“Yeah,” Mayweather said, giving her a slight what-are-you-going-to-do shrug.
“What exactly did he say?”
“He called me in and said Arroyo was retiring end of the year. He said he wanted me to start working with him, so I had a feel for his cases and could hit the ground running when he left.”
Tracy gave the comment some thought. “You didn’t ask to be moved?”
“No.” Mayweather answered like her question surprised him. “I liked A Team, even with Fazzio giving me shit all the time. I had no idea Arroyo was thinking of retiring. No one did, apparently, not even the guys on his team.”
“No?”
“He said he came to the decision sitting home one night with his wife. He has enough years in to retire on a full pension and wanted to move on with his life.”
The sentiment was not unusual. Once a detective had put in the requisite number of years to pull a full pension, the lure of leaving behind the sick and depraved for a more normal life became much more appealing. “Did Nolasco say anything about me being pregnant?”
Mayweather smiled. “I was wondering when you were going to make that announcement.”
“You knew?” Tracy asked.
“Suspected . . . I think most people suspect.”
She wondered if Nolasco was among those people.
“But to answer your question, Nolasco didn’t say anything. I was wondering whether you’d be coming back after the baby was born though, whether your spot might open up.”
“Did you bring that up with Nolasco?”
“I didn’t have to. He said he didn’t see a spot opening on A Team anytime soon and C Team needed a detective. You are coming back, aren’t you?”
That was not what Nolasco had told Kins to justify hiring Gonzalez. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I intend to come back.”
Mayweather smiled. “Good. We’d miss you around here. Anything else?”
“No. Thanks. Sorry to keep you.”
“No worries,” Mayweather said, and he started up the street.
Tracy watched Mayweather go. Her team would miss him. He was dependable and had a good sense of humor. Anyone who could take Del and Faz’s constant ribbing had to have thick skin and a lot of confidence, but that was not what was foremost on Tracy’s mind.
Nolasco had told her that Mayweather asked to take Arroyo’s place because there wouldn’t be any openings on the A Team anytime soon. That had clearly not been what had happened. Nolasco had moved Mayweather to C Team to open a space for Gonzalez on the A Team, and Tracy suspected she knew why. Once Tracy took her pregnancy leave, it would be much more difficult for her to argue discrimination if Nolasco replaced her with another woman—especially a minority woman, and he could do so seamlessly if Gonzalez was the A Team’s fifth wheel. Nolasco was covering his ass. She thought of the prior day, when she’d found Gonzalez in Nolasco’s office with the door closed, and how Gonzalez had logged on to Tracy’s computer and accessed Tracy’s reports. That simply wasn’t done in Violent Crimes, and certainly could be interpreted as an indication that Nolasco wanted Gonzalez to take over for Tracy.
Then again, maybe Tracy was just being paranoid, seeing conspiracies where none existed.
Maybe.
CHAPTER 11
The Volkswagen was registered to Doug and Sandy Blaismith of Newcastle, Washington, a town neither Del nor Faz would have predicted for the parked car. First, Newcastle was located twenty-five to forty-five minutes east of South Park, depending on the time of day and the traffic. Second, Newcastle was considered middle to upper-middle class, with an average income exceeding $125,000, and home prices of more than a million dollars. Newcastle’s demographics also had little in common with South Park, with roughly 65 percent Caucasian and less than 4 percent Hispanic.
The video unit had not been able to pull a plate from the white SUV, the vehicle into which the suspect had climbed, nor had it been able to find any video of the vehicle on traffic cameras.
Faz received the news over the phone shortly after he’d returned to Police Headquarters, after spending the morning with Vera in the doctor’s office. He hadn’t wanted to leave her, but Vera had insisted, telling him that nothing good could come from both of them sitting at home worrying.
Del and Faz decided to wait until after 5:00 p.m. before driving to Newcastle, when it would be more likely the car would be at the house. They also decided not to call the Blaismith home ahead of time. They used the time to drive back out to South Park to conduct interviews, including questioning the residents of the apartment complex, and talking to the businesses that had been closed the previous night, but they didn’t find anyone with information about the shooting, or any other useful videotapes. While they had been in South Park, Faz had Andrea Gonzalez put a search warrant together and get it signed by the court, in case the Blaismiths got squirrelly.
Faz had hoped to get home at a decent hour and spend time with Vera, but he also knew this could be the one break they needed to find Monique Rodgers’s killer, and maybe determine if it had been a hit ordered by Little Jimmy. Before leaving Police Headquarters, he called home to let Vera know he would be late. True to form, Vera told him to do what he needed to do, and that she’d keep his dinner warm. It was clear to him that she didn’t want to talk about the doctor’s meeting that morning.
“Drugs,” Del said as they drove to Newcastle. Drugs had been the first theory that came to both their minds for the car being in South Park. “Opioids, meth, maybe heroin.”
“Maybe,” Faz said. He didn’t much care about the reason the car had been parked near the shooting; only that it had been. They had a bigger fish to fry.
“If we nail the shooter he might start talking. If he does, we could nail Little Jimmy,” Del said from behind the wheel. “Wouldn’t that be something—like father, like son.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Faz said. “But yeah. That would be something.”
The Blaismiths lived in a suburban development of high-end tract homes not far from the Newcastle golf club. Many such developments had been built in the 1980s to accommodate Seattle’s expanding population. “Functional” was the word that came to mind when Faz and Del drove past the brick wall bearing the development’s name and saw homes squeezed together tighter than molars to maximize the number of lots. Creativity and imagination were clearly not exalted here; the homes varied only slightly in the orientation of the buildings on the lots, and their floor plans. The exteriors were brick and gray-wood siding, and the square footage nearly maxed out the yards, leaving just enough room for a few sculpted hedges and patches of green lawn that could be mowed with two swipes of a mower’s blade.
Del parked on a sloped curb in front of the Blaismiths’ two-story home. The base of a basketball hoop was embedded in the sliver of yard separating the property from the neighbor’s, and the hoop hung out over a pristine driveway, devoid of any cars. Faz hoped the Jetta was parked in one of the three garage bays. Otherwise, it had been a long trip for nothing.
They donned their sport coats and walked a brick path to a beveled glass door beneath a twelve-foot entry. The weather felt warmer than it had in Seattle, despite the shade of trees looming behind the roofline. Del rang the doorbell, setting off a series of chimes followed instantly by the barking of what sounded like a large dog.
“Ten bucks says it’s a Labrador.” Del removed his sunglasses and slipped them inside his coat pocket.
“Too easy,” Faz said. “Specify. Yellow, black, or brown?” He kept his gaze directed at the door.
“Yellow. Definitely yellow.”
“I might as well just give you the ten bucks now,” Faz said.
A woman pulled open the door, holding the collar of a very excited yellow Lab. The dog looked like he was trying to fly, his front legs elevated and swiping at the air, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. Del gave Faz a subtle smirk.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
Sandy
Blaismith appeared to be midforties and impeccably put together in tight jeans, black ankle boots, and a blouse with a plunging neckline that revealed a freckled chest and a gold necklace. Rings adorned several fingers, some with impressive stones. Before Faz could respond, she yelled at the dog, tugging on the animal’s collar. “Sit. Seager, sit. Sit.”
The dog ignored her, continuing to whine and paw at the air.
“I’m sorry, but if you’re selling anything we’re not interested, and you really don’t want me to let my dog go. He bites.”
It was a bluff, and not a very good one. The only damage Seager looked capable of causing was to knock them down and lick them to death.
Faz held up his badge. “We’re with the Seattle Police Department. Are you Sandy Blaismith?”
The woman went from looking exasperated to looking concerned. “What is this about?”
“Maybe you could lock the dog out back?” Del suggested.
“Hang on,” she said. She yanked the dog inside and flung the door shut. Faz heard her yell to her husband over the dog’s barking.
“Doug? Come take your dog and put him in the backyard. I need you to get your dog and put him in the backyard.”
“Not an animal lover,” Faz said.
“Definitely not,” Del said.
“Because there are two Seattle police officers at the front door,” Sandy hollered. “Two police officers. I don’t know. Just take Seager and put him out back.”
Del looked at Faz. “Double or nothing they also have a cat, a son, and a daughter. Instant family. Just add water.”
“Won’t take that bet,” Faz said.
The door reopened. This time Sandy was minus the dog but now accompanied by her husband, who introduced himself as Doug Blaismith. Doug wore the remnants of a suit, as well as success. Several strands of yellow dog hair clung to his navy-blue slacks. He’d unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up his forearms, revealing an expensive-looking gold watch and thick wrist chain. His thinning hair was gelled and combed back from his forehead. A protruding belly indicated he liked to eat but not work out.
“What can we do for you?” he said.
“Do you own a blue Jetta, Mr. Blaismith?” Faz provided the license plate number.
“It’s silver,” Doug said. “Not blue.”
“Is it here?”
“Is something wrong?” Doug said. “Did my son get in an accident?”
“Does your son drive that car?” Faz asked.
“To school mostly,” Sandy said, “but it’s summer so . . .”
“Is the car here?” Faz asked.
“It’s in the garage,” Doug said. “Why do you ask?”
Faz thought that was obvious at this point but he decided to indulge Doug’s apparent need to feel as though he was in charge. “We’d like to see it.”
“What is this about?” Doug persisted, squinting at them. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“We believe,” Faz said, “that the car may have been touched by someone involved in committing a crime.”
“I’m sorry?” Sandy said. She’d visibly blanched.
“I don’t understand,” Doug said.
“Let me back up.” Faz explained the shooting of Monique Rodgers and what the convenience store video had revealed.
“I read about that in the paper, or saw something about it on the news,” Doug said. “But there has to be a mistake, Detectives. My son is the only one who drives that car and there’d be no reason for him to be in . . . Did you say South Park?”
There would be, actually, Faz thought but didn’t say. “We have a video,” Faz said, removing two snapshots, one of the car parked at the curb and another of the license plate, blown up. He handed both to Doug. Doug considered the photographs, his wife viewing them over his shoulder. Both looked perplexed.
“No one is in trouble here,” Faz said, hoping to alleviate their growing concern, although the son might very well be in trouble with his parents. “We’re hoping we can lift a handprint from the hood and determine the identity of the person who touched your car.”
Doug continued shaking his head. Sandy looked pale.
“That is the car’s license plate number, isn’t it?” Faz said, hoping to prompt some comment.
Doug scratched at his temple. “I honestly don’t know the plate number off the top of my head.” He looked at his wife, but Sandy shook her head. “What day did you say it was?” Doug asked.
“You said the car is here?” Faz asked.
“In the garage,” Doug said.
“Maybe we can check the plate number with the photograph first, so there’s no mistake? If it’s not your car we’ll be out of your hair.” When neither Sandy nor Doug responded, Faz said, “Does your son play basketball?”
Del gave him a quick glance, like he thought Faz had lost his mind.
Doug looked even more confused. “What?”
Faz just wanted to get the couple saying something. “I noticed the basketball hoop in your driveway. My son was a basketball player. I don’t think I parked in my driveway for twenty years because he was always out there shooting. I was just wondering if the car is in the garage?”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Doug said. “He plays for an AAU team here on the Eastside, but he had his knee scoped yesterday. That’s what’s causing the confusion. He had a tear in the meniscus fixed Monday morning. So you see, he couldn’t have had the car in South Park yesterday. He couldn’t drive.”
“It was here all day yesterday?” Faz said. Now he was confused.
“It’s been parked in the garage.” Doug looked at his wife for confirmation.
“Do you have any other children?” Del asked.
Doug nodded. “A daughter, but she’s only thirteen. She doesn’t drive.”
“We know this is an inconvenience, but if we can just compare the license plate of the car in your garage with this one, maybe we can clear this up,” Faz said.
“Hang on a second.” Doug turned and shouted up a spiral staircase. “Luke?”
“I’ll get him,” Sandy said, but she didn’t go up the stairs. She went down a hallway. Del gave Faz a glance. He’d noticed it too. Weird.
“Come on in.” Doug stepped back to allow Del and Faz to enter the marbled entry. He closed the door. Out back, Faz heard the dog barking. He stepped to the side to see down the hall. The wife had headed toward a kitchen.
“We’ll try to make this quick,” Del said.
A tall, gangly boy with a mop of blond hair appeared on crutches at the top of the stairs, his right knee in a brace. “Yeah?”
Del started to ease down the hall where the mother had retreated.
Doug made the introductions, and Faz quickly explained the purpose of their visit. The boy started shaking his head when Faz mentioned South Park. “I can’t drive. I’ve been home since I left the doctor’s office. Besides, I don’t even know where South Park is.”
Faz gave Del a subtle nod, and Del went down the hall in search of Sandy Blaismith while Faz continued to question the boy. “No one is in trouble here, son. We just need to determine if the person who placed his hand on the hood left a print we can use.”
“That’s fine with me, but I’m telling you I didn’t drive the car. It’s been in the garage.”
“Who took you to get your knee scoped?” Faz asked.
“I did,” Doug said. “The doctor is a friend of mine.”
Faz watched Del disappear at the end of the hall. The barking intensified, as did the clicking of toenails against glass. “Does your wife work?”
“Part-time,” Doug said over the dog’s barking.
“Did she work yesterday?”
Faz heard Del yell from somewhere at the back of the house. He moved quickly down the hall into an expansive kitchen and open family room. The flat-screen television, mounted above a brick fireplace, displayed the local news but the volume had been muted. Outside sliding glass doors, the yellow Lab raced left and right ac
ross the yard, crushing flowers and shrubs, barking and jumping up on the glass. Faz crossed the family room and pulled open a door to the garage.
Del was moving toward Sandy Blaismith, who stood at an open cabinet holding a spray bottle of blue liquid and a kitchen towel. When she saw Faz and her husband, her face slumped and her shoulders sagged as if she were melting.
“Sandy, what the hell are you doing?” Doug asked.
Sandy did not answer. She lowered the bottle and her gaze. Del moved between her and the car and took the spray bottle and rag from her hands. She offered no resistance. Faz moved to the car and bent to see the reflection from the overhead light on the hood. From the dust and dirt present, it did not look as though Sandy, or anyone else, had recently touched it.
“Sandy,” Doug said, a little more forcefully. “What the hell is going on?”
CHAPTER 12
Tracy thought the exterior of the Village Place apartment building in Seattle’s University District looked too nice to be housing eighteen- to twenty-two-year-old college students whose parents were likely fronting them just enough money to pay their rent and not starve. But the proximity of the building to the University of Washington campus and the inexpensive restaurants and chic clothing stores on University Way made student housing a near certainty.
A red concrete walkway led to a white stone courtyard of potted plants and peaked archways framing ornamental hanging lamps and leaded glass protected by metal bars, a concession to the vagaries of “the Ave.” The area attracted a healthy contingent of young homeless people, who sat on the sidewalks with cardboard signs and clung to a counterculture movement that had largely ended on most campuses a generation before they were born.
Tracy entered the front door at just after five o’clock. Closing arguments in Stephenson had gone about as expected, and the case was presented to the jury at just after 4:00 p.m. Hoetig said he thought the jury would be out until Friday, at the latest.
She stepped along a red runner extending the length of a marbled, columned interior. The cool temperature inside provided a respite from the July heat. A man and woman stood talking to Katie Pryor in a room to the left of the entry that resembled the living area of an English manor, with paintings of men in riding gear hanging on the walls over a deep-set fireplace that had likely not been used for decades.
A Steep Price (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 6) Page 7
