A Steep Price (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 6)

by Robert Dugoni

  “Good move leaving on the price tag,” Faz said. “I think you might have to return it. It’s not going to fit through the back door.”

  Little Jimmy nodded. “Good point. Maybe I’ll drop it down the chimney, like Santa Claus.” The tattoo artist started again. “You want a tattoo, Detective? I get one every year on my birthday. Julio is the best around, man. I’ll set you up for free.”

  Faz shook his head. “I never caught the bug, Jimmy. I just go to dinner on my birthday.”

  “I can tell, man. You look like you put on a lot of weight since I last saw you.”

  “Nah, you were just a lot smaller. I’ve always been this size.”

  Little Jimmy laughed and looked to Del. “Who’s this, your younger brother? How come you’re not skinny like him?”

  “Bad genes, I guess,” Faz said.

  “You got to be careful. You’ll give yourself a heart attack or a stroke, man.”

  Faz pointed. “I like the tattoo of your father. Nice resemblance.”

  Little Jimmy did not look down at the tattoo on his chest. His smile vanished. His mood darkened. “I got that when I was fifteen so I could always remember what he looked like. Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember because I was so young when he died.” He paused. Then he said, “But you seem to be doing all right. I heard you were a big-shot homicide detective now. So tell me, Detective Fatso. Why are you here at my birthday party? You looking for a homicide?”

  “It’s Fazzio,” Del said in a tone that Faz had heard before. You didn’t want to piss off Del. He’d take down the entire party by himself when angry.

  Jimmy turned his gaze to Del. “That’s what I said. Maybe you need to clean the wax out of your ears.”

  “I think you’d be surprised by what we’ve heard,” Del said.

  “We already have a body, Jimmy,” Faz said. “You know that. You drove past the apartment building in a car making like a pogo stick. Tell me, why would you do that? Seemed discourteous and disrespectful to me.”

  “Nah. I didn’t mean nothing. Just curious, man. A lot of people standing on the sidewalk watching. I wanted to see what all the excitement was about.”

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that shooting, would you, Jimmy?” Faz asked.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Me? No, man. I don’t know nothing about that.”

  Faz looked to Del before reengaging Jimmy. “Really? Because we have some people telling us you do know something about it, that maybe it was you who gave the order to have Monique Rodgers killed.”

  Little Jimmy smiled. “Ah, now you’re just messing with me, Detective Fatso. Ask these guys. They’ll tell you. I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He puckered up, and a woman bent and kissed him on the lips. “You see? Why would I know anything about that?”

  “For the same reason your old man gave the order to have the members of that rival gang killed,” Faz said. “Because you aren’t very bright.”

  Jimmy stood abruptly, causing the tattoo artist to pull away quickly and the woman to fall into the chair. A trickle of blood inched down his bicep. “Baja la música,” he yelled. A moment later the music stopped. Jimmy removed his sunglasses and stepped into the center of the yard, eyeing Faz like a prizefighter.

  “Don’t insult my father, Detective Fatso. Not on my birthday. Not in my backyard.” He glared for another moment, then he smiled and turned, arms spread wide. He shouted, “Listen up, man. Detective Fatso here wants to know if anyone knows anything about a shooting in South Park. Anybody know anything?”

  The question was greeted by head shakes, mumbled denials, and silence. Dark eyes bored into Del and Faz. Jimmy looked around the yard for several seconds, then he looked back to Faz. He took a step closer, close enough for Faz to smell the marijuana on his breath. His eyes were glassy, mud-brown pools. “You see, Detective, I’m trying to help the police here. Nobody knows nothing about no shooting or dead body. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do though. I’m going to keep my ears open for anybody who says they do know something. Yes, I will. I’m going to be paying very close attention to anyone who says anything.”

  He smiled.

  Faz said, “So am I, Jimmy, and when I hear your name, I’m going to come back here, and the next time we talk, it won’t be in a backyard. We’ll be talking in a holding cell downtown. I’m going to put you in jail, Jimmy. Just like I put your father in jail, and we both know what happened to him.” Faz eyed Jimmy up and down. “And he was a lot bigger and, I’m guessing, a lot tougher than you.”

  Jimmy smiled, a defiant, broad grin. “Then I’ll see you when I see you,” he said. He turned to his crowd and yelled, “Man, what kind of party is this? Somebody turn on some fucking music.”

  The music kicked on again.

  Little Jimmy plopped down into his recliner, still watching Faz. The tattoo artist wiped his shoulder with an antiseptic wipe and went back to work coloring his creation. Del and Faz turned to leave.

  “Detective Fatso?” Jimmy said. Del and Faz reengaged him. “You didn’t ask me about my birthday tattoo. Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not really,” Faz said. “My dad always said only fools get tattoos.”

  Little Jimmy turned his shoulder. On his bicep was a tombstone. He smiled. “I’m keeping this one reserved. I ain’t never going to forget you, Detective. No sir. I’m going to remember you.”

  Faz smiled. “I’m flattered, Jimmy, and inspired. Maybe I will get a tattoo. Maybe I’ll have Julio ink a picture of you right on my ass, so I can always remember what a piece of shit you are.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Tracy watched the hounds bump and jostle one another, barking as they fought their way out the front door to greet her. It was nice to be loved, even if it was just a Pavlovian response to the sound of her truck crunching the gravel drive. Dan stepped out after them, watching Tracy from the doorway. His love was not Pavlovian, and it made Tracy feel special. Dan had apparently worked late, still dressed in his suit, tie pulled down and shirt collar unbuttoned.

  Tracy pushed out of the truck and stepped down from the cab, petting the dogs as they circled her. “Did you boys go for a run yet? You don’t look like it. You look full of energy.” Nearing the front door, she said to Dan, “Thought you would have been home hours ago—nice day like this. I expected to find you lying out on the deck soaking up the sun in your birthday suit.”

  Dan’s lips curled into a bemused smirk. He spoke in an Irish brogue. “Not this fair-skinned Irishman. We tan the way lawyers tell the truth, never on purpose and never very well.” He gave her a kiss and stepped aside so she could enter. The dogs remained outside. Dan left the front door partially open, though the dogs showed no interest in coming inside. They could get on the scent of a rabbit or a squirrel and run around the yard entertained for hours.

  Tracy dropped her briefcase onto one of the chairs at the dining room table and shrugged out of her coat, draping it over the back. “I take it from their greeting that you didn’t get them out yet?”

  Dan continued the brogue. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but when they charge out the door it isn’t love. It’s more like a jailbreak. I just barely beat you home.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “And what about you—do you come out because it’s a jailbreak?”

  “I’d break out of any jail to be close to you,” he said, kissing her.

  The sun had nearly set, casting the interior of the farmhouse in streaks of light. A breeze drifted through the house from the open door, bringing the smell of dried grass. “Before we get started here,” he said, still smiling as Tracy gave him small kisses, “I was thinking of changing my clothes and going for a run before it gets much darker. You want to go?”

  She hadn’t exercised in several days and could feel the tension in her shoulders. “I’ll go, but only if you promise to lose the accent.”

  Dan bit his lower lip, scowled, and began to shadowbox around her, speaking in a very good impression of Muhammad Ali. �
��I can’t help it. The words are just so pretty. They’re pretty, Howard, just like me. Look at this face. Fifty fights and I’ve never been cut.”

  Tracy laughed and shook her head. “Forget the dogs, you definitely need a run.”

  After changing into running clothes, they stretched for a few minutes before starting out along a dirt trail behind the house that meandered toward the tree-lined hills. The dogs loped in front of them, changing directions as their noses dictated. Since moving to the farm, Dan had mapped out different runs of different lengths, depending on how far they wanted to go, and how much light they had to do it. The early evening temperature had cooled, with a light breeze blowing through the trees, though it remained warm enough that Tracy didn’t need a sweatshirt, and her muscles quickly loosened. She carried a water bottle. So did Dan. Her doctor said running was fine the first few months of her pregnancy if she felt up to it, but he admonished her not to get dehydrated. Dan had become the water Nazi.

  “So why are you so late?” Dan said in between breaths, both of them still trying to catch their wind, which for Tracy was becoming more and more difficult as her pregnancy progressed. Their running shoes pounded the dirt trail in an uneven pace.

  “I don’t think I told you. I got a call from Katie Pryor. Do you remember her?”

  “Police officer who lives in West Seattle? You want to stop and catch your wind?”

  “No, let’s just slow the pace a bit.”

  Tracy felt her breathing syncing with her stride as they started up the first incline, Dan in front to accommodate the width of the trail. “She switched positions a few months ago. She’s working the missing persons unit.”

  “Didn’t you help her get the job?”

  “I did. She called because she’s working a case involving a young woman gone missing. She has a bad feeling about it and asked if I’d take a look.”

  Dan gave her a sidelong glance, clearly concerned, given what had happened to Tracy’s sister. “How long has the woman been missing?”

  “Since Monday night, but the circumstances are unusual.”

  Rex and Sherlock sped past them.

  Tracy explained what she knew about Kavita Mukherjee’s disappearance and her relationship with her family. When she’d finished, Dan said, “So you don’t know if the woman was just upset and needed some time alone or if something has happened to her.”

  “Unfortunately, when it’s a young woman, it’s usually the latter.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No.”

  “Are you working it?”

  “Katie asked me for my help. I spoke to the roommate and the family tonight.”

  “And are you avoiding answering my question because you don’t think Nolasco is going to let you work it?”

  “I’m not avoiding it . . . but yeah, I doubt Nolasco will allow it. Then again, last year we ignored a missing persons case and they found the woman cut up in garbage bins all around the city. A mandate came down for us to take a more aggressive approach, especially in the first forty-eight hours.”

  “Okay, but why you? You’re in trial.”

  “Closings were today. Besides, I know what this is like, Dan, and I don’t mean that in an irrational way. I know what the family is going through because I’ve been through it. They need an answer. I don’t want anybody to have to wait twenty years the way I did . . . the way my family waited. It destroyed my father and my mother.”

  “I’m just worried about the additional stress, especially with the pregnancy.”

  “I know and I appreciate your concern, but stress comes with the job,” she said. They continued on for several seconds. Then she changed the direction of the conversation. “Interesting family dynamics though. The father definitely projected as the head of the house, but the mother seems to be the one who actually wields the power. If looks could kill, her youngest son would have keeled over dead when he said he’d texted his sister.”

  “And the daughter’s lack of communication with the parents is all because the mother wants her to move home and agree to an arranged marriage?”

  “I got a sense there was more to it, but that appears to be the trigger,” Tracy said.

  Dan used the tail of his tank top to wipe sweat dripping down his forehead. He slowed at one of his designated turnaround spots and they jogged in place. “How are you feeling? You want to turn back or continue?”

  “I’m good to go on,” she said.

  “You sure? Our little tadpole all right? You drinking enough water?”

  “I’m fine,” she said and squirted a stream of water into her mouth.

  With the sun nearly below the horizon, the trail had become immersed in shades of gray. Dan led on.

  “I have to say,” Tracy continued, speaking to the back of Dan’s head when he again ran ahead of her where the trail narrowed, “that an arranged marriage sounds barbaric—like putting livestock on the auction block and having all their parts and pedigrees considered. Only now they apparently do it on the Internet.”

  “I thought the Internet was for porn,” Dan said. They’d watched the musical Avenue Q earlier that season at the Seattle Rep, and the song—“The Internet Is for Porn”—had stuck in his head. “Don’t be so quick to judge.”

  “You don’t see it as barbaric?”

  “When I practiced in Boston I had a secretary who was Indian and in an arranged marriage. She seemed happy. I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s our place to judge what we don’t understand. The percentage of divorces is lower than in America.”

  “The mother said the same thing,” Tracy said.

  “There’s also a strong sense of duty to the family, including grandparents. Unlike Americans, they don’t just stick us old folk in a home.”

  “The father’s parents lived in the house,” Tracy said, thinking of the elderly couple on the couch who hadn’t spoken a word or revealed any outward sign of emotion.

  “From what I understand, the parents and children care for the grandparents. When the son gets married, his wife moves in and the cycle continues.”

  Tracy shot him a glance. “Are you serious?”

  Dan shrugged. “Jayanti, my secretary, moved in with her husband’s parents. She’d come to work some days bleary-eyed and dragging. She’d work all day, then go home and cook dinner, do the laundry, and help her kids with homework. She said it was the Indian way, that someday her son and his wife would take care of her and her husband.”

  Dan led Tracy down an incline and she stutter-stepped so as not to step on the heels of his shoes. She could feel a twinge of discomfort in her knee from an old injury. “Did she say she even loved the guy?”

  “I don’t remember.” Dan spoke while glancing over his shoulder. “I met him at firm functions. He seemed like an okay guy. I don’t know. I’m just saying it’s not really our place to judge. Look at us. We got married quickly.”

  “We lived together for two years.”

  “Still felt quick,” Dan said.

  Tracy punched him between the shoulder blades and Dan laughed. The trail widened again and she sped up to run side by side. “I’d prefer that our son or daughter love the person they marry and the two can’t keep their hands off each other.”

  “Hey,” Dan said. “That might be my daughter you’re talking about.” He again imitated Muhammad Ali. “I’ll knock the fool out.”

  “I think that’s Mr. T, not Muhammad Ali.”

  Dan laughed. “Speaking of not being able to keep our hands off each other . . .”

  “Who said anything about us?”

  “Hey, you initiated the launch sequence when you got home. Don’t expect me to abort the launch now. I’ll race you home? Winner gets to undress the other.”

  “As long as you promise not to laugh at my belly.”

  Dan smiled. “I could get a sympathy belly so you don’t feel self-conscious.”

  “Spare me,” she said.

  He patted his stomach. “No, spare me.”<
br />
  “You’re a goober.”

  He increased his pace as they came out of the hills along the dirt trail and raced for home.

  CHAPTER 19

  Faz kept the window down on the drive home, hoping the cool temperature would help calm him. He and Del had gone to Little Jimmy’s to push buttons, something they usually excelled at, but Little Jimmy had pushed a few buttons of his own. Faz didn’t like being called “Detective Fatso” but he could dismiss it as juvenile; what really bothered him was the way Jimmy had flaunted the killing. He was behind it, Faz was sure of it, and he was daring Faz to prove it.

  He parked in his drive and shut off the engine. The aroma from Vera’s tomato plants assaulted him through the open car window. Another month and they’d have enough tomatoes to stew and fill jars that Vera would give to appreciative neighbors as Christmas gifts.

  Maybe. Christmas was still months away and maybe no longer guaranteed. “Shit,” he said, and told himself not to go there, not to think about down the road.

  He looked up at the basketball hoop and thought of Antonio. Vera did not want their son to know about her cancer until they had more information. She’d told Faz that Antonio had enough stress pursuing his own restaurant and finding the right moment to propose to his girlfriend. Faz didn’t know if not telling Antonio was the right thing to do. Antonio was no longer a child and Vera was his mother. On the other hand, Faz better understood, now more than ever, that this was Vera’s way—to not worry them about things they could not control.