Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  “You heard right,” Tracy said. “Trying to get some information on her.”

  Keen’s voice poured into the car like rich syrup. “Nothing you haven’t heard before. She left home at fifteen when the stepfather moved in and started sneaking down the hall and climbing into her bed. The mother chose to believe her new husband. Veronica got tired of it and took off. She lived on the street then moved in with a dirtbag named Bradley Taggart. Taggart’s ten years older. Got a long record for being an all-American shithead. He liked to knock her around. Every so often they’d get loud enough that the neighbors would call, but Veronica wouldn’t ever press charges. Girl fell down more staircases than a blind man.”

  “Was he working her?”

  “She was pulling tricks, and he was getting a slice of that pie, but if you’re asking whether Taggart is a pimp, forget it. He talks a good game, a real tough guy, but he’s a punk. He doesn’t have the balls or the brains to be running women. Last I knew, he was working in a marine shop in SoDo to meet the conditions of his parole on a meth charge.”

  Tracy’s initial thought was that if Taggart was working Watson, he might know the names of some of her regulars, or where Watson kept that information. “When did she start dancing?”

  “Not long after moving in with Taggart. She was underage, but with her figure I don’t think her employers delved too deep into her resume. Girl was a cash cow—pardon the term. Danced under the name Velvet.”

  “Earl, it’s Kinsington Rowe. You said Taggart beat her. Any indication he liked to tie her up?”

  “Don’t know. Like I said, she wouldn’t say much. He was her Prince Charming.”

  “Sounds more like the toad,” Kins said.

  “That’s an insult to toads.”

  They parked at a meter on First Avenue just north of the entrance to the Pink Palace club at the southern edge of Seattle’s iconic Pike Place Market, arguably the city’s most popular tourist attraction. The market had overlooked the Seattle waterfront and Elliott Bay for more than a hundred years. Tracy had no doubt the heavy foot traffic was what had attracted Darrell Nash to the location for what he called a “satellite club.”

  Unlike the club just off Aurora, there was no marquee or Jumbotron, just an understated pink neon sign mounted on the wall. Late afternoon, a young man stood outside the entrance in a tuxedo, looking like a high school senior dressed for a prom he didn’t want to attend.

  Neither Kins nor Tracy bothered to take out their shields as they stepped past him. “Just looking for some lingerie ideas for the spring,” Tracy said.

  They pushed aside a black curtain draped across the entrance to keep people on the street from getting a free peek. Tracy nearly gagged on the smell of body odor, talcum powder, and perfume. Flashing neon lights and pulsing techno music made her quickly long for real bands playing real instruments, like Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith, and the Rolling Stones.

  Just inside the drape, a petite Asian woman, hair bleached blonde but for a streak of black running down the middle of her scalp like a reverse skunk, stood on four-inch pumps in a purple bra and matching thong. Tracy had Band-Aids that covered more skin. The ticket booth was just to the woman’s right; she was apparently the teaser to get men to commit to paying the cover charge.

  Kins bent down and spoke into the woman’s ear over the sound of the music. The woman pointed in the direction of the bar at the back of the club, then gave him a flirtatious smile and a “you interested?” look. Kins was a good-looking, well-built man, with boyish features that made him look younger than his forty years. He smiled, gave the woman a wink, and stepped past the ticket booth into the club. Tracy followed.

  The Pink Palace near Aurora had multiple dance stages and bars, and several leather booths and interior rooms for the private lap dances and sex acts Darrell Nash swore were frowned upon by the management. This club was considerably smaller, just a single stage with chairs and tables arranged in cabaret-style seating. At the moment, a brunette in a white G-string hung from a pole by her leg, her skin glistening beneath overhead lights, music speakers, and a spinning disco ball. She arched her body backward, breasts seeming to defy gravity, and fit her lips over a long-neck Budweiser bottle placed on the edge of the stage by an animated group of Japanese businessmen. They cheered as she lifted herself back up—an impressive feat of core strength.

  Kins circled the stage to the place where a bartender in a tuxedo shirt and bow tie leaned on his forearms while talking with a petite redhead and a solidly built African American woman. Both women wore modified tuxedo attire: the shirt just a bib, fishnet leggings, and four-inch pumps.

  The bartender straightened. “What can I get you?”

  Tracy thought the man had to have the IQ of a rock not to have made them as cops. The dancers clearly had, stepping away.

  “Can you make a floor manager appear?” Kins asked.

  “A what?”

  Kins held up his shield.

  The bartender nodded. “Be right back,” he said and pushed through a black curtain draped behind the bar.

  Tracy looked around. The group of businessmen stuffed the woman’s G-string with dollar bills. The redhead had walked to a man sitting alone at a table. Tracy eyed him. He was white, with dark hair, probably midforties. His eyes shifted to Tracy and gave her a disinterested glance before fixating again on the woman onstage.

  The bartender returned with a man who looked to be of Middle Eastern descent.

  “You the floor manager?” Kins asked.

  “Nabil,” he said shaking hands. “What can I do for you?”

  Tracy recalled Nash telling them that Nabil Kotar had been the floor manager at the Aurora club the night Angela Schreiber was murdered and that the regular floor manager had called in sick that night. That meant Kotar had been one of the employees Ron Mayweather had run a Triple I security check on, using the National Crime Information Center’s Interstate Identification Index. Those checks had come back clean.

  Like Nash, Kotar had a weightlifter’s upper body and favored tight T-shirts, this one black with the sleeves short enough to display a portion of a serpent tattoo slithering on his right biceps. A thick gold cross hung from one of several chains around his neck. By the smell of him, he used a liberal amount of cologne or body spray.

  Tracy raised her voice to be heard over the increasingly annoying music. “Is there a place we can talk?”

  Kotar led them between two crescent-shaped leather booths and down a short hall to a room with a sheer pink curtain. The room was awash in red and the pungent smell of the club, but at least the music was less offensive.

  “How do you not get a headache working here?” Tracy asked.

  Kotar shrugged. “You get used to it after a while. Do you want to sit?”

  Tracy felt the need to scratch just looking at the booth in front of her. She could only imagine what likely occurred on the table. “We’ll stand.”

  “Is this about Angel?”

  “Were you working the floor here last night?”

  “Yeah,” Kotar said. “I’m fluctuating between here and the Aurora club at the moment.”

  “You worked this club last night?”

  “Manager called in sick. Pain in the ass.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Commute’s terrible. Traffic sucks down here, and parking’s a bitch.”

  “So your regular club is the one near Aurora?” Kins asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What time did you leave the club Tuesday night?” Kins asked.

  “I closed it down. So around two thirty or two forty-five.”

  “You closed it down, not Nash?” Tracy asked. Nash had told them he’d closed down the club that night.

  Kotar shrugged. “My job as the manager. I was managing that night.”

  “Nash say where he was going?”

  “I assume home.”

  “Did he say he was going home?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d yo
u go after you closed it down?” Kins asked.

  “Home.”

  “Anyone verify that?” he asked.

  “My wife.”

  “She was home?”

  “Yeah, we got a two-year-old daughter.”

  “What does your wife think of you working here?” Tracy asked.

  Kotar shrugged. “Pay’s okay. I get full medical and dental, and I’m home mornings to take my daughter to nursery school. So it works. People think it’s a big deal working here, you know? But really, you get anesthetized to it all.”

  “What does your wife do?”

  “She works mornings at a health club. Starts at five thirty.”

  “Did Veronica Watson work this club last night?” Tracy said.

  “Velvet? Yeah,” Kotar said, then stopped, his forehead wrinkling in thought. “I think she was here last night. Sometimes the nights blend.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tracy said.

  “I can verify it for you.” Kotar’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about Velvet? Something happen to her?”

  “How many women work a schedule at a time?” Tracy asked.

  “Depends on the night of the week; weekends we’re busier. It’s also the preferred shift, because the tips are better. We have ninety-something dancers floating between the three clubs. Not always easy to know who’s working where.”

  “How many last night?”

  “I think there were ten, but don’t quote me.”

  “We’ll need that schedule,” Kins said.

  Kotar looked uncertain. “I’ll have to ask Darrell about that.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Darrell controls everything. His club.” Kotar’s gaze shifted between the two of them. “Is Velvet dead? Is that why you’re asking about her?”

  “Yeah, she’s dead,” Kins said.

  Kotar swore and closed his eyes. He let out a breath before looking back up at them. “Wow. Same guy?”

  “What can you tell us about her?” Tracy asked.

  Kotar shrugged. “No problems with her. She seemed to get along with everyone all right, but, like I said, this isn’t my primary club. Killer body, though I’d heard she’d put on a few pounds so she wasn’t as popular as she once was, but I think she did okay.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “That she’d put on a few? Darrell.”

  It only further confirmed Tracy’s impression that Nash considered the dancers nothing more than commodities, fungible goods that could be replaced if they got too fat or too old, or died.

  “Did you notice any particular customer paying attention to her last night?” Tracy asked.

  “I think I saw her working one of the booths, but nothing specific.”

  “How about a tall guy in a suit? Light-brown hair,” she said, using the description Mr. Joon had provided to Faz.

  Kotar shrugged. “I don’t know. Dancers might know. She tipped out, I know that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Tipped out? The dancers pay a percentage of what they earn in tips from private tables and lap dances to the house.”

  “You don’t pay them?” Tracy said.

  “That’s how they get paid—table dances and lap dances. At the end of the night, they pay a tip-out fee to the house and keep the rest.”

  Tracy thought of the woman onstage performing acrobatics. “What about when they dance onstage? They don’t get paid for that?”

  “That’s called marketing and promotion. The dollar bills are tips.”

  “So you keep records of how much every dancer tips out at the end of the evening?” Kins said.

  “Have to. IRS would shut us down if we didn’t.”

  “We’re going to need the names of everyone working last night—the bartenders, cocktail waitresses, security, everybody,” Kins said.

  “Like I said, I’ll have to run it by Darrell. He’s going to be pissed.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?” Tracy asked.

  Kotar looked sheepish. “He’ll say it’s bad for business. This is going to freak out some of the girls.”

  But not enough to get them to stop taking strange men to motels, Tracy thought. Even when Ridgway was at the height of his killing, prostitution continued unabated. A girl had to make a living, even if it might kill her. “Was Velvet close to any of the other dancers?”

  Another shrug. “I can find out, set up a meeting with the girls she danced with last night. Better to do it later tonight, though. Can I ask what happened to her? I read in the paper the guy strangled Angel.”

  “Was Velvet supplementing her income, Nabil?” Tracy said.

  “I wouldn’t know that.”

  “Come on, Nabil,” Tracy said. “Now is not the time to try and protect her or the club.”

  He put up his hands. “That’s the truth. Not my business. The girls might know. You can ask them.”

  “What about Darrell Nash, was he at this club last night?”

  “He came in.”

  “What for?”

  “Take a look around, check the gate, ask what kind of night we were having.”

  “Does he do that often?”

  “He owns the place.”

  “Does he do it often?”

  “Every so often. Not every night.”

  “What time did he come by last night?”

  “When he comes, it’s usually near the end of the evening.”

  “How about last night, how long did he stay?”

  “Last night? Not long.” Kotar raised his hands. “I shouldn’t say that. I don’t know. I was trying to get things shut down and get home. I really didn’t pay attention.”

  “Did you see him talking with any of the dancers?”

  “Darrell?” Kotar looked away, as if considering the question. Tracy thought he was stalling. Then he said, “No. Not that I can remember.”

  Tracy caught Kins’s glance. He’d noticed also. She handed Kotar a card. “We’ll be back tonight to talk to the girls who worked with Veronica.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The King County Medical Examiner’s Office had moved from a dreary, antiquated bunker to Harborview Medical Center, a modern high-rise with wide hallways and spacious rooms bathed in light streaming through the building’s tinted-glass exterior walls. Tracy and Kins found Stuart Funk peering into a microscope in one of the labs. Funk had called them as they left the Pink Palace and drove to the Justice Center. He had Angela Schreiber’s preliminary toxicology report back, and Veronica Watson’s next of kin were coming in to identify her body.

  Others in the criminal justice system considered Funk a bit of an odd duck, but Tracy liked him. His unkempt appearance reminded her of a favorite college chemistry professor. Tufts of graying brown hair stuck out over his ears on a head seemingly too large for his narrow shoulders. Bushy eyebrows Kins had once described as needing “a good mowing” sprouted over the top of silver eyeglass frames. When testifying in court, Funk favored bow ties and a tweed jacket with elbow patches. Jurors loved him.

  Funk was filling them in on Angela Schreiber. “As with Nicole Hansen, her blood work indicates the presence of flunitrazepam.”

  “Rohypnol,” Tracy said.

  The killer’s use of Rohypnol was the type of specific detail that would help when they started interviewing suspects.

  Funk continued. “Once tied up, the victim can only hold her position for so long before muscle fatigue and cramping. The only way to relieve the pain is to straighten her limbs, tightening the noose and cutting off the supply of oxygen. Eventually, she passes out.”

  “How long could she last?”

  “Hard to say, considering the victims are under considerable stress.”

  “What about the burn marks on her feet?” Kins asked.

  “Definitely from a cigarette,” Funk said.

  “But no marks on Nicole Hansen?”

  “No.”

  “So something’s changed,” Tracy said. “Any other scars or healed bruises t
o indicate she was into this kind of thing?”

  “No. Couple bruises but nothing dramatic,” Funk said.

  “How long before we get the rest of the toxicology report?”

  “Lab promised to rush it, along with the vaginal swabs and cultures. But I don’t believe it will reveal she was sexually assaulted.” Funk exhaled a long sigh. A serial killer changed every aspect of the investigation. The stakes were higher, the pressure for an arrest were exponentially greater, and the consequences of a mistake that allowed a killer to stay at large were fatal.

  Tracy checked her watch. “We better meet Veronica Watson’s family.”

  Funk rolled his chair away from the desk. “Shirley and Lawrence Berkman. They live out in Duvall.”

  “You meet with them yet?” Tracy asked.

  Funk shook his head. “I spoke to the mother over the phone.”

  “How’d she take the news?” Tracy asked.

  “She sounded pretty shaken up. I didn’t talk to the father.”

  “Stepfather,” Kins said. “Some indication he’s the reason she left home.”

  Funk led them down a pristine hall and pushed open the door to the family room. Comfortably furnished and softly lit, the room was a dramatic improvement from the cold and drab waiting area in the old facility. A middle-aged couple facing the windows turned from the view when the door opened. Tracy assessed Shirley Berkman to be midfifties trying to look midthirties. Her blue jeans were too tight and tucked into knee-high black boots. A white blouse displayed a freckled chest. She wore heavy makeup and an assortment of rings and bracelets, and Tracy wondered if she’d been so adorned when she received the news of her daughter’s murder or had taken the time to put on makeup and jewelry before coming downtown.

  Lawrence Berkman had a full head of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a black leather jacket covered with colorful patches and blue jeans creased like neatly pressed slacks, which flared over cowboy boots. He, too, favored silver rings and bracelets—and, according to Earl Keen, his young stepdaughter.

  Funk introduced himself and then Tracy and Kins. Shirley Berkman extended a limp hand. Lawrence kept a hand pressed against his wife’s back, as if steadying her.