“She lives in Seattle,” Kins said.
“I know, but I just don’t see her putting her career at risk for Trejo.”
“Maybe he has something on her, something to blackmail her.”
“Maybe.”
“Or it could be more than one person,” Kins said.
“Could be.” She set down her glass, thinking. “Something else, something I noticed when all the crap was flying around the courtroom about the tape being missing—Trejo never flinched.”
Kins reached for another half sandwich. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he just sat there, staring straight ahead, like he didn’t understand what was happening.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“He had to understand. Everyone else in the courtroom understood. Cho said it right there—they couldn’t find the tape.”
“But he showed no reaction?” Kins said.
“Wouldn’t he? Confusion? Joy? Bewilderment? Something?”
“Could he have been medicated for the hearing? Maybe the stress was too much and they had him on something.” Kins set down his sandwich.
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe he knew it was going to happen.”
CHAPTER 30
Nicholas Evans was a high school graduate, bass player in the heavy metal band CHAOS, and heroin dealer.
“Quite the resume,” Del said to Faz.
After reviewing the text messages on Jack Welch’s phone, they had the evidence they needed to establish that Evans sold Allie and Welch the heroin that killed her. Welch had texted Evans the afternoon of that final day.
Looking to score some shit. Have the money.
It took Evans a half an hour to respond. Later today, bro.
When Welch didn’t hear from Evans, he contacted him again late in the afternoon. Dude, my friend and I are ready whenever you are.
Evans responded. Chill, bro. I’m working on it.
Finally, at five in the afternoon, Evans contacted Welch. BK on Aurora. 20 minutes.
Welch then texted Allie the messages Del had seen on her phone, but which now had a much better context. Score! Need to be there in 20. I’ll pick you up.
Allie, however, continued to express reluctance. Not sure home by then. Just go w/o me.
Del sat back from his computer. Tears filled his eyes. Allie had been so close to just going home, so close to staying alive, but Welch didn’t have the money for the buy, and like most addicts, he wasn’t about to let it go.
I’ll pick you up. Can’t miss out. He has other buyers. Srsly. This stuff is sweet.
Allie’s response, so simple and so sad, might have expressed more about the hold heroin had on her being, the life-and-death daily struggle she fought, than anything else she could have said.
K.
Faz contacted Narcotics and asked whether they had any information on Evans. Surprisingly, they did not, despite several detectives working undercover in Seattle. They were certainly aware of several suspected dealers, but Evans’s name was not among them. Given that Evans was not peddling black tar but rather a high-grade heroin, or one laced with something deadly, they speculated that he could be a lone wolf, keeping a low profile to remain off all the radars. Del asked that he and Faz be kept advised.
Del and Faz had located Evans in an apartment in Green Lake and brought him, without incident, to the King County Jail. Evans wasn’t a high school senior, like Welch. He was twenty-two, and at the moment he was acting like a tough guy, professing an unwillingness to talk to them, except to say he wanted a lawyer. So be it. Late on a Friday afternoon, Evans wasn’t getting out of jail until, at the very earliest, a probable cause hearing the following Monday. Celia McDaniel would handle that hearing and told Del that, realistically, Evans’s bail would be set at $50,000. She could try for more, argue the gravity of the situation, the deadly nature of the drug Evans was peddling, but they could only link him to Allie’s death at this time, and they were still awaiting the toxicology analysis on the heroin Del had found in his niece’s bedroom.
“The smart move,” she’d said over the phone, “is to keep the amount of bail within a ballpark that a judge will feel comfortable imposing.”
That meant that, with a $5,000 payment to a bail bondsman, Evans would walk from jail. But Del didn’t think so.
“Play it as you ordinarily would,” Del said. “I suspect from my view of the shit-hole apartment Evans lived in that he’s a lot like Welch, and has worn out his welcome at home. I don’t think Mommy and Daddy will be eager to dig up the cash necessary to bail him out.”
And that would give Del the weekend to put together the evidence needed for the charging documents. It was definitely a step in the right direction, a step toward determining who was supplying the drug that had killed Allie and maybe several others, but the closer Del got, the further away he felt from any form of satisfaction or closure. He kept thinking of what Celia had told him, about the three or four dealers who’d be waiting in the wings to fill any gap in the supply chain, about how her conviction of her son’s dealers had brought her little satisfaction.
“Revenge,” she’d told him, “is a poor substitute for a son.”
Del kept telling himself that he had a job to do, that he was a cop, that others might also be out there dying, and that he had been tasked with putting a stop to it. But he also couldn’t ignore the truth in Celia’s words. He wondered, when it was all finished, when he had found those who had supplied Allie, when they had been prosecuted and put in jail, whether he would feel the same as Celia, and, more important, whether his sister would too. He wondered if his burning desire to bring those responsible to justice wasn’t actually about his sister at all, but about his own burning desire for revenge. And he wondered whether, in the end, revenge would be just as hollow a substitute for a niece . . . and certainly for a daughter.
CHAPTER 31
Friday afternoon, when Tracy walked into the conference room, Cerrabone and Dunleavy sat waiting. Her captain, Johnny Nolasco, and Chief of Police Sandy Clarridge would also join the meeting. “How’s Kins?” Cerrabone asked as she entered and sat.
“He’s doing well,” Tracy said. “I just saw him. It’s pretty amazing what they can do now. He calls in several times a day just to drive us all crazy.”
“How’s the pain?”
“Mine or his?” They laughed. “It was either surgery or replace his kidneys from all the ibuprofen he was taking,” Tracy said.
Clarridge entered the room followed by Nolasco, who shut the door.
Once they were all seated, Dunleavy led the meeting. “We received a call today from the Navy’s senior trial counsel. Trejo is going to be released in a couple of hours.”
“Is the case coming back?” Clarridge asked.
Dunleavy shrugged. “That decision has not been formally made yet, but I suspect that, absent the videotape, the Navy’s case got a lot more difficult, especially if it proceeds to a court-martial and a reasonable-doubt standard. Trejo and his counsel will scream about the missing tape and his inability to confront witnesses. I’m not sure the prosecution can overcome it. I’m not sure we could either.”
“And I’m dead certain the community will not be satisfied with that answer,” Clarridge said, growing red in the face.
“At the moment the community is upset with the Navy,” Dunleavy said. “I’m not sure we want to step into that mess and give them the opportunity to direct their ire at us, especially if we can’t convict. I’m told the Navy is going to go after the defense attorney on an ethical investigation and, depending on the outcome, may court-martial her for dereliction of duty, among other things.”
“So they got their scapegoat,” Nolasco said.
“What do you think?” Clarridge looked across the table to Tracy. “Could she have taken the tape rather than it just being misplaced?”
“Could she have? Sure,” Tracy said. “She certainly had access to it. Did she? That’s a more difficult question. I don’t kno
w. What we do know is whoever helped Trejo definitely knew about evidence, the significance of it anyway. Not many people would have thought to wipe down the air bag.”
“It’s on every cop show on television,” Nolasco said. “Let’s not get carried away here.”
“The air bag?” Tracy said. “I must have missed that show.”
“They might have wiped the air bag in the process of wiping down the car,” Nolasco said. “I could see Trejo being at least that smart, or lucky.”
“Maybe,” Tracy said. “But would he have known that without the tape all the other evidence becomes circumstantial?”
“He might not have been thinking that far in advance,” Nolasco countered. “Like I said, blind luck. It does happen. Think of it another way—why would the defense attorney do it? What did she hope to gain?”
“According to the prosecutor, she had a competitive streak, didn’t like to lose,” Cerrabone said.
“I agree with the captain,” Tracy said.
“Anybody taking notes? That might be a first,” Nolasco said.
“We’re talking about a court-martial, loss of pay, dismissal . . . That’s an awful lot to give up just to get a win, especially under these circumstances,” Tracy said. “The alternative is Trejo may have some information detrimental to her or her career.”
“Blackmail?” Clarridge asked.
“I’m just trying to think of all the possibilities.”
“Do we know what she says happened?” Clarridge asked.
Tracy nodded. “I spoke to her last night. She says she had the evidence box the night before the hearing but isn’t certain the tape was in the box. I think it had to be.”
“Why?” Clarridge asked.
“Because it would have been too big a risk for someone else to have taken it before she had the box.”
“So it disappeared while she possessed the box,” Nolasco said. “That’s evidence she took it.”
“Yes, but she says she’d already looked at the tape and didn’t see the need to look at it again that night, nor did she have a television to view it.”
“Sounds like convenient bullshit,” Nolasco said. “If she already watched it, she knew Trejo was screwed. She didn’t need a TV to watch it again before she got rid of it.”
“Maybe not,” Tracy said. “But again, it’s a hell of a risk to take the tape when everyone knows you were the last person to check out the evidence.” She could see the others agreeing with her. “It makes more sense to take the tape after she returned the box to the evidence room.”
“Maybe she did,” Nolasco said.
“Maybe,” Tracy said.
“Or maybe the tape was simply misplaced,” Dunleavy said.
“NCIS interviewed the janitors,” Tracy said, “and the one who cleaned the first floor, and her office, doesn’t recall seeing any tape. He also said it goes against their company protocol to disturb anything in the offices. All they really do is empty the garbage and vacuum.”
Clarridge intervened. “Okay, so assuming it was in the box when Battles returned it, who else had access to get it?”
“Anybody with access to the court reporter’s office,” Tracy said. “It’s just across the hall from the courtroom. The prosecutor’s offices are also on that floor. However, from what I’m told, anyone coming into the building has to enter the last four digits of their Social Security number. So there’d be a record of who went into the building.”
“Could it have been Cho?” Clarridge asked. “Could he have taken it before he left?”
“He could have, but I can’t think of any reason why the prosecution would take it. The tape helped them,” Tracy said.
“Anyone else?” Clarridge asked.
Tracy shook her head.
“So either it was misplaced and lost,” Nolasco said, “or Battles took it.”
“Even if we reach that conclusion, it doesn’t answer the other questions, like who helped Trejo hide his car and get back to Bremerton that night.”
“They don’t have to be related,” Nolasco said. “It could have been his wife. What does she say?”
“Exactly what Trejo says,” Tracy said. “He was home that night.”
“So she’s lying for him, and Battles miscalculated the ramifications,” Nolasco responded. “Let’s not overthink this. We have enough on our plate as it is. If we get back involved, let TCI handle the investigation.”
“How long will it take the Navy to make up their mind if they’re going forward or not?” Clarridge asked Dunleavy.
“The preliminary hearing officer isn’t saying they shouldn’t go forward with a general court-martial, but she also didn’t mince her words: the case is significantly weaker without the tape, and the defense will surely exploit that weakness,” Dunleavy said.
“So Trejo just waits for the court-martial knowing the prosecution can’t meet the more stringent guilty standard,” Cerrabone said.
“That appears to be the Navy’s thinking as well,” Dunleavy said.
Clarridge sat back, biting his lower lip. “What can we charge him with, if we were to take back jurisdiction?”
“Absent the tape?” Dunleavy shook his head. “I’m not sure we can get anything to stick. He says he wasn’t there. Everything we would put forward would be circumstantial. The defense would almost certainly win a motion to exclude any mention of the tape, given that they can’t effectively cross-examine any witness who would testify that they viewed it. If the Navy is expressing reluctance to move forward—and they routinely take weaker cases to trial—I’m not sure we would want to do anything, especially in this particular climate,” Dunleavy said.
“I agree,” Nolasco said. “Better we stay out of it and let the Navy take the heat.”
“And what about that little boy, that mother?” Tracy said.
“It’s tragic,” Dunleavy said. “No one is saying it isn’t, but I’m not certain there’s anything we can do about it.”
“If I may,” Tracy said. The others in the room looked at her. “I was in the courtroom when the tape went missing. I was on the witness stand, facing the audience. I saw Trejo. I watched him. He had no reaction to the news.”
“So what are you saying?” Clarridge asked.
“I think he knew the tape was not coming in. I think he knew he was going to walk.”
“What you think is not—” Nolasco began before she cut him off.
“He was definitely in Seattle that night,” she said. “That’s a fact. I saw the store receipt and I saw the video. Forget whether we can prove it for the moment. He was there. He ran that kid down. And, he had help after the fact.”
“How do you know that?” Dunleavy asked.
“Because someone had to help him stash his car in the vacant lot behind that woman’s house—”
“Maybe he knew it was there,” Nolasco said.
“Maybe. But then how did he get back to Bremerton without his car? He didn’t take a cab and he didn’t swim.” Before Nolasco could protest, she said, “Look, if someone took that tape it makes these other factors, the vacant lot, Trejo getting back to base, a lot more relevant. It would mean that someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure Trejo would get off. And if they did, the question is, Why? Either Trejo was important to someone, or he had some leverage over them.”
“A lot of ifs,” Dunleavy said.
“I don’t disagree, but I think we owe it to that mother and to that boy not to just walk away.”
“So what are you proposing?” Clarridge asked.
“We still technically have jurisdiction, if the Navy punts, right?” She looked at Dunleavy. “There’s no double jeopardy here. We could still try him for the same offenses.”
“Didn’t we just all agree that’s the one thing we don’t want to do?” Nolasco said.
“I agree with your captain, Detective. I’m not sure we want to dive back in without the evidence to support the charges,” Clarridge said.
“I’m not saying we p
rosecute him. I’m saying we make it look like we’re going to prosecute him.” She looked to Dunleavy.
“You’re saying, if others helped Trejo, we make it appear that we are going to prosecute him and hope that when he’s out of the brig, he makes contact with whoever it is that helped him?”
“Trejo is getting out this afternoon,” Cerrabone said. “We could call a press conference for the same time and put out the word that we are seriously considering prosecuting him. Make him think he isn’t out of the woods and see what he does. See if he runs to anyone.”
“You want to put a tail on him?” Clarridge said.
“We could alert the Bremerton Police Department,” Nolasco said. “Have them tail him.”
“I’d prefer to tail him myself,” Tracy said. “I know where he lives and I know where he works. I’ve been to his apartment, and I know the layout of the complex, the type of car he drives, and where he parks. This way we can also keep it internal.”
“We got enough on our plates,” Nolasco said again.
“We keep Bremerton out of it,” she said, “and nobody knows we never intended to prosecute him.”
Clarridge looked to Dunleavy. “Do you see any problems?”
Dunleavy shook his head. “No.” He looked at Tracy. “Other than that you could be in for some long nights.”
“Kins is already out of commission,” Nolasco emphasized. “We’re shorthanded.”
“I don’t need anyone else,” Tracy said. “I can spend the night over there, and in the morning I can use the time to talk to the janitorial service and get a copy of the security tape for the DSO building for that night.”
Dunleavy looked around the table at the others. “I don’t think it could hurt.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Cerrabone said.
They looked to Clarridge. After a moment of thought he said, “Then let’s get started on a statement to the public that might make Trejo react.”
Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5) Page 22
