Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5)

by Robert Dugoni

  But if Tracy was right about any of the suspects, the tape didn’t explain how the person got into the DSO building without entering the last four digits of his or her Social Security number. Before leaving home to meet with Melton she’d tried to match the people on the tape with the Social Security numbers entered for that evening. She confirmed that neither Cho, Stanley, nor Battles had entered their Social Security numbers to get back into the building after they’d departed. At least the log provided to her by Stanley did not note any of those three numbers. Could the log also have been tampered with? A thought came to her and she pulled to the side of the road. She retrieved her briefcase and pulled out the log of numbers. On the tape, it had taken Al Tulowitsky nine minutes after leaving the building to dump the garbage and return, which seemed like a longer time than necessary. She checked the log and noted his arrival at 11:03 p.m. Scrolling down further, however, she did not see the same four digits. Tulowitsky had not reentered his code when he’d returned from dumping the garbage at 11:26 p.m.

  She sat back, wondering if the janitor could have taken the cassette with him when he cleaned Battles’s office and put it in his truck, or had given it to someone when he went outside. It would have been simple enough for him to do so, but again, it didn’t provide an explanation for why he didn’t reenter his Social Security number. It also didn’t explain why someone was clearly hiding from him.

  So why had it taken Tulowitsky so long to dump the garbage? Tracy wondered if there was some other way to gain access to the building, despite Battles telling her that there was not.

  Tracy had another problem. She looked at the date on her cell phone and wondered if the original video even still existed, or if it had been copied over. According to Rebecca Stanley, the Navy had a retention policy, but Stanley either didn’t know that policy or deliberately didn’t tell Tracy. Then again, the retention policy might not matter; someone could have already recorded over the tape, inadvertently, or deliberately.

  Tracy found Detective John Owens’s 360 area code in her recent calls, and pressed the number. Owens answered on the second ring. Tracy explained what she’d learned from the tape and what she was contemplating. Then she asked, “You said you had experience dealing with the Navy?”

  “It comes with the territory out here,” Owens said.

  A gust of wind rattled her car. The rain continued to fall, and dark-gray tendrils reached down from a cloud layer suffocating the city. “I need to get into the security office, today. Can you make it happen?”

  “I can try,” Owens said.

  “I don’t want anyone to know we’re coming.”

  “I understand.”

  “I also want to talk to the janitor again, Al Tulowitsky, but not at work, not in front of his boss.”

  “You think he’s involved?”

  “Maybe unintentionally. I have a theory. See if you can find a contact for him. I’m going to catch the next ferry, if it isn’t full.”

  “This time of evening, with the commuters, it’s likely full. Just walk on,” Owens said. “I’ll pick you up at the dock.”

  Leah Battles had been sitting at her desk going stir-crazy since her banishment. She’d endured a telephone interview with the ethics investigators from Washington, DC, which made her want to puke, and was now waiting for them to make a decision on bringing an ethics charge, which would no doubt be a precursor to a court-martial. It hung over her, constantly on her mind. She couldn’t even go out of her office and engage the staff to distract her thoughts and kill time. She remained radioactive, and, as such, others gave her a wide berth when they saw her coming. They weren’t unfriendly. They smiled or nodded. A few even said hello on occasion, but no one ever stopped to ask how things were going. At times it made coming into the office almost intolerable. If the brass was going to court-martial her, Battles wished they’d just get on with it. At least a hearing would give her something on which to focus her energy, which was better than sitting at her desk slowly dying of boredom.

  It seemed everything had been put on hold since Trejo’s death, including her fate.

  Nearing four in the afternoon, she lifted her head to the sound of a light tap on her door. It startled her only because it was the first visitor she’d had in a week. She expected Darcy, who was the only person who engaged in anything beyond superficialities.

  “Come in.”

  Rebecca Stanley pushed open the door and stepped into the office. Battles quickly turned off Pandora, which she was streaming over her computer to keep her company, and stood.

  And just like that, Battles found those nerves of anticipation.

  Be careful what you wish for, she heard her mother say.

  Stanley did not visit often, and never just to chitchat. Battles also knew that bad news was always best delivered in person.

  “It’s depressing in here,” Stanley said. The only light came from the Tiffany desk lamp. Stanley flipped on the overhead fluorescent tubes. “You need an office with a window, though given the weather this past month, I’m not sure it would offer much.”

  Battles wondered if the mention of a different office was a good sign. “Seattle natives use weather to keep people from moving here,” she said.

  “So I’ve heard.” Stanley walked to one of the two chairs and sat. “We all could use some vitamin D.”

  There was an awkward pause. Finally, Battles broke the silence. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social visit.” She even mustered a smile.

  “I’m afraid not. Part of my job is delivering bad news.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “But this time there’s an element of good news and bad news,” Stanley said. “Which do you want first?”

  “Let’s just shoot the works. Give me both.”

  Stanley smiled softly and gently pursed her lips. “Okay.” She paused another beat, as if trying to decide where to start. It made Battles wonder if the news wasn’t actually bad news and really bad news.

  “First, I’ve been advised that after considerable debate, the ethics investigation is not going to recommend proceeding to a court-martial.”

  Battles breathed a sigh of relief, but it was brief. She knew what “considerable debate” meant. “So they don’t believe they have sufficient evidence to convict me.”

  “They can’t definitively say what happened to the videotape,” Stanley confirmed, “and they can’t draw a conclusion without something more substantial to base it on. The tape could have simply been misplaced, discarded inadvertently, or taken by someone for nefarious purposes. Under the circumstances, there’s insufficient evidence to bring a charge as serious as dereliction of duty.”

  “So their decision has nothing to do with guilt or innocence.”

  Stanley shook her head. “The decision will specifically state there was insufficient evidence to proceed to a resolution.”

  Battles sat back. “Insufficient evidence,” she said, mulling over the words. She briefly contemplated telling Stanley she wanted a hearing, growing confident she could defeat the charge, but she recognized that a decision made in haste, when she was emotionally upset, would not be wise.

  “I know it’s not exactly what you were hoping for,” Stanley said.

  “No, it’s not,” Battles said.

  “But with Trejo’s death, there’s just no way for anyone to be certain about what happened to the tape. And the surveillance tape for this building is inconclusive.”

  “I could have hidden the tape in my backpack,” Battles said.

  “Everything is circumstantial,” Stanley said.

  Battles looked at an abstract painting of the Seattle train depot, a view from outside her apartment window. It was one of her best paintings, but she doubted she’d ever appreciate it. She’d painted it during her recent hiatus. “So is that the good news or the bad news?”

  “I guess that depends on how you consider it.”

  “I’m hoping it’s the bad news.”

  Stanley sat back. �
�You’re being transferred,” she said. “That’s not necessarily bad news, except for me. I need you here, Lee. You’re my best defense attorney.”

  The news came as a surprise, even in a profession where transfers were frequent. Battles was not just a good attorney, she’d twice been named the Defense Counsel of the Year. This was clearly not a decision that had anything to do with performance or merit, which meant they were getting rid of her, sending her away, basically implying to everyone that she was guilty but they couldn’t prove it.

  “Command doesn’t believe you can fulfill your duties as a JAG officer here, in light of what has transpired. They think it best that you be transferred to another base.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “DSO North.”

  “Washington, DC?” They couldn’t have picked a spot farther from Seattle if they’d tried, or closer to the ethics panel. They were, in essence, pulling her back, close to home, where they could keep an eye on her by no doubt sticking her at some meaningless desk job.

  “Yes.”

  “Will I still be trying cases?”

  “Not initially.”

  “Will I at least be in a DSO office?”

  “No. Not initially, but I understand you will be reevaluated, in time.”

  “So . . . No,” she said, seeing the handwriting on the wall. She’d be deskbound until her commission expired. Then she’d be sent on her way. Maybe it was for the best. She could get out of the Navy and get a real job, earn some real money defending cases for clients with a lot to lose. Maybe she’d hang her own shingle.

  “I’m sorry to see you go, Lee. I hope you know that I did what I could to keep you here. But Washington, DC, is a terrific city.”

  “When do I ship out?”

  “Your last day here is the end of the month. You’ll have two weeks to report to DSO North.”

  Battles nodded, taking it all in. It wasn’t like she had a choice. She’d pretty much forfeited freedom of choice about where she lived and worked when she’d been commissioned.

  “Take some time to clear your head. Travel a bit before you get settled.”

  She’d have to find a new place to live and a new Krav Maga studio. She suspected she would need the energy release after a week of meaningless filing. “Maybe.”

  “You were never going to make the Navy a career,” Stanley said. Before Battles could protest, Stanley continued, “You’re too good an attorney, and for the good attorneys, this job is always a means to an end. You’ve gained a lot of experience, trial experience civil attorneys your age rarely get. Any number of the top law firms in any city would love to hire you.”

  “I guess,” Battles said, thinking perhaps that it had all been worth it, despite the consequences. “What about Trejo?”

  “What about him?”

  “What have they determined? I saw the police detective here yesterday.”

  “I don’t know. She did tell me that she doubts Trejo killed himself.”

  “She thinks someone killed him? Did she say why?”

  “No. She asked for a copy of the security tape for the building. I told her I’d already viewed it and didn’t see anything concerning.”

  “But she asked for the tape anyway?”

  “She had a warrant.”

  Battles sat back, wondering what Tracy Crosswhite was doing, and why.

  Stanley stood. “Come on. Let me buy you a drink. We can go to The Bulkhead.”

  Battles was still deep in thought. If Crosswhite wanted the videotape, it meant SPD was continuing to pursue the matter. Why? Trejo was dead, which was seemingly their only involvement. The security tape was a Navy matter. She thought again of her conversation with Crosswhite at the Bremerton Police Department, about how Trejo could have brought something on and off a ship without anyone knowing. Then she thought again of the tape.

  “Lee?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me buy you a drink.”

  Battles had gone out with Stanley before, but usually at lunch to discuss her cases. They’d never gone out after work. “I appreciate the offer,” she said.

  “This will be what you make of it, Lee. DC could be a great move for you. It’s a military town and there are a lot of opportunities, especially for someone young and talented.”

  “Thanks,” Battles said, though she noted that Stanley had stopped short of offering a letter of recommendation.

  Stanley noticed Battles’s bike. “We can put your bike in the back of my car and I’ll drop you off at the ferry after we’re done. Have you looked outside lately?”

  “No,” Battles said.

  “The weather is brutal. It’s raining hard and the wind is gusting. You don’t want to be riding a bike in this weather, not on that road. It’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

  The ferry ride across Elliott Bay rivaled a roller coaster at an amusement park. With the wind increasing in intensity, the waves also grew, making the ferry pitch and roll. Occasionally the whitecaps would crash over the bow with enough force to trigger car alarms. Tracy wasn’t in the car hold; the ferry had been full, as John Owens had predicted. She’d walked on, but now wondered if that had been such a good idea. If the storm got worse, and maybe even if it didn’t, the Department of Transportation could shut down the ferry system, and she’d be stuck in Bremerton for the night without a car.

  She sat in one of the booths, watching the whitecaps out the window. Unfortunately, the bad weather didn’t stop the tourists from being tourists. Some stood on the deck, dressed in raincoats, seeing how far they could lean into the wind, as if walking up a hill.

  When the ferry docked in Bremerton, Tracy departed on unsteady legs and with a queasy stomach. She raised a hand against the wind and rain to search the parking lot for John Owens. A car flashed its headlights twice and she moved toward it, seeing Owens in the shadows between swipes of the car’s windshield wipers. She pulled open the passenger’s-side door and quickly slid into the seat.

  “I’ll bet that was an E ticket ride,” Owens said, dating himself; E tickets had not been in use at Disneyland for several decades.

  The inside of the car felt like walking into a sauna, fully dressed. Owens had the defroster blasting air at the front windshield, and Tracy could see where he’d wiped uneven streaks on the inside of the glass in an attempt to clear it. He reached out again with the sleeve of his jacket and swiped several more streaks. “The defroster is the shits in this car,” he said.

  Tracy removed her raincoat, deposited it on the floorboard in the backseat, and helped him wipe the windshield. “You have any luck locating the janitor?”

  “Yeah, I got an address.” Owens pulled back the sleeve of his jacket to consider his watch. “Not sure if he’s home, but he’s close enough to the base that we can drive over and knock on his door before we go meet my friend.”

  Owens had arranged to get on base with a captain he knew well. He said the captain would get them through the Charleston Gate and escort them to wherever they needed to go. Frustrated at his inability to clear the windshield, Owens cracked his driver’s-side window, which allowed in spittles of rain, and pulled from his parking spot.

  Tracy’s cell rang. She recognized the number on her screen and quickly answered. “Mike?”

  “Nice weather, huh? I hope you’re not out in this.”

  “Unfortunately I just took the ferry to Bremerton.”

  “Bet that was fun.”

  “I won’t be eating anytime soon. You got something on the security tape?”

  She noticed Owens glance over at her.

  “Watermark is broken,” he said. “Several times. Someone definitely edited it in the places you found.”

  That raised another series of questions, but they weren’t questions Mike Melton could answer in a lab. “Okay,” she said. “Good to know, Mike. I’m hoping to get a copy of the original while I’m over here. If I do, I’ll send it over to you.”

  “Stay dry,” Melton said, and di
sconnected.

  “What about the security tape?” Owens asked.

  “I had the crime lab analyze the tape given to the OIC, Rebecca Stanley. They say it was edited,” she said. “The watermark is broken.”

  Owens squinted as if having trouble seeing. With the window cracked and the defroster on high, he’d opened a half-moon-shaped gap in the condensation. “How can somebody edit the tape? Doesn’t it have a date and time stamp on it?”

  “Apparently you can edit a copy. There’s software available.”

  Owens shook his head. “I guess there would be, wouldn’t there? Can he tell where it was edited?”

  “It was edited after Tulowitsky left the building and then again when he returned.”

  “To hide someone’s presence inside?”

  “That would be the most logical reason for someone to do it.”

  “Battles?”

  “We won’t know for certain until we get the original, if it still exists.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if’?”

  “My understanding is the security office keeps the tapes for a designated period of time. Then they roll over the contents.”

  “How long before the rollover?”

  “Stanley didn’t know.”

  “You want me to make a call?”

  “I’m worried that could sound alarms. I’d rather go in person, serve the warrant, and get the tape without giving anyone a reason to destroy it. Otherwise, this could all be a wild-goose chase.”

  “We got the weather for it,” Owens said. “You want to go to the base first?”

  Tracy checked her watch. Tulowitsky would be leaving for work soon. “No. Let’s talk to Tulowitsky first. If my theory is wrong, the tape might not matter.”

  Al Tulowitsky lived in a modest, one-story home not far from the naval base and his employer, IJS. The front of the house did not face the street. Rather, the home was situated perpendicular to the road. A dirt-and-gravel easement extended for perhaps a hundred yards and served as the driveway for three homes. Owens pulled down the easement and parked beneath the limbs of a gnarled pine. Forsaking her raincoat, Tracy followed an uneven stone walkway strewn with spent pine needles to a front door protected by a tiny overhang that offered little relief from the wind and rain. A gutter to the right of the door overflowed, the water splattering the ground and kicking back up at Tracy’s shoes and ankles.