Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5)

by Robert Dugoni

  Tracy followed Kins into a storeroom more cluttered than the store. It held the faint odor of rotting food. In the room to their left, a man in a matching light-blue smock, also wearing a turban, sat facing a small television. Kins knocked on the door and the man turned and looked at them over half-lens cheaters. He had a cell phone pressed to his ear, but waved them in. “They’re here,” he said. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll call.” He disconnected and shook their hands.

  “Are you Archie?” Kins asked.

  Archie swiped at a thick beard streaked with gray. “I was just talking with my attorney.”

  “Is there a problem?” Tracy asked.

  “No. No. I wanted to be sure you didn’t need a search warrant. I don’t want any trouble.” He spoke with a thick accent. “He said no warrant is needed.”

  “You have the video?” Kins asked.

  Archie nodded to a television. “I was just searching the tape. Having the time imprinted on the receipt saved me a lot of work.”

  “Do you have it on a computer?” Tracy asked.

  “No,” he said moving toward the portable television on the table with the VCR player, an all-in-one machine. “Nothing that fancy.”

  “It’s not digitized?” Kins asked.

  “Digit what?”

  “Is that the tape?” Tracy said, pointing to a VCR cartridge partially sticking out of the television on the desk.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you play it for us?”

  “Sure.”

  Archie sat and swiveled his chair to face his TV. He pushed the tape into the VCR player, then lifted his chin and looked down his glasses to press a couple of buttons on a remote control. Satisfied, he slid back his chair, stood, and stepped to the side to allow Tracy and Kins to view the television. The feed was black-and-white and definitely not the best quality. Without sound, they heard just the whir and hum of the tape, as if the outdated machine was struggling and the tape could break at any moment. On the TV screen, a man in a white shirt with a baseball cap entered the store and quickly proceeded to the glass case at the back. Tracy didn’t bother to freeze the frame to measure his height using the ruler on the inside of the door. They could obtain that later. She couldn’t tell if the man was Trejo.

  The man opened a freezer door, paused, closed the door, and opened the door beside it. He extracted two cans and started up the aisle. As he neared the counter, getting closer to the camera, his image improved—not perfect, but certainly good enough for Tracy and Kins to know.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tracy called Laszlo Trejo with word that the lab had finished processing his car, and told Trejo he could pick it up at Police Headquarters. Trejo didn’t hesitate at the invitation. Anxious to get his car back, he said he would make the ferry crossing after work that evening. Tracy provided him directions walking from the ferry terminal to Police Headquarters, which was just up the hill on Fifth Avenue.

  The officer at the duty desk in the building lobby called Tracy at just after 7:00 p.m. to advise that Trejo had arrived. Tracy instructed him to escort Trejo to the seventh floor. She met them both in the lobby as the elevator doors opened. Trejo wore civilian clothes—jeans and tennis shoes—and kept his hands stuffed in the pockets of what looked like a letterman’s jacket without all the patches. Out of uniform, he looked even younger, just a kid, really, and smaller, perhaps five foot six, four inches shorter than Tracy.

  She extended her hand, and Trejo gave it a halfhearted handshake, his hand small and warm.

  “Come on back.” Tracy led Trejo down the hall. “Can I get you a cup of bad coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Trejo said. “I just came for my car.”

  Tracy stepped into the conference room and pulled out a chair, motioning that Trejo do the same. A portable television with a VCR sat on the table, facing her. She and Kins had scrambled that afternoon to find one. “Take a seat,” she said.

  Trejo continued to look wary. He kept his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, like a sullen teenager sent to the principal’s office for a scolding. His eyes flicked about the room, and he avoided any prolonged eye contact.

  Kins walked into the room carrying papers, a ruse to look busy. “You made it.”

  “Are they done with my car?” Trejo asked, standing and sounding eager to get going.

  “They’re just bringing it up from the police impound,” Kins said.

  Trejo pulled out his cell phone from his jacket pocket and considered the time.

  “You in a rush?” Kins asked.

  “I’m trying to catch the 7:55 ferry back home,” Trejo said.

  Kins pulled out a chair and sat. “What happens if you miss the ferry?”

  “They have others,” Trejo said, still standing.

  “Or I guess you could also just drive around,” Tracy said. The Department of Transportation video from the Bremerton and Seattle ferry terminals did not reveal the black Subaru. She looked to Kins. “What bridge do you cross down there, just past Tacoma?”

  Kins paused as if uncertain.

  “The Tacoma Narrows,” Trejo said, filling the silence and lowering himself into his chair.

  Tracy looked to Trejo. “That’s it. You ever go that way?”

  Trejo shook his head. “I told you I don’t get over here very much.”

  They sat in an awkward silence. Kins said, “Do the Bremerton police have any more information on what might have happened to your car, who could have stolen it?”

  “I don’t know,” Trejo said.

  “They haven’t said?” Kins asked.

  Trejo shook his head and continued fidgeting in his chair, perhaps beginning to realize that coming over had been a mistake.

  Tracy asked, “Are you curious about what the police impound found?”

  “Oh. Uh, yeah,” Trejo said. “I mean, did they find any fingerprints?”

  “They did,” Tracy said. “We’re running them down now. The DNA will take longer to get back.”

  “DNA?”

  “The air bag deployed. They can get DNA off of the bag. So we should know who was driving at the time of impact.”

  Trejo did not respond.

  “They also found blood on the driver’s seat.” She let her eyes drift to the cut on Trejo’s forehead.

  “I told you I got some in the car when I cut my head.”

  “Did you? I don’t recall you saying that.” She looked to Kins. “Did he say that?”

  Kins shrugged. Trejo hadn’t. It didn’t fit with the timeline he’d provided them.

  “How’d you cut your head again?” Tracy asked. She wanted to pin him to his story.

  “I told you I was in the kitchen and I stood up too quick. I hit one of the cabinet doors.”

  “When was that?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember,” he said quickly. “Is my car ready?”

  Kins said, “That hurts like hell. I did the same thing in the garage once, nearly knocked myself out. The head bleeds like a son of a bitch, too, doesn’t it?”

  Trejo shrugged.

  “Looks like you tried to clean it up,” Tracy said. “The car seat I mean. What did you use?”

  “I don’t know, just a napkin or something.”

  Tracy nodded as if understanding. Then she said, “Lab says someone used an antiseptic wipe.”

  Trejo did not respond.

  “When’s the last time you’ve been over on this side?” Kins asked.

  Trejo again looked at his phone. “Do you know how much longer it’s going to be?”

  “I’m sure they’re close,” Kins said. “What time is it?” He turned his body and swiveled his chair to consider the clock on the wall. “You have plans, you and your wife?”

  Trejo looked confused by the question. “What?”

  “I thought maybe you were trying to get home because you and your wife have plans.”

  “No. Just, you know, I want to catch the ferry.”

  “No kids, right?” Kins said.

  “No.�
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  “I have three boys,” Kins said. “Two in high school. I’ll be taking my oldest off to college soon. He’s at that age, you know, where he does stupid things—I shouldn’t say stupid.” Kins pinched his lower lip. Tracy had heard and seen this act before. She’d even used it. “He’ll make a mistake, you know? Then he tries to hide it. I keep telling him to just be honest. I tell him that he might get in trouble for what he did, but it won’t be as bad as if he tries to hide it and gets caught.”

  Kins never took his gaze from Trejo. He lowered his voice. “Nobody wants to believe they were lied to.”

  Trejo pushed back his chair and stood. He spoke to Tracy. “Could you call about my car? I’d like to get going.”

  Kins said, “Why don’t you tell us what happened that night, Mr. Trejo?”

  Trejo’s eyes darted between the two of them. He gave a nervous laugh. “What is this? Where’s my car?”

  “We know about the convenience store in Renton, Mr. Trejo,” Tracy said.

  Trejo looked like a busted teenager. He licked his lips. Unprepared, all he could say was, “What?”

  “You left a store receipt in your car that night,” she said. “The receipt is dated and timed.”

  “That’s bullshit. I told you I was working. Then I went home.” Getting a burst of inspiration, Trejo said, “It was probably whoever stole my car.”

  “You bought two cans of Red Bull,” Tracy said. “The same energy drink you were drinking the night we drove out to speak with you.”

  “I told you I was at home,” he said, now more adamant. “My wife will tell you I was at home. It was the person who stole my car.”

  “The store has video cameras,” Tracy said.

  Trejo paused and glanced at the television, perhaps realizing now why it was there. Beads of sweat had formed above his upper lip.

  Tracy pressed a button and the video showed Trejo entering the store and moving to the refrigerator. When he reached the counter, it was pretty clear it was him, even wearing the hat.

  “The video is dated and timed, Mr. Trejo,” Tracy said. “This is roughly half an hour before D’Andre Miller was hit by your car. So why don’t you tell us what you were doing in Seattle.”

  Trejo chewed his bottom lip. The bandage on his head had become a darker shade of red. “That isn’t me. I don’t know who that is.”

  “How tall are you, Mr. Trejo?” Tracy asked. He didn’t respond. “This goes to a prosecutor and he’s going to charge you with a felony. The penalties are governed by sentencing guidelines—if it gets that far. That means the judge has no choice in the matter. A hit and run involving a death, you’re looking at a Class B felony punishable by ten years in prison.”

  “D’Andre Miller’s family will demand accountability, Mr. Trejo,” Kins said, which was part of his spiel. “The public will demand accountability. They’ll demand that we hold someone responsible for D’Andre’s death. Lying isn’t going to help you.”

  Trejo’s eyes no longer focused on anything in particular, as if he were seeing into the future, seeing a jail cell that would be his home for many years.

  CHAPTER 13

  Leah Battles dropped her head beneath the barrel of the handgun, reached up and grasped the weapon with both hands, and drove her knee into her attacker’s groin. She stepped back quickly while violently rolling the man’s wrists into his body, yanked free the gun, and aimed the barrel at his forehead.

  “Nice,” her instructor said, his British accent distinct. “But you hesitated.”

  Battles bit her tongue. Seemed there was always a “but” with this guy.

  “One thing you can be sure of,” he said, talking now to the entire class, “when you move to attack, your attacker will fire his weapon. So if you hesitate, if you fail to immediately drop below the barrel of the weapon, you’re dead.” He clapped for emphasis. “So move like you mean it. You understand me, Lee?” he asked, using her nickname.

  Battles nodded. After three years of Krav Maga training, after reaching level four, she should not have hesitated. She knew better. “Understood,” she said.

  She could blame her hesitation on a rough day at work—a client court-martialed for juvenile crap, but that would be an excuse. She didn’t make or accept excuses. The law, she’d heard it said, was a jealous mistress. Screw that crap. The law was a demanding bitch, but Leah had known that before she decided to pursue a career as a trial lawyer. As much physical time as her job took—and it took a lot—there were days when the law sapped her mental energy even more. Some nights she considered switching professions, doing something that allowed her to lock her work in a desk drawer at the end of the day and just go home. As much as she romanticized that lifestyle, however, she knew she’d become quickly bored. She loved the legal tactics and the legal strategy, seeing similarities between the law and chess, at which she excelled. You move and I counter. I counter and you don’t? I win. This was especially true in trial, which she loved most about her job. Who wouldn’t? Why even become a lawyer if not to try cases? Sure, it could be a major pain in the ass when you were trying to focus on something else—like your training, or a freaking relationship, but at least the law was consistent, which was more than she could say about the men she’d recently dated.

  The daily mental stress the law inflicted was one of the reasons she enjoyed the physical exertion of Krav Maga, and why she worked hard to fit her classes into her schedule. She had little patience for a prosecutor if he pulled some crap that required her to miss working out. There’d be hell to pay, eventually. And she’d be the cashier.

  She’d stumbled upon Krav Maga while attending the Naval Justice School in Newport, Rhode Island, following three years of law school. She’d wanted to both serve her country and try cases—real cases, criminal cases, not some bullshit money-judgment crap. The Navy’s Judge Advocate General’s program afforded her the opportunity to do both, right away—serve her country as a Navy lawyer and try cases. Yeah, some of the cases were penny-ante bullshit, but she was still standing before a jury making her arguments and cross-examining witnesses. You weren’t going to get that at the big law firms, which promised a boatload of money but very little in the way of experience.

  That was also what had drawn her to Krav Maga. It was not your typical workout. Krav Maga was serious, practical training on how to stay alive—throwing punches to the throat, kicks to the groin, takedowns. Developed by the Israel Defense Forces, it preached avoiding confrontation. It also preached that when confrontation could not be avoided, end the fight. In other words, make peace. When peace wasn’t an option, kick ass.

  This was something to get her mind off the law.

  “Again,” her instructor said.

  She retook her position and her partner raised the replica gun. About to strike, she heard her phone ring above the grunts and groans of the other students. It wasn’t her personal phone; she’d never bring her personal phone into class. This was the phone she carried when serving as the command duty officer. Her instructors acknowledged her unique situation, which placed her on call twenty-four hours a day when serving as the CDO. She apologized and excused herself, hurrying to retrieve the phone from inside her gym bag stuffed in the cubicles at the back of the room.

  “This is Lieutenant Battles.”

  She listened to the caller and found herself conflicted. Sure, she wanted to finish her training, but she also could never turn down a good fight, and the one being explained over the phone sounded like it had the potential to be a brawl.

  Tracy parked on a grass-and-gravel area abutting a chain-link fence not far from the intersection where D’Andre Miller had been run down. She couldn’t help but think that the young boy had been so close to home, so close to being safe, so close to still being alive.

  She stepped from the car and opened the gate to a concrete walk intersecting a neat but barren yard of crabgrass. Two steps led to a front porch and a maroon front door behind a screen. She pulled on the screen but found it
locked. Not seeing a doorbell, she knocked and waited. A woman answered, but it was not Shaniqua Miller. The woman did not open the screen.

  “Good evening,” Tracy said. “I’m looking for Shaniqua Miller. Is she home?”

  “What’s this about?” The woman appeared youthful, dressed in a T-shirt and blue jeans. Tracy sensed from the resemblance that she was either Shaniqua Miller’s sister or her mother. The woman looked at Tracy from behind round wire-rimmed glasses. Straightened hair framed her face and chin.

  “My name is Tracy Crosswhite. I’m one of the detectives working D’Andre Miller’s case. Are you his aunt?”

  “His grandmother.” The woman’s back stiffened but her voice remained soft. “Is it important? Shaniqua’s getting the boys ready for bed.”

  “It is,” Tracy said. “I won’t take up much of her time.”

  The grandmother frowned, unconvinced, then turned and walked away, not inviting Tracy inside, not opening the screen door. Tracy heard the woman call to her daughter. “Shaniqua?” The rest of her words were muted.

  Sandy Clarridge, SPD’s chief of police, had told the powers that be that he wanted an SPD presence involved in this case, and he didn’t want that presence to simply be the Victim Assistance Unit. He wanted a detective to keep the family apprised of everything that transpired, in person, when possible. His desire had trickled down to Tracy’s captain, Johnny Nolasco, and, ultimately, to Tracy, which explained Tracy’s presence at the home.

  “Who?” she heard a voice ask.

  “One of the detectives.”

  “What does he want?”

  “She wants to talk to you.”

  A pause. “Did she say why?”

  “No. Just wants to talk to you. Said it was important.”

  “Hang on.”

  The older woman returned to the door. “She’ll just be a minute.”

  They stood, uncertain what to say to each another, saying nothing.

  Shaniqua Miller came to the door from the back of the house dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. She unlatched the screen door and opened it. A gold chain with a cross hung around her neck. She looked tired and worn-out, her eyes puffy. Her hair, also straightened, was clipped in the back, highlighting pronounced cheekbones and expressive eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked.