Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5)

by Robert Dugoni

  “Ms. Miller, we met the other night.”

  Miller did not immediately respond, as if trying to remember but not wanting to.

  “I’m Tracy Crosswhite, one of the detectives working your son’s case.”

  “Yes,” she said, speaking softly. “I recall. You were in the street the night my son was run down.”

  “Yes, I was. I wanted you to know that we made an arrest tonight of the man who drove the car that hit your son.”

  Miller stared at her, saying nothing and revealing nothing. She showed no anger, no sadness, no joy or elation. Slowly, her hand reached up and her fingers found the cross around her neck. “You’re sure?”

  “We’ve positively identified his car as the car that hit your son,” Tracy said. “And we’ve obtained a video of that man at a convenience store not far from the intersection and only a short time before the accident.”

  “What did he say?” Miller asked, fingers rubbing the cross.

  “Initially he said his car had been stolen and he had not been in Seattle. Tonight, when shown the evidence, he chose not to say anything. He’s requested a lawyer.”

  Despite the evidence to the contrary, Trejo had continued to maintain that the man in the video was not him. Then he went silent. Usually Tracy and Kins could get a suspect to talk, especially when they had video evidence to contradict his story. The suspect didn’t always tell the truth, but they would usually, at least, try to explain the evidence. Perhaps Trejo had decided that he couldn’t explain the video, and it was best not to say anything.

  “Who is he?” Miller asked.

  “He’s an enlisted man.”

  “Army?”

  “Navy. He’s stationed on Naval Base Kitsap in Bremerton.”

  “What happens now?” Miller asked.

  Tracy would return to SPD, where Trejo was being held prior to booking. “He’ll be booked at the King County Jail. His first appearance will be tomorrow afternoon. We’d like you to be there . . . if you can.”

  Miller didn’t answer right away. She looked past Tracy, her eyes losing focus. After a moment she reengaged. “What time?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  She sighed. “I have to work. I don’t have a choice. I still have two more boys.”

  “The hearing is for the court to determine whether there is probable cause to keep the suspect in custody. He won’t enter a plea until the arraignment, which won’t take place for about two more weeks.” She paused, certain Shaniqua Miller was not interested in the criminal procedure. “Would you like me to explain the situation to your employer?”

  “I won’t get paid either way,” she said.

  Tracy nodded.

  “What time did you say?” Miller asked.

  “Two o’clock.” Tracy provided the location of the district court on the first floor of the jail. Then she handed her a business card with her number and another card for the Victim Assistance Unit. “You can call me or you can call the number on that card. Someone has been assigned to keep you advised of and to explain the procedures as we go forward. They can also answer any questions you may have about the hearing or about the arraignment.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Shaniqua said. Then she stepped back and slowly and quietly closed the door.

  Leah Battles clipped her shoes into the bike pedals, churned south on Westlake Avenue, and cut over to Fifth Avenue. She lived in an apartment in Pioneer Square, on the southern, or opposite, end of town. Not having to live on the naval base was one of the perks of being an officer. Tonight it had another perk. Laszlo Trejo had told her on the phone that he’d been placed in the SPD precinct holding cell in preparation for booking at the county jail. Both SPD and the King County Jail were located between her training class and her apartment, so she wouldn’t be going out of her way to stop, speak to Trejo, and gather more information.

  Battles knew it was not likely her officer in charge would assign her to be Trejo’s defense counsel if she served as the command duty officer. Her role was to provide immediate legal support to the enlisted person arrested. Assigned defense counsel did not get involved with the arrests of Navy personnel, especially when the alleged crime occurred off base, and they didn’t get assigned until ten days to two weeks after the arrest. Local police handled the booking. The suspect notified the command duty officer, who advised naval command of the details of the arrest, and it went through the proper channels. If deemed necessary, NCIS investigated, and, if the Navy took jurisdiction, charges were filed. Only then did Battles, as a defense attorney, get involved, and only if assigned to handle the case. Those instances were seemingly becoming more and more frequent since the airing of the documentary The Invisible War, recounting sexual assaults on female enlisted personnel throughout the armed forces. The public outcry had put commanding officers on military bases under intense pressure from Congress to clean up the military’s problems, and every branch had become hyperaggressive about prosecuting cases. The Navy was no exception.

  This case was not a sexual assault, but it sounded serious, and potentially embarrassing to the Navy. A hit and run of a twelve-year-old boy was tragic and, if proven, cowardly. Battles also knew that the Defense Service Office was understaffed, particularly in the current climate, and she was the senior defense counsel. Therefore, though serving as CDO, her chances of being named Trejo’s attorney might actually improve if she was already involved, to a limited extent, which would be simple enough for her to accomplish.

  And she wanted this case.

  She wanted it very much.

  At 8:30 at night, traffic on Seattle’s surface streets wasn’t an issue. However, the temperature remained butt cold and her sweat-soaked shirt further chilled her. By the time she reached SPD, her face felt numb and she was shaking beneath her workout clothes. She slid off the bike and locked it in a courtyard in front of the building. Yeah, like that made her feel better. Her first week in Seattle, she’d locked her bike in the rack outside her apartment building. She woke the next morning and found only the chain and the lock. Now, the bike came up in the elevator with her. If anyone complained, they could take the stairs.

  Battles exchanged her bike shoes for flip-flops—which she wore with socks, a major fashion faux pas even for eternally liberal Seattle.

  Inside SPD’s building lobby, she made her way to a uniformed officer seated at a desk behind a sheet of bulletproof Plexiglas. He looked to be in his early thirties, about Battles’s age, with his hair cut military short and a chest puffed up by a bulletproof vest fitted beneath his uniform. He looked up as Battles approached and dropped his gaze over her body.

  “Good evening. I’m here to see Laszlo Trejo,” she said. “I understand he was arrested this evening and is being held.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the officer said. “If he was, you’d have to wait until he’s processed over at the jail. But visiting hours are over.” He smiled like a pubescent boy who’d seen his first picture of a naked woman. “Looks like tomorrow morning is the earliest you can see him.”

  She put her credentials up to the glass. “Despite my professional appearance, this isn’t a social call to chitchat about the annual salmon run. Mr. Trejo called and requested legal counsel. I’m his legal counsel. I’d like to talk to him before anyone else does.”

  “You’re a naval officer?” he said, eyeing the credentials and seeming surprised. “Lieutenant Battles?”

  “That’s correct. I’m also an attorney.” She smiled again, though this time with a little more purpose.

  “Well, Lieutenant, if he’s still being processed, you’re still going to have to wait until he’s finished before you can talk to him.” His smile broadened. “And, as an FYI, the salmon run is way up this year. I caught a couple kings this week.”

  Battles hoped that wasn’t his best pickup line. “No kidding? I can’t eat salmon. It makes me sick.”

  “That’s got to suck living here.”

  “It does. Every social function I atte
nd they put a big piece of fish on my plate. I end up giving it to my dates.”

  “Your dates must appreciate the extra piece.” The officer grinned.

  “They do,” she said. “Until they realize it’s the only piece they’ll be getting that night.”

  Checkmate. Game over.

  “So I’d appreciate it if you’d pick up that phone, call upstairs, and find out where my client is.”

  The officer sat back, no longer grinning. He gestured to some seats. “Take a seat, Lieutenant. It could be a long night.”

  Battles answered e-mails on her cell phone while she waited. After a few minutes, she heard the ping of an elevator door. A woman stepped around the corner, glanced at Battles, then looked at the uniform behind the desk, clearly confused. Perhaps she’d been expecting a man in a three-piece suit and tie rather than a bike messenger. The uniform nodded to Battles to dispel any doubt, and the officer stepped out from behind a security gate.

  The Navy generously listed Battles at five foot six. This woman was a head taller, most of it legs. She had the blonde hair and blue eyes of one of those beach volleyball players in the Olympics with the ill-fitting shorts. Nobody had ever described Battles as having long legs, or guessed that she spent her days on a beach. She had her father’s dark hair and dark complexion, especially when she tanned in the summers. She’d grown up on the East Coast.

  This woman had “cop” written all over her—okay, the badge clipped to her belt near the gun was a giveaway, as was the fact that Battles was at Police Headquarters, but that wasn’t what first struck her about the woman. What struck her was the woman’s self-assured walk and demeanor.

  “I’m guessing you’re not Laszlo Trejo,” Battles said.

  “I’m Detective Tracy Crosswhite. Can I help you?”

  “You can if you can conjure up Petty Officer Trejo and give me a room in which to talk to him.”

  Crosswhite looked only semi-amused. “And you are?”

  “Leah Battles. I’m an attorney, a judge advocate from Naval Base Kitsap in Bremerton. Sorry, but I didn’t get a chance to throw on my dress blues before I came down here. It would have avoided the confusion.”

  “Do you have some identification?” Crosswhite sounded skeptical.

  Battles glanced at the uniform behind the desk, but he just smiled. Annoyed, she fumbled in her backpack and again produced her identification. “Do you get a lot of people pretending to be judge advocates asking to speak to clients?”

  “No,” Crosswhite said, taking the credentials. “Because we don’t ordinarily let people see suspects. Neither does the jail, not after visiting hours.”

  Nice move. Battles liked her. She bet Crosswhite could play a mean game of chess. “But as an attorney, I can see a client whenever I wish.”

  Crosswhite didn’t comment. She studied the identification. “This says Virginia. Are you licensed in the state of Washington?”

  “I’m licensed in the United States Navy, which is sort of a global law firm, though I’m currently stationed at Naval Base Kitsap, in Bremerton, which is where Laszlo Trejo is stationed, which is why he called me, which is why I’m here, which is why I’d like to speak with him.”

  Crosswhite remained calm. “Is the Navy asserting jurisdiction?”

  “I wouldn’t know. What I know is that Mr. Trejo called the command duty officer, me. He advised that he’d been arrested, and asked for a lawyer. I’m that lawyer.”

  “You got here fast from Bremerton.”

  “I’m a fast swimmer.”

  Crosswhite smiled and handed back the identification. “You should have taken your time. You won’t see Mr. Trejo until after he’s booked.”

  “And miss out on all this fun we’re having? I’m curious, Detective, what was Mr. Trejo doing over here at Police Headquarters?” Trejo had told Battles that he’d come over expecting to pick up his car from the police impound and that he had come over to Seattle to get it.

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “You didn’t by chance bring him over under false pretenses, did you? Just to get him off base so you could arrest him?”

  “Mr. Trejo doesn’t live on base,” Crosswhite said. “So I wouldn’t need any false pretenses to arrest him. But again, you can ask him when you talk to him.” She turned and started back for the security door.

  “He asked to speak to an attorney,” Battles said to Crosswhite’s back. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let your brethren know that one detail.”

  Crosswhite didn’t respond. She didn’t turn. The security door buzzed and she stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her. The uniform leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile.

  Battles smiled too. She didn’t mind a spirited opponent. She welcomed it. Competition brought out the best in her, and the interchange with Crosswhite just made her want the case more.

  And she’d already wanted this case very much.

  Tracy dropped her keys into the wood bowl on the antique farm table that she and Dan had purchased at an estate sale near the Canadian border. Beside the bowl, she’d positioned their wedding picture, framed and perched on a stand. Behind the table, two large windows offered plenty of light, though not at this early hour of the morning. The windows faced east, toward the horse pasture and tree-lined rolling hills, eliminating the need for curtains—unless your occupation was homicide detective and you spent much of your time hunting down the sick and depraved. She’d wanted window coverings. Dan didn’t. They’d compromised. Dan put up outdoor floodlights with motion sensors. It seemed a fair solution, until the lights were repeatedly triggered by the many animals that ventured onto their property—squirrels, raccoons, deer, Rex and Sherlock, even Tracy’s cat, Roger, who for the first time was allowed to go outside.

  “Tracy?”

  Dan came out of the bedroom wearing long pajama pants and a T-shirt from Boston University, his alma mater. Rex and Sherlock also padded out to greet her, tails wagging. She heard the television from the bedroom, which every marriage advice article said was a no-no, but there was no other place in the house to put it. Dan held a toothbrush and spoke through a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “I didn’t . . . ,” he mumbled. “Hang on.” He disappeared back into the bathroom. Tracy heard the water in their sink. Dan reappeared without the toothbrush. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  She rubbed the heads of both dogs. “We made an arrest in the hit-and-run case tonight and had to get him booked for the probable cause hearing tomorrow afternoon.” She kissed Dan and stepped past him into the kitchen.

  “The Navy guy?” Dan asked.

  “Yeah.” She opened a cabinet and filled a glass at the sink.

  “You said you thought it was him.”

  She washed down two Advil with water, then said, “The video made it pretty clear.”

  “You have a headache?” Dan asked, leaning against the door frame.

  “No, my shoulder is acting up.” She’d hurt her shoulder just over two years ago when a stalker who’d made his way into her home in West Seattle tackled her from behind. The orthopedist said she’d partially torn the rotator cuff. If PT didn’t solve the problem, she was looking at surgery and a six-month recovery. Or she could be like Kins and eat ibuprofen daily until the pain became unbearable.

  “What did he say when you showed him the video?”

  “He wanted to make a phone call.” She retreated into their bedroom and sat on the bed, struggling to remove her boots.

  “I assume that call was to a lawyer?” Dan grabbed each leg separately and helped pull off her boots.

  “JAG officer from Bremerton,” she said, shimmying out of her jeans.

  “Really?” He sounded surprised.

  “Yeah, why?” She stepped to the closet and hung her pants on a hook.

  “JAGs don’t normally get involved this quickly, especially defense attorneys. They usually have to run it up the chain of command first to determine if they’re even going to take jurisdiction.
Are they?”

  “I don’t know. I asked. She didn’t know.” She removed her shirt and bra and slipped on one of Dan’s T-shirts embossed with a photo of Rex and Sherlock. It read: “We’re not stubborn. Our way is just better.” “But a JAG came to the jail to talk to him after he was processed.”

  “Sounds like they’ll assert jurisdiction. If they don’t, he’ll plead. You have the video; what’s he going to say?”

  “At the moment, he isn’t saying anything, not even about the video. I thought he’d try to explain it. Maybe he can’t. I don’t know.” She brushed her teeth at the sink in the bathroom, then went back into the bedroom.

  “You hungry? Want me to make you something to eat?” Dan asked.

  “Thanks, but I grabbed a salad earlier and ate at my desk.” Kins had also been sold on a salad, right up until he opened the takeout menu and ordered a pastrami sandwich. “Just tired.”

  Dan leaned against the bedroom door frame. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, why?” She pulled back the down comforter.

  “Dr. Kramer called the house phone to find out how you’re feeling. There’s a message for you.”

  Tracy stopped folding back the sheet.

  “You’re on Clomid?” he asked.

  Tracy had not told Dan about the drug. She’d told him that Dr. Kramer had suggested that they just keep trying. She’d hoped that by taking the drug, she’d get pregnant, and she wouldn’t have to admit to Dan that she was too old—that she was the problem.

  “Is this one of your cross-examination techniques? Get the witness talking, then hit her with the question you’re really interested in?”

  “Don’t do that,” he said, his voice all business, his eyes fixed on her. “We talked about this; we talked about making a decision together.”

  “Yes, we did.”