A Steep Price (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 6)

by Robert Dugoni

  “We would text. Sometimes we’d call.”

  Tracy glanced at Kins. “How often did that happen where one of you would have to change your plans?” She didn’t care. She was more interested in Shea’s comment that they texted each other.

  “Rarely. I don’t remember it happening.”

  “And did you text for other reasons?”

  “Only to confirm our meetings, and locations.”

  “You didn’t ask if she liked piña coladas and getting caught in the rain?” Kins said, deliberately trying to provoke Shea to determine if he had a short fuse and was easily prone to anger.

  Shea looked directly at Kins. “No,” he said.

  Tracy said, “You used your phone to send these texts? Weren’t you worried about your wife reading your messages?”

  Shea shook his head. “I never used my phone. We each had burner phones.”

  “Kavita also?” Tracy asked. This was news to them. Only her personal cell phone had been found in the hole. Shea would have known to take the burner phone if he’d killed her. But then, why would he tell them about it? Could he have thought this through, and decided that if questioned he’d bring up the subject of the burner phones for that very reason, because it wouldn’t make sense for him to do so if guilty?

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Did you text to confirm your Monday meeting this week?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did Vita respond?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have your phone?”

  Shea used a key on his ring and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a cheap cell phone, powered it up, and entered a password. After a minute, he handed Tracy the phone. Kavita Mukherjee had confirmed their date Monday night at 4:14 p.m. She then texted him again at just after five thirty to say she was running late due to traffic. Tracy suspected that wasn’t the truth, since that was the night Aditi had come home and told her she was married and moving to London with her husband. More important, whoever had killed Vita had taken her burner phone but not her cell phone. Again, Tracy wondered if the act was deliberate, to throw them off. Shea certainly had reason to do so.

  Tracy looked to Kins before redirecting her attention to Shea. “Why Monday nights?”

  “My wife has book club the first and third Mondays of every month. Girls’ night out. So she says.”

  “Who watches your daughters?” Tracy asked.

  The fact that Tracy knew he had daughters caused Shea to pause, which had been her intent. She wanted Shea to think they already knew a lot more than they did. “We have a nanny.”

  “Does your wife work?” Kins said.

  Shea chuckled at this. “God, no. She’s one of the Umberto children. You know, the chain tool shops?”

  “I thought I read in the newspaper that the family sold those stores a few years back,” Kins said. “A couple hundred million, wasn’t it?”

  “Two hundred and eighty-six million,” Shea said. “But the family remained a part of the board for five years. Last year they didn’t like how the stores were being run and bought them back. They have what you might call ‘disposable income.’”

  “Why did you say so she says when I asked where your wife goes on Monday nights?” Tracy asked.

  Shea sat back, rocking in his chair. “I suspect that my wife has a boyfriend and it isn’t her first.”

  Kins nodded. “And you thought you’d do the same?”

  Shea shrugged.

  “So why a sugar baby?” Tracy said.

  “Because I can’t very well go out and pick up somebody at the local gym or the coffee shop, can I? My wife’s family is well known all over the Eastside.”

  “And if your wife found out it would be the excuse to kick you out, and she’d be gone, along with her money,” Kins said.

  “Maybe, Detective. She isn’t necessarily setting the moral high ground, but with that much money you tend to establish the morals.”

  “Why don’t you just divorce?” Kins said.

  “Because we have two daughters under ten who adore their father—their mother not so much. So, we make things work. For them.”

  “How many sugar babies do you have?” Tracy asked, stumbling over the words “sugar babies.”

  “I had three. Kavita and two others.”

  “Where did you find the time? And the stamina?” Kins asked.

  “I saw the other two less frequently, maybe once every couple of months.”

  “You saw those two separately or together?” Kins asked.

  Shea took a moment. “Together.”

  “A threesome,” Kins said, continuing to pick at the scab to see if it would bleed.

  “How did you keep the payments to Vita and these other two girls from your wife?” Kins asked.

  “I made direct deposits from my account into Vita’s account. It’s numbered. No names. If asked I could say it was the health club payment. Not that it would matter. My wife pays no attention to our finances, especially mine. She doesn’t have to. We have a money manager for her trust, but she can pretty much do what she wants with it. My income, by comparison, is minuscule and of little interest to her. I paid the other two girls cash.”

  “When you saw Kavita Monday night what was she like? What was her demeanor?” Tracy asked.

  Shea gave this some thought, as if he’d already forgotten. “She seemed fine, but then, that was part of our agreement.”

  “Agreement?” Kins asked.

  “We had a written agreement forbidding questions about our personal lives or discussing our personal problems.”

  “Nothing that could put a damper on the sex,” Kins said.

  “Did Kavita ever mention a boyfriend?” Tracy asked.

  Shea shook his head.

  “What did you talk about when you were together?” Kins asked.

  “Many things. Vita is very knowledgeable on many subjects. She wants to be a pediatrician. She asked me about my practice and my patients. She’s very interested in world and local news, and surprisingly knowledgeable about sports, particularly the Seahawks. Our evenings were enjoyable. I looked forward to them.”

  “So, you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary that evening?” Tracy said.

  “Actually, there was something; Vita advised me that she was ending our agreement.” Shea said this matter-of-factly, without emotion, and Tracy wondered if he’d rehearsed it, perhaps anticipating this moment also.

  “Did she say why?” Tracy said.

  “She told me she had enough money to at least start medical school, and that had always been her goal.”

  “And this came out of the blue?” Kins asked.

  “No. She had told me up front that she was trying to earn money to attend medical school, and that she’d quit when she did.”

  “Did she say anything else?” Tracy asked.

  Shea shrugged. “Nothing that I recall.”

  “Part of the don’t-burden-me-with-your-personal-crap clause of the agreement?” Kins said.

  “I don’t know, Detective. She said there’d been some changes in her life, that she intended to apply to schools in the fall, and to use her free time to study for the MCATs.”

  “And how did you feel about that?” Tracy said.

  “I was happy for her,” Shea said without hesitation. “She’s a smart girl. She’ll make a good doctor.”

  Tracy noticed the present tense.

  “How did you feel about her moving on?” Kins asked.

  “Disappointed. I enjoyed our time together and the relationship had become stable. I was going to have to decide whether I wanted to start all over again.”

  “Were you upset?” Tracy said.

  “No,” Shea said. “As I said, we both knew from the start that this was not about developing a future relationship. That was never going to happen.”

  “So how did you feel about her?” Kins asked. “It doesn’t sound like it was love. What was it?”

  Shea gave that questio
n some thought. “I guess I thought of her as a business associate.”

  “And this was just, what, her exercising a clause in that business agreement?” Kins said.

  “That was always on the table . . . for both of us.”

  “What time did you leave the hotel Monday night?” Tracy asked.

  “Around nine—a little before. It was still light out. I always left at the same time. My wife usually got home from her book club at nine thirty.”

  “And Vita? When did she leave?” Tracy said.

  “I have no idea. As I said, I left before her. She was free to use the room for the night if she chose, or to go home.”

  “You left her alone in the hotel room,” Kins said.

  “Always.”

  “How often did she spend the night?” Kins asked.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Also not something you discussed?”

  “No.”

  “Your nanny can confirm the time that you returned home that night?”

  “Yes. As I said, it’s always the same time.”

  “What’s her name?” Tracy asked. Shea provided the name of the nanny, and Tracy wrote that down, along with the young woman’s phone number. Then she asked, “What name did Kavita check in under?”

  Shea shrugged. “I assume Vita Kumari.”

  Kins sat forward, his arms resting on the desk. “Dr. Shea, did you consider this relationship to be just a wee bit exploitive?”

  Tracy wanted to roll her eyes, but given the gravity of the situation, she refrained.

  Shea sat back. He looked tired. “Look, Detectives, I recognize the relationship was out of the ordinary. But it worked for me, for both of us.” He shrugged. “What were my options? Go out to a bar and pick up women? I wasn’t much good at that when I was young. I doubt I would be much better now. Plus, then you’re dealing with different people, STDs, and who knows what else. And when did I have the time to go out and do that?” He paused as if awaiting an answer. Then he said, “I heard about this dating site and I created a profile, just to see what might happen. For the first six months, it was pretty much the shits. The women were not very interesting. I was just about to call it quits when I saw this profile of a beautiful young woman. She said she wanted tuition money to attend medical school. It was refreshing. Did it feel wrong? Yes, to a certain degree, but I figured that this way, at the very least, I could do some good with my money.”

  “So, what, you’re just like Sallie Mae?” Kins said, referencing the student loan service.

  This time Shea did not back down. “In a sense, I guess I am, Detective.”

  “And those other two girls who you have the threesome with, are you paying their school tuition also?”

  Shea ignored him.

  “What name did you use on the site?” Tracy asked.

  “Charles Francis,” he said. “My first and middle names. You haven’t said why you’re asking me all these questions. I’m assuming something happened to Vita?”

  “She’s dead,” Kins said. He and Tracy watched Shea’s reaction closely.

  His eyes narrowed and watered and he pressed his lips together. After a moment he said, “How?” The word caught in his throat. Tracy didn’t think he was acting, but she couldn’t be certain.

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

  “But you believe someone killed her. That’s why you’re here. You think I had something to do with Vita’s death?”

  “Did you?” Kins asked.

  “No,” Shea said, looking between them. Then he said, “My God” in a quiet voice. “Do I need an attorney?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor, that’s up to you,” Kins said. “We’re just here to ask questions, and try to piece together, as best we can, Kavita’s evening.”

  “I left her in the hotel room,” Shea said, “alive.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Saturday, July 14, 2018

  Faz adjusted in his car seat, his body already developing aches and pains from sitting for too long. He had the window down; the temperature remained tolerable, though the weatherman had predicted a weekend high of ninety-two in Seattle. Faz had arrived in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood at just after six that morning. Upon his arrival, he’d driven down the driveway of the three-story apartment building to confirm that Gonzalez’s red Audi A8 was parked in one of the tenant stalls. It was a nice car, though an older model. Still, it made Faz wonder if Gonzalez was somehow supplementing her income.

  He’d retreated and parked his Subaru facing south on Twelfth Avenue, across the street from the apartment building and the lone driveway out, and settled in to wait. That had been close to six hours ago.

  Faz checked his phone but did not find any messages from Del, whom he knew was making phone calls to Los Angeles, trying to get whatever information he could on Andrea Gonzalez. He took a sip of water from one of the bottles in the small cooler on the passenger seat. He’d told Vera that he had a follow-up visit with a psychiatrist and a meeting with one of the union lawyers, and that he anticipated being out for most of the day. He didn’t like lying to her, but given the circumstances, he also didn’t want to add to her worries.

  Faz sat up when the sun glistened off the polished hood of the red Audi cresting the inclined driveway. The Audi stopped to allow a northbound car to pass, then turned away from him. Faz put the bottle back in the cooler, started the Subaru, and pulled away from the curb.

  Faz knew the Capitol Hill area well. Half a block west, at Cal Anderson Park, he and Vera had enjoyed picnics while watching Antonio play baseball and soccer. They were also close to the freeway entrances for Interstate 5. Gonzalez turned left onto Denny Way and took the on-ramp south. Faz stayed in the right lane, several cars behind the Audi, just in case Gonzalez exited suddenly, a trick to detect surveillance. She drove past downtown Seattle, where the traffic became congested and ultimately slowed to a crawl. Faz had to be careful to remain behind the Audi, which was not easy with traffic in the lanes proceeding unevenly. Though he wore dark sunglasses and a Mariners baseball cap, Del said disguising Faz was like trying to hide a grizzly behind a hankie.

  Gonzalez drove the Audi past the exits for the International District. She wasn’t switching lanes or increasing and decreasing her speed, another technique to detect surveillance. Minutes later, she exited onto Corson Avenue, still heading southwest, toward Georgetown, though Faz suspected Georgetown would not be her final stop. He sat up, feeling nerves of anticipation. At Marginal Way, Gonzalez turned left toward Boeing Field. Faz slowed again when the traffic lightened, not wanting to get too close. He watched Gonzalez turn right on Sixteenth Avenue South toward the South Park Bridge over the Duwamish.

  “Bingo,” he said.

  It was possible Gonzalez was just visiting friends, but the odds of that were about as low as the odds that Sandy Blaismith had driven into South Park to meet with a fitness trainer. Faz didn’t believe in coincidences; people usually had a purpose for their actions, and he suspected Gonzalez had a purpose that afternoon.

  Gonzalez turned onto Cloverdale, but drove past the house where Faz and Del had confronted Little Jimmy. The car and foot traffic increased, families dressed for the summer weather walked the sidewalks, all seemingly headed in the same direction, like fans walking to the start of a sporting event or a concert.

  Gonzalez turned on Eighth Avenue South, then again on South Sullivan. Faz followed and saw signs for the South Park Community Center. Farther down the road he noted white tents pitched on the grass field adjacent to the center. With the window down, he heard the horns of a mariachi band, and he smelled food cooking. When he reached the corner, he decided not to turn, in case Gonzalez was now paying closer attention, but he also had to be careful he didn’t lose her in the crowd if she got out of her car.

  The Audi slowed and turned into the community center parking lot, though the lot looked to be full. Faz pulled to the curb across the street, blocking a driveway, and watched Gonzalez
drive her car onto the lawn. A parking attendant quickly approached her, but whatever Gonzalez said, or showed him—likely her police ID—it was enough for the attendant not to hassle her. When Gonzalez got out of the car, Faz paid particular attention to her clothing—sunglasses, white shorts, tennis shoes, and a blue T-shirt. She reached back inside the Audi and retrieved a floppy hat, placing it on her head. The brim drooped low, partially obscuring her face. Whatever her purpose, Gonzalez did not want to be identified. The hat, however, would make her easier to follow.

  She walked across the lawn toward the white tents.

  Faz saw a parked car pull away from the curb and quickly took the vacated spot. An enterprising young man approached the driver’s side window and asked for a five-dollar parking fee. Faz paid the ransom, ditched his blue windbreaker in the backseat, and crossed Eighth Avenue into the park.

  People strolled the lawn, some eating corn on the cob, others soft tacos and churros. The booths displayed Latino art—paintings and other trinkets. Faz picked up a brochure from one of the tables, declined a sample of food, and looked over the crowd for the drooping hat and blue top. He didn’t see her.

  He migrated through the crowd, listening to the guitars and trumpets. Women in bright-colored dresses danced on a stage. In the center of the grass field, a wrestling ring had been erected and wrestlers, dressed in ornate luchador masks, colorful tights, and knee-high boots, mingled with the crowd. Faz continued to search, going from one tent to the next. He crossed the lawn and started up the other side, looking in the booths and at the people lined up for the food trucks. Beads of sweat trickled from beneath his hat and down his temples and cheeks. He jerked to a stop when he saw the hat and blue top disappear around the back of a tent. Rather than follow, he moved farther down the lawn to the other side of the tent. Gonzalez emerged into the gap between the two tents. She had her head down and appeared to be texting on her phone, unaware of Faz’s presence. Faz angled his body, as if interested in the wrestlers, but kept an eye on Gonzalez, who lowered her phone and paced. A man walked down the alley. He had his back to the field, preventing Faz from getting a good look at his face. Faz retrieved his phone, as if to take a picture of the wrestlers, flipped the view, and angled the camera until he could see behind him—Gonzalez stood speaking to the man.