CHAPTER 32
Tracy took one of the pool cars and crossed Elliott Bay on the ferry. The winter chill had given way to spring rains—but not the traditional on-again, off-again Seattle sprinkles; these rains swept in like East Coast storms, releasing a downpour, subsiding, then hitting again with another fury. Exiting the ferry, Tracy drove to Jackson Park, arriving at the apartment complex after dark. She knew from her prior trip that Trejo lived in an apartment building located on a street corner. If she parked on the street perpendicular to Trejo’s complex, a sloped lawn provided some protection from nosy neighbors. So would the heavy rains.
Once situated, she saw no late-night dog walkers or joggers, and no athletes played on the basketball or tennis courts. The location afforded her a view of Trejo’s walkway, which descended a couple steps to his front door. The Subaru was parked in its designated parking stall, the front fender still dented, though the windshield had been fixed. If Trejo left the apartment Tracy would see him. And there were only two ways to exit the complex by car, neither of which would be difficult to follow—if Trejo went anywhere.
Dunleavy had issued his statement at just after 5:30 p.m., timing it with Trejo’s release. He made it emphatic, without promising anything, saying that SPD would review all of the evidence with an eye toward charging Trejo. Tracy thought the wording was strong enough that, if Trejo was going to act, he would do so. She hoped she was right about someone providing Trejo assistance after the accident. If she was, she suspected that person or persons would not want to have discussions with Trejo over the telephone, but rather would choose to meet in person. She’d find out one way or another soon enough.
She sat eating a protein bar and listening to the rain beat on the roof of the pool car. At just after 9:00 p.m., the porch light over Trejo’s front door illuminated. It could have been a timer. Tracy sat up, watching through a sheet of rain. The door to the apartment opened, light spilling from the apartment onto the front walk, and Trejo, she assumed, hurried out and down the walkway. He was the right height, but the person had a hood over his head to protect him from the rain, and he was jogging away from her, toward the Subaru. She had little choice but to assume it was Trejo and follow.
She pulled down the bill of the Mariners baseball cap she’d taken from Kins’s cubicle and started the car. She kept the lights off and made a U-turn, then a left at the corner, driving on the street parallel with the back of Trejo’s apartment complex. Up the hill, through the rain, she saw the lights of the Subaru brighten. The car backed out from the carport and drove toward the first of the two exits. Trejo, if it was him, turned left. One street below, she followed.
Trejo wound his way through the complex toward the exit and turned north onto State Route 3, a four-lane road with a grass-and-dirt center divider. Moments later, Tracy reached the intersection, turned on the car’s lights, and followed. SR3 was not heavily populated, especially on a miserable night. The persistent rains and darkness would help to conceal Tracy’s car, but she kept her distance and tried to blend in with the few cars on the road.
Five minutes into the drive, Trejo took the exit for Newberry Hill Road. Long and flat, the exit allowed Tracy to keep an eye on the Subaru without getting too close. Trejo merged right. Tracy hoped to get behind another car, but did not see any headlights approaching when she stopped at the bottom of the exit. Not wanting to get too far behind and risk losing Trejo at another light, she turned right and followed. Newberry Hill was two lanes, one in each direction. At a bend, the road became Silverdale Way, and passed large single-family homes on the shores of Dyes Inlet. Tonight the water was a dark ink color with whitecaps churned by the wind and rain.
As the Subaru approached Bucklin Hill Road, the first major intersection, it slowed for a red light. Rather than get too close, Tracy turned into a strip mall with a large parking lot and continued across it. She exited onto Bucklin Hill, again behind the Subaru, when its taillights brightened unexpectedly and the car slowed and again turned right, this time onto an unmarked road. Signage indicated this was an access road to Old Mill Park, a dead end.
Tracy drove past the park entrance in case Trejo suspected he was being followed and was using the park to double back, or just taking precautions. Instead, she turned left into a shopping mall across the street and parked in a stall that allowed her to watch the entrance to the park. If Trejo exited, she’d see the car. When the Subaru did not emerge, she shut off the engine and pushed open her car door. She quickly slipped on her raincoat and pulled the hood over the baseball cap as she hurried to the sidewalk along Bucklin Hill Road. She let traffic pass and cut across the first two lanes to a center island. She waited again for an opening in traffic before jogging across the two westbound lanes to the park entrance. Water dripped from the bill of her hat and the rain, whipped by the wind, made it difficult to see. She picked up her pace down the access road. The Subaru was the only car parked in a dozen stalls. Trejo was not in it. Neither was anyone else. Just past the stalls she came to a concrete-block public restroom. She tried the door and found it locked.
She crept past the building to a fork in the dirt paths. One proceeded straight. The other branched off to her left. She had no idea which path Trejo had taken or where either trail ended. In the dark, with the heavy rain, she doubted she’d be able to pick up his footprints, but that was not her biggest concern. She had hoped Trejo would drive to an apartment or to a home, which would allow her to get an address and determine the owner. Alternatively, she had hoped he’d meet someone in a public setting, like a restaurant, where she could get a visual ID on the person. An outdoor meeting had not entered her mind. If this were some type of setup, she’d be walking into it blind.
CHAPTER 33
When Faz turned the street corner, Del saw patrol vehicles from the North Precinct blocking the road, and officers in rain gear redirecting traffic. He felt sick. The lights on the patrol cars illuminated the night in mournful strobes of red and blue. Del and Faz had been at Shawn O’Donnell’s finishing dinner when Del’s cell phone rang. Jeanine Welch had received the call that she’d been dreading for years.
A fire engine was parked at an angle in the street just behind an ambulance and the medical examiner’s van. Most of the activity centered on the garage at the back of the property, more specifically on the apartment above it.
“Hopefully the weather will keep the neighbors inside,” Faz said.
“I doubt it,” Del said. “This is like the circus coming to town.” He was right. A closer inspection revealed people already standing in the street dressed in rain gear and holding umbrellas, or looking out from the covered porches of their homes. But the invasion of Jeanine Welch’s privacy was not what was foremost on Del’s mind. Foremost was Stuart Funk’s warning of a highly potent heroin on the street.
Del lowered the window to speak to the officer directing traffic, and the rain spit at him through the gap. The officer, in full rain gear, bent down close to the gap. Del badged him. “Looking for the sergeant in charge,” he said.
The officer pointed to a Hispanic officer standing near the garage, then stepped to the side to allow them to enter. Once parked, they exited, pulling long raincoats tight and opening black umbrellas.
“Violent Crimes?” the sergeant said when Del and Faz introduced themselves. “This is an overdose.”
“We got an ongoing investigation,” Del said. “Where’s his mother?”
The sergeant gestured to the back of the house. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, which was covered in plastic. “She’s inside. I have an officer getting a statement.”
Del looked at the house, knowing it would never be the same. “Is the daughter home?”
“No. The mother said she sent her to a friend’s house when she got the call at work.”
“When was that?”
The sergeant talked over the rain and wind, which had picked up in intensity. “About an hour, hour and a half ago. A friend came by and found them.”
>
“Them?”
“Young man and young woman.”
Del looked to Faz, then back to the sergeant. “Where’s the person who called?”
“Gone. Anonymous, apparently. No one here when the patrol units arrived. Medical examiner is in there now; said this is the twelfth or thirteenth OD already this month. It’s becoming an epidemic.”
Del thought of Celia McDaniel’s admonition in the donut shop. “It already is an epidemic,” he said.
A yellow light illuminated the staircase leading up to the apartment. At the landing, Del and Faz shook out their umbrellas and leaned them against the side of the building. They signed a log-in sheet presented by an officer at the door and stepped inside a twenty-by-twenty-foot room humid from the rain-soaked bodies huddled inside. Condensation covered the windowpanes, and the air held the pungent, sour smell of cigarettes. Clothes lay in heaps. Unwashed kitchenware, spent soda, beer cans, and other items lay strewn about the furnishings, which were sparse—a lone chair for sitting, no television or stereo. Del recalled Jeanine Welch telling them that Jack sold whatever he could in his never-ending quest to get high. He suspected the room had become little more than a place where Jack Welch crashed.
The assembled men and women, Funk included, were gathered around a mattress on the floor beneath a sloped ceiling, the night sky visible beyond two skylights. A young woman lay on her stomach, fully clothed, with her head tilted awkwardly off the edge of the mattress. A puddle of spit pooled on the floor. Jack Welch lay beside her, on his back. His drug-ravaged body looked as small and thin as a little boy’s. His eyes remained open, as if admiring the distant stars through the skylights. The friars had taught Del to believe that those he loved would be waiting at his death to welcome him into heaven. Del had always doubted the stories, until Allie’s death. It was easier if he believed that his father or mother had greeted Allie, and that she’d be taken care of. He hoped so.
Hope became something to cling to when there was nothing else but despair.
On a wooden crate beside Welch’s bed, an alarm clock and pack of cigarettes sat amid the drug paraphernalia—a burnt spoon, several syringes, lighters, and a plastic bag containing a powdery substance that, upon initial review, closely resembled in color and consistency the substance Del had found in Allie’s room. The fact that the anonymous caller, likely another junkie, had not taken the bag might have been most significant. The ramifications of its contents were right there—two dead bodies.
Funk noted Del’s and Faz’s presence and stepped away from the bed to speak to them. He kept his voice soft. “How’d you hear?”
“He went to school with Allie,” Del said. “The mother called. We came out to talk to her the other night. He was with Allie when they bought the product that killed her.”
Funk grimaced and readjusted his glasses. “Then that’s a problem. This is not black tar. I don’t know what it is, going to have to wait until the toxicology lab tests it, but I’d venture to guess from the lack of any smell that it’s China white, or something close to it, highly potent, or cut with something like fentanyl.”
“What do you mean the lack of any smell?” Faz asked.
“Most street heroin has a smell, like vinegar, because the producers don’t care about getting it beyond ninety percent pure. The other ten percent is usually some kind of un-reacted acetic acid. Really pure heroin doesn’t have that smell.”
“Do we know who the woman is?” Faz asked.
“We found her purse on the counter. Her name is Talia Crenshaw.”
“TC,” Del said.
“What’s that?” Faz asked.
“She was in a picture with Welch. Allie called her TC. Welch was dating her when Allie went into rehab.”
“Can we tell if it’s the same stuff that Allie used or any of the other overdoses?” Faz asked.
“All I can tell you at this time is it’s definitely not black tar,” Funk repeated. “But I’d say it’s likely we’re talking about the same product. We’re going through all the proper channels to warn people on the street. We don’t have a choice, not with people dying.”
Del and Faz asked additional questions, requested that they be kept posted on any toxicology results, then let Funk do his work. Outside they gathered their umbrellas and went back down the stairs.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” Del said, making his way toward the house and a conversation with Jeanine Welch. When last they’d spoke, Welch said she’d been resigned to Jack’s death, but Del knew from experience there was a big difference between speculation and reality. Looking into your child’s eyes, knowing you would never again see in them the glint of life, was the harshest kind of reality, and there wasn’t a faith in the world that could ease that pain.
Tracy chose the trail that proceeded more or less straight, though in the darkness and blanket of rain, she was walking blind. Swaying trees and thick brush lined the path, and the winds carried the briny smell of wetlands. Though she was just a stone’s throw from civilization, she could not hear anything over the howling wind and rain, and the pounding of waves on the shore. Puddles had begun to overwhelm the path and to penetrate her leather boots, saturating her socks.
She continued until she neared the end of the stand of trees, about twenty feet from the beach. She saw the iridescent glow of the surging white foam crashing onto the rocks and sand, and scattered bleached logs, strewn like the discarded bones of a whale. She did not see Trejo or anyone else. To her right was a V-shaped Best Western hotel. She quickly dismissed the possibility Trejo had gone there. If he had, why wouldn’t he have parked under cover, protected from the rain? It was more likely Trejo had taken the other path.
She’d chosen incorrectly.
She walked along the beach toward where the other trail ended, mindful of her footing on the beach logs and scraps of wood. The rain intensified and she lowered the bill of her hat to deflect it, struggling to see. She slipped but managed to remain upright. Water seeped through crevices and she felt her shirt sticking to her back.
As she neared where the second footpath intersected with the beach, she heard a muffled pop and saw a blue-white light flash in the trees. Gunshot. She dropped to a knee and removed her Glock. She watched and listened for nearly a minute, then dismissed the thought that anyone had been shooting at her. If someone wanted her dead, they could have easily stepped from the brush and put a bullet in the back of her head.
She stood and hurried away from the water into the stand of trees where she had seen the muzzle flash. The saturated ground clung to the soles of her boots, making a sucking sound with each step. The trees, at least, provided some relief from the rain and allowed her to push back the hood of her raincoat and to raise the bill of her hat. As she made her way through the trees, she again stopped to consider her surroundings. She saw no one and heard only the gusting wind and beating rain. She followed the trail for another twenty yards, until she saw that someone sat at one of two picnic tables in an open field and again dropped to a knee. The figure, slumped over the table, wasn’t moving. Tracy waited a full minute before proceeding forward, gun drawn.
As she approached, she stepped to her right to get a better angle in case the figure suddenly sprang to life. It didn’t.
She recognized the jacket.
A step closer and she saw the face—Laszlo Trejo. On the other side of his body, a handgun rested on the table near his left hand.
Del had called the King County Jail on the drive back from Jeanine Welch’s home, after spending time with her, knowing what she was going through. He asked that Nicholas Evans be escorted through the underground tunnel to the interrogation room. He didn’t care what time of night it would be when they arrived. He and Evans had things to discuss. If Evans continued to choose not to talk, then he could listen.
Evans turned his head to look at Del and Faz as they entered the interrogation room. This time neither carried a chair. Behind the one-way glass, members of the narcotics unit
sat observing Evans, eager to hear what he had to say, if he said anything at all.
Evans’s eyes followed them. He looked uncertain and uncomfortable but fought to maintain the tough-guy persona. Del knew tough guys. He’d grown up with some tough guys in Wisconsin, and he’d arrested more than a few in his day. This guy was no tough guy.
Evans sat back as far as the long chain that extended from his handcuffs to the eyebolt ring in the floor would allow. Portions of the tattoos on his chest and arms peeked out from his red jail scrubs—a cross on his right forearm, several tombstones—each with a name—on his left. Del wondered if they were the names of friends who’d died. Evans would need room for at least two more. The upper half of the word CHAOS extended across the base of his neck from collarbone to collarbone, like a necklace. He’d pulled his shoulder-length, curly blond hair into a bun that made his already thin, feminine features more prominent. Time in prison would be a bitch for this guy, and he’d be the bitch.
“I’m not speaking to either of you.” Evans dropped his chin and refused to meet their stares.
“Then you can listen,” Del said, voice calm and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. “We just came from Jack Welch’s home.”
Evans peeked but kept his head turned to the side.
Del said, “CHAOS is going to need a new guitar player.”
Evans turned toward them, concern in his face.
“Let me paint you a picture,” Del said, resting his palms on the table and leaning down into Evans’s personal space. “Jack was lying on his back on his mattress. His eyes were open and he was staring up through skylights. Beside him lay a young woman with her head over the side of the bed, foam spewing from her mouth onto the floor. On the dresser we found used syringes, a blackened spoon, some BIC lighters, and a small bag of heroin.” Del waited, letting the uncomfortable moment grow. Evans stared at the tabletop, his gaze unfocused. “You’re selling death,” Del said. “More than ten people we know of have died from the shit you’re selling.” Del didn’t know, not for certain, but then neither did Evans.
Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5) Page 23
