and saying good-bye. And you’ll ask yourself, Where did the years go? You’ll look at pictures and you can’t even remember when they were that small, and you’ll wish they still were; that you could go back to those days and just have them home again. So what I’m telling you is, don’t look at staying home as some punishment, Tracy, because if you do, you’ll regret it and . . . look, I got to go.”
Kins pulled open the door and departed without finishing the sentence, but he didn’t have to. Tracy knew what he was thinking but didn’t say.
And this might be your only child.
After leaving the conference room, Tracy grabbed a decaffeinated coffee from the kitchen, which she thought best given her current agitated state, and headed to her desk. She felt flushed, as warm as she’d felt walking up the hill to Police Headquarters. Her conversation with Andrea Gonzalez kept filtering through her mind.
How far along are you? Six months?
God, did she look that big already?
Kins, too, had surprised her. She knew he loved his three boys, without question, but he’d also told her the unflattering stories: the stupid things the boys did, the pandemonium in the house, the trips to school because one of the boys was in trouble or failing a class. It had been hard to watch him in the conference room, on the verge of tears because one of his sons was leaving for college. It was raw emotion, something police officers didn’t let out often with other officers, if at all.
Tracy stepped into the A Team’s bull pen. Andrea Gonzalez sat at Tracy’s desk, which simply was never done at SPD. Desks and cubicles were sacrosanct. Fifth wheels sat at computer terminals in the back of the room. Gonzalez looked like she’d moved in. She’d hung her jacket in Tracy’s cubicle closet and a Starbucks coffee cup with red lipstick on the rim rested on Tracy’s desk pad.
“Excuse me,” she said. Gonzalez turned. “What are you doing at my desk?”
“What?”
Tracy pointed to her desk. “What are you doing at my desk?”
Gonzalez looked as if she didn’t understand the question. “I understood you were testifying in court all day. Captain Nolasco told me to get caught up on your case files.”
Tracy looked at the computer and saw a document on the screen. “How’d you get into my case files?”
“Captain Nolasco had IT provide me with a generic password.”
Tracy clenched her teeth, afraid of what she might say. She should have known Nolasco would have something to do with this. Nobody would be happier to have Tracy leave.
“Let me clear out,” Gonzalez said. She stood and grabbed her coffee. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was a breach of some protocol. In LA, we often just picked a desk not being used and logged in.”
Tracy wasn’t interested in the debate. “I need to make a phone call.”
Gonzalez checked her watch. “I feel like we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. Can I buy you a beer?” She cringed and glanced at Tracy’s stomach. “I’m sorry. Maybe something nonalcoholic?”
Tracy suppressed her anger, thinking it better directed at Nolasco than Gonzalez. Maybe her hormones were just out of whack. “Thanks, but I can’t. I’m in trial and I need to contact the prosecutor to prepare for tomorrow.”
“Right. I heard that. Anyway, sorry about using your desk.”
Gonzalez departed the cubicle.
Tracy sat and hit the space bar. The computer went to her password-protected screen, as it always did when the keyboard remained idle for a prolonged period. She typed in her password and the computer screen came back to life. She was looking at a file Del had apparently opened on the South Park shooting, though it was still blank. Her e-mails, too, had been opened. She checked the Sent folder, but nothing had been sent from her computer since she’d last used it the prior afternoon.
Her desk phone rang. Now fully paranoid, she deliberately did not use her normal greeting, which included her name, in case the call was for Gonzalez. “Hello,” she said.
“Oh, uh, I’m trying to reach Detective Crosswhite?”
A female voice, but not one Tracy recognized. “This is Detective Crosswhite.”
“Tracy?” The caller sounded confused. “It’s Katie. Katie Pryor.”
“Katie. Hi. Sorry. I was . . . I was just busy with something and . . . never mind. Hey, how do you like the new job?”
Six months earlier, Talia Greenwood had retired from the missing persons unit after more than thirty years. Tracy had recommended Pryor for the job. Pryor, a mother of two young girls with a husband who liked her at home, had told Tracy one afternoon at the shooting range that she was looking for something with more stable hours.
“I like it . . . well, as much as anyone can like searching for missing persons. The structured hours allow me to better plan my time at home with the kids.”
There had been a time when just the mention of the words “missing person” caused a visceral reaction in Tracy. Her sister, Sarah, had been abducted and her whereabouts unknown for more than twenty years. With time, she’d become more accepting.
“Listen, I don’t want to keep you,” Pryor said. “I know you’re in the Stephenson trial, but I got in a report from a woman who thinks her roommate is missing and I don’t have a good feeling about it. I ordinarily wouldn’t bother you without more information, but my captain is in Europe for the next two weeks, and the woman who made the report is leaving the country to live in London. I thought it best to have someone in Violent Crimes talk with her before she goes. The person missing doesn’t sound like someone who’d just take up and leave.”
“How old is she?” Tracy asked.
“Twenty-four. The two women shared an apartment in the University District near the UW campus.”
“Students?”
“Graduates. The missing woman was apparently applying to medical schools.”
Most missing persons tended to be either in a high-risk
profession, like prostitution, or have high-risk circumstances—the addicted, mentally challenged, or the elderly suffering from Alzheimer’s or dementia.
“This woman making the report was her roommate?” Tracy asked.
“Up until recently.”
“What happened recently?”
“The woman who made the report got married in India, unexpectedly from the sound of it. She didn’t even get the chance to tell her roommate about it until she got back. She’s the one moving to London.”
“Okay, so why does she think her roommate’s missing?”
“She can’t reach her on her cell, and she isn’t responding to text messages or e-mails. She said she’s just disappeared. It’s complicated.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Getting close to twenty-four hours.”
Tracy knew twenty-four hours could be an eternity to a family but not to SPD, though that, too, was changing. SPD used to wait forty-eight hours before considering a person missing, but they’d become more vigilant after a recent case in which a nurse met a man online and went missing. They found her body parts scattered in garbage bins throughout the city.
Pryor continued, “She said they’ve been friends since childhood and that she wouldn’t just run away.” Tracy heard Pryor rustling papers. “Sorry, this is confusing. The one making the report is named Aditi Dasgupta.”
“Indian.”
“Yes. Dasgupta said she and her roommate, Kavita Mukherjee, have gone to school together since they were kids, and they’ve lived together in an apartment in the U District the last two years. Both had been planning on attending medical school.”
“I’m not following.”
“Neither was I. The officer who took the report said the one filing the report . . . Dasgupta . . . recently got married in India—an arranged marriage, apparently. The missing roommate, Kavita Mukherjee, didn’t know about the wedding.”
“She didn’t know her roommate got married?”
“Apparently not. Anyway, Dasgupta said the roommate, Kavita Mukherjee, was pretty upset when she found out.”
“Could she just be upset and need some time alone to process everything that has happened?”
“Maybe, but Dasgupta doesn’t think that’s the case. She said it’s not like her.”
“Have you filled out an EMPA yet?” Tracy asked, referring to an Endangered/Missing Person Alert.
“I haven’t had the chance. I’ve been making telephone calls to the family and several friends, and to her employer. No one has heard from her.”
Tracy looked at the clock in the lower right corner of her computer screen. She’d hoped to get home at a decent hour. She also knew Nolasco would never let her take a missing persons case, not without more substantial evidence of a violent crime, and not with Del and Faz pulling a murder in South Park and likely needing support.
“Are you still in your office?” Tracy asked.
“I am.”
“I’ll stop by on my way home,” she said. “I have to make a phone call. Can you stay for a bit?”
“I’ll stay,” Pryor said. “You want me to send you what I have?”
Tracy didn’t, given that it was unlikely Nolasco would agree to let her run with it. “Print out the report for me. I’ll pick it up when I stop by.”
“I appreciate it. I know you’re busy but . . . You know how you get a sense about these cases, when something just doesn’t seem right?”
Tracy did, all too well.
CHAPTER 6
Anderson-Cooper went door-to-door at the apartment complex in search of witnesses to the shooting, while Del and Faz canvassed the local businesses for videotape that might have captured the killer fleeing the scene, or getting into a car, anything. It was already early evening, and some of the businesses had closed. Faz kept a log of those that had, so detectives could return first thing in the morning. If the business had video, they’d want to get there before that video was recorded over. He’d also called the traffic division and asked that traffic cameras in that area be checked and film preserved. Monique Rodgers’s mother said she’d heard shots fired on the east side of the apartment complex. If correct, South Cloverdale, which ran parallel with the building, would have been a natural escape route for the shooter.
The owner of a gas station at the end of the block said his camera focused on the gas pumps but it might have recorded a portion of the street. To keep things moving, Del and Faz left a detective from the video unit to go through the footage while they drove to a convenience store across the street, which was also a good bet to have videotape.
Faz pushed open the glass door, causing a string of bells tied to the inside handle to rattle. A man tall enough to look him in the eye, and as wide as Faz and Del combined, greeted them with a scowl.
“Can I help you?”
The man had a bun of curly black hair. He folded meaty arms across his chest and rested them on an ample stomach. Elaborate tattoos encircled biceps as big as most men’s legs. He wore shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops.
Faz and Del introduced themselves and explained the reason for their presence. The owner had a soft handshake and a voice higher-pitched than Faz would have imagined for a man his size. He introduced himself as Tanielu Eliapo but said, “Guys, call me Tanny. It’s easier. I heard about what happened to that lady.”
“How’d you hear?”
“It was on the news, man.” He turned and pointed to a small television hanging above the checkout counter where a woman, who also looked to be of Polynesian descent and was also very big, sat on a wooden stool eyeballing them with a sullen expression. An oscillating fan on the counter rotated left to right and back, causing the woman’s floral dress and strands of hair to flutter.
“Hey!” Tanny turned and shouted at two Hispanic kids near a magazine rack at the storefront. They flinched and looked up at him. Tanny pointed to a sign on the wall. “If you’re reading it, you’re buying it. Make a choice.” Then he pointed to a mounted camera hanging from the ceiling. “Surprise, man. You’re on candid camera! If I don’t catch you, the camera does, and then I finish you.”
Tanny continued to eye them until they put the magazine back on the rack and walked to the register carrying soda and candy. He turned back to Faz. “I heard people are afraid to talk to the police.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Faz asked, doubtful it was from the news.
“Word on the street spreads fast, man.”
“What else have you heard?” Del asked.
“I heard Little Jimmy is getting the word out that he doesn’t want anyone talking to you.”
So Faz’s assumption that Little Jimmy had some involvement appeared accurate. “You know him?” Faz asked.
“Know of him. Ricardo Luis Bernadino Jiminez.” Tanny said the name quickly and made a face like he’d detected a bad odor. “He’s a punk. I’ve heard that his father, Big Jimmy, was a big deal here in South Park—that he did a lot for the people. Little Jimmy isn’t a big deal, though he thinks he is. Heard he’s working for one of the Mexican cartels. Back then Big Jimmy was dealing pot. Little Jimmy’s dealing heroin. Bad shit, man. That stuff will kill you.”
Faz glanced at Del, who’d lost his niece to a heroin overdose less than six months earlier. Del didn’t say anything.
“You’re not afraid of him?” Faz asked.
Tanny scoffed liked the question was ridiculous. “What’s he going to do? He knows if he touches me or my business, the Bruddahs will not be happy. Trust me, he don’t want nothing to do with the Bruddahs, man.”
Faz could see why, given Tanny’s size—not to mention the woman behind the counter. She looked like she could eat glass shards and shit a stained-glass window. He pointed to the ceiling. “You have video?” he asked.
Tanny nodded to the woman. “Pika likes to look at the video every night. She can watch on her phone. She sees anybody steal anything, the next time they come in . . . it’s not so good for them. Me, I don
’t like people who steal. Pika, she’s biblical about it.” He shrugged and gave them a broad smile.
“Can we look at the tape for today, about three o’clock, maybe a little before?” Faz asked.
“You want to see?” Tanny asked.
“Absolutely,” Del said.
“Pika, I’ll be in the back.” He nodded to two young men who’d walked in the front door. “Watch those two. If they steal anything, break their arms.” He smacked a meaty fist into his palm and grunted before leading Del and Faz through a door at the back of the store to a computer set on a folding table. The room was cluttered with boxes and cleaning supplies and had the sharp smell of ammonia. In the corner, the wooden handle of a mop protruded from a metal bucket and leaned against the edge of a large sink. The lone window above the computer was fogged glass, barred on the inside.
“You like my office?” Tanny laughed and spread his arms wide, as if showing off the place. “It’s a dump, man.” He typed at the keyboard with stubby fingers, then circled with the mouse. “You said around three o’clock today?”
“Approximately,” Faz said, slipping on cheaters to see the screen clearly.
Tanny typed again. A black-and-white image appeared on the screen with a date and time bar in the bottom right corner. He used the mouse to advance the video, stopping at 2:33 p.m. Then he let it run at regular speed. The image on the computer screen focused primarily on the interior of the store—and the counter where Pika sat—but it also showed the glass door entrance and a portion of the parking lot and the street. Still, Faz’s barometer that the video had captured anything useful remained “doubtful.” They watched the video as people entered the store, bought items, and departed. Faz paid close attention to the street, cars passing the store and pulling into and out of the parking lot, people walking.
Nearly fifteen minutes had passed when Del said, “Can we speed it up? If we see anything we can stop and go back.”
“No problem, man,” Tanny said.
A Steep Price (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 6) Page 3
