Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  Clarridge gave this some thought, no doubt considering the expense they could anticipate if they had to hire Internet experts. He spoke directly to Tracy and Kins. “Other than the crime scene markers, any definitive characteristics?”

  “Forensics believes the person tying the knots is left-handed.”

  “That could reduce the pool of suspects significantly,” Clarridge said.

  “It could,” Tracy said. “Unfortunately, at the moment that pool is already very small.”

  “We need to change that. I’m going to shift some funds to put together a task force.”

  Tracy felt mixed emotions. She was glad they’d form a team dedicated to catching the Cowboy, but she knew it would mean a lot of late nights, long days, and frustrating dead ends. She also knew the assignment could last years, without success, and could exact a significant mental toll on her well-being.

  “Detective Crosswhite,” Clarridge said. “I’m concerned you might be too close to this situation given your family history and the recent incident involving the noose. I wonder if perhaps it might not be best to let Detective Rowe act as the lead. How you divide up your responsibilities will be between the two of you.”

  Tracy bristled at the suggestion and was about to say that while Kins was a great choice, she wanted to lead the investigation. She was also concerned Kins’s marriage would not take the additional strain of his being the lead on a task force. Before she could respond, however, Nolasco sat forward in his chair.

  “With all due respect,” Nolasco said, “I disagree.”

  Stunned, Tracy looked to Kins, whose quizzical facial expression revealed he too was surprised.

  “I think having a female detective lead a task force trying to catch a man killing women will be favorably perceived by the media and the public. We might avoid the kind of criticism directed at the King County Sheriff’s Office during the Ridgway investigation.” Nolasco failed to mention the criticism following his ill-fated and premature decision to send the Nicole Hansen investigation to the Cold Case Unit.

  Clarridge pinched his lower lip. “What about it, Detective Crosswhite?”

  “I want this case, Chief.”

  Clarridge nodded. “All right. Then it’s your task force. I don’t have to tell you that’s a double-edged sword.”

  “Understood,” Tracy said.

  “Chief,” Kins said, “can we address the issue of bringing in the FBI? We all know it gives the public and the politicians a warm and fuzzy, but these guys don’t deal in murder, and the only time they’ve ever caught a serial killer was in novels and movies. Honestly, I’d prefer to work with a Boy Scout troop.”

  “There are other factors at play here,” Nolasco said. “A task force will be expensive, and the FBI can provide additional manpower and federal funds. And it’s good for PR. It lets the public know we’re using every available resource.”

  Again, Clarridge was deliberate. “When I announce the task force, I’ll announce that the FBI will be assisting in our investigation. You and Detective Crosswhite can keep them at arm’s length, or bring them in to whatever extent you determine necessary.”

  Clarridge checked his watch. “I have a news conference to prepare for.”

  After Clarridge and Martinez departed, Nolasco addressed Tracy. “I want a list of names for the task force on my desk before you go home. And don’t submit fifty. I want fifteen, at most. This is not going to be another Ridgway. Get on it. We’re behind the eight ball, and I don’t want to fall behind any further. Find this asshole.”

  After Nolasco left, Kins said, “He really has a way of motivating, doesn’t he? Winston Churchill has nothing on that guy.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s right,” Tracy said. “We’re way behind this guy, and something seems to have triggered his desire to kill. We don’t catch him soon, this could be another Ridgway.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Grease-stained hamburger wrappers littered the car. Kins had stopped at Dick’s, a drive-in hamburger joint on Capitol Hill that attracted a steady flow of college and high school students looking to stretch a buck. The only appeal it had to Tracy was they used real ice cream in their milk shakes and were still open at one in the morning.

  Dan called just as Tracy sucked a hunk of strawberry into her straw. For him to be calling this late, it meant he’d likely seen Clarridge’s announcement of a task force and Maria Vanpelt’s interview of Shirley and Lawrence Berkman criticizing SPD for not having formed the task force earlier, and he wanted to make sure Tracy was doing all right.

  “I could drive down and spend the night,” Dan said.

  “Are you offering me pity sex?”

  Kins, in the driver’s seat, snickered and smiled.

  “Not at all,” Dan said. “My arbitration doesn’t get started until ten. These guys keep bankers’ hours. Unless you’re into pity sex. Then absolutely.”

  Tracy laughed, and it felt good after a long and frustrating day. “Unfortunately, we’re still at it.”

  “As your attorney, I hope they’re paying you overtime.”

  “How’s the arbitration going?”

  “Slow. The defense attorney is fighting everything. I really have to look into this whole notion of getting paid by the hour instead of on a contingency.”

  “And sell your soul?”

  “I could afford to buy a new one at some of the hourly rates these guys charge. We still on for Friday night?”

  “Only if you’re still in the pitying mood.”

  “You kidding? I majored in pity. Any thoughts about what you might want to do?’

  “Several.”

  “You’re killing me. You know that don’t you?”

  “I’ll see you Friday.” She disconnected and slipped her cell back into her jacket pocket.

  Kins lowered his chocolate shake. “Pity sex? How does that work?”

  She couldn’t keep from grinning. “I’ll let you know.”

  “I thought I could mention it to Shannah,” Kins said.

  “Things still not going well?”

  “It’s just ships passing in the night, you know. It’s been a rough patch. This isn’t going to help.”

  “You’ll get through it.”

  “She’s talking about taking the kids to San Diego to visit her sister.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

  “They’re in school, Tracy.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve been missing too much lately—the kids’ games, dinners with friends. She feels like a single parent.”

  “So sneak out when you can. We’ll have people now to take some of the burden.”

  “Yeah, I guess. What about you? You like this guy?”

  She shrugged but found herself smiling again. “I’m taking it slow.”

  “Pity sex is slow? Damn, I really need to find out how that works.”

  “We haven’t had a lot of free time together since Cedar Grove. I’m worried that when he spends more time with me, he’ll see through this façade of charm.”

  “You have a façade?’

  “Fuck you.”

  “How could he not love you?”

  Scraps of paper twisted and turned in the wind blowing down the cobblestone street in the shuttered Pike Place Market. Outside the Pink Palace, a new barker, older and harder-looking than the bored young man who’d stood out front that afternoon, stepped from the curb as Kins pulled up to the entrance. The man slapped the hood with the palm of his hand. “You can’t park here.”

  Kins badged him. “Bang on it again and you’ll be handcuffed to the bumper.” The barker stepped back, hands raised. “Keep an eye on it for me,” Kins said, “and there’ll be a big tip in it for you.”

  The Pink Palace was at full throttle, lights flashing and music pulsing the same eardrum-splitting Euro electronic trash that had been playing that afternoon. Two women now stalked the stage—the Asian with the bad dye job and the larger black woman who’d been standing at the bar tha
t afternoon. They strutted, dipped, and shimmied. The Asian woman spun around the pole, clinging to it with one leg while men held out dollar bills and cheered. Other dancers sauntered through the tables in high heels and lingerie.

  Tracy scanned the faces of the men, ignoring the more animated and boisterous, and focused on those sitting at tables in the back, nursing beers and hard drinks. She looked to see if anyone was holding a glass in his left hand. She was looking for a tall man with light-brown hair in a suit. One man wore a baseball cap pressed so low it nearly obscured his eyes and, despite the heat, a wool-lined jean jacket. In the corner two men in a booth were giving their rapt attention to a woman slithering nearly naked on the table.

  Nabil Kotar met them at the bar, looking anxious. “Okay, come on,” he said. He led them through the curtain to a cramped and crowded backstage. They stepped around portable metal clothing racks of skimpy lingerie; spools of black electrical cable; and spare light fixtures and speaker equipment. Kotar spoke to them while looking over his shoulder. “Three dancers called in sick. Another one is so freaked-out she says she’s quitting and moving to Colorado. She won’t come out of the greenroom.”

  “Nash been around tonight?” Tracy asked.

  “Haven’t seen him,” Kotar said. “You’ll have to ask them your questions in between sets working the stage and floor.”

  “These girls worked with Veronica?”

  “Three of them,” Kotar said. “Another one is onstage.”

  They followed Kotar into an equally cramped and cluttered dressing room. A redhead sat topless at a cluttered makeup station, holding a mascara applicator and making no effort to cover herself. A blonde seated in a metal folding chair at the second station pulled closed a red silk dressing gown. The third woman, a brunette in a sheer robe that left little to the imagination, sifted through a portable rack of lingerie.

  “These are the detectives,” Kotar announced. Then to Tracy and Kins, “I’ll get you a couple of chairs.”

  “We saw the news,” the brunette said as Kotar departed. Chinese symbols ran up her neck to an ear adorned with multiple silver rings. Another ring pierced her right nipple. “I was like, ‘Oh shit, not Veronica.’ I liked Angela, but she danced mostly at the other club and she was new. I didn’t know her as well. Veronica’s been here a long time.” She slipped lace panties over her three-inch platform shoes, shimmying them up her long legs. “They said it’s a serial killer; why do all the crazies have to live here?”

  “It’s all the rain,” the redhead said. “The gray makes people depressed.” She had a high-pitched voice and didn’t even look old enough to have her learner’s permit.

  Kotar returned and handed Kins two folding chairs. “Keep it short,” he said, almost apologetically. Then he left again.

  “Everybody’s scared,” the redhead said. “I mean, I danced with V last night. She was like, happy and everything. I couldn’t believe it. I’m moving back to Colorado.”

  Tracy and Kins sat near the door. Both knew it best not to interrupt witnesses freely talking.

  “I thought you caught the guy,” the blonde said. She looked older than the other two, but it was difficult to tell through a healthy dose of pancake makeup. “I thought he was a schoolteacher or something.”

  “He came in with Angela one time,” the redhead said. “Not here. At the Aurora club.”

  “Why don’t you arrest him?” the blonde said.

  “There isn’t enough evidence to prove he did it,” Tracy said.

  The blonde rolled her eyes and turned to the makeup station.

  “Did you notice anyone paying special attention to Veronica last night?” Tracy asked.

  “I didn’t notice anyone,” the redhead said.

  Tracy looked to the blonde, who shook her head in the mirror while applying powder to her chest. “I wouldn’t even know what special attention is.”

  “Anyone see Darrell Nash here last night?” Tracy asked.

  “I saw him.” The brunette had slipped on stockings and was snapping them to a garter belt. “Did you see him talking to Veronica?” Tracy asked.

  “No.”

  “I did,” the blonde said, using the mirror to watch them. “I was onstage. V had just finished working one of the booths.”

  “How long did they talk?” Kins asked.

  “Not long.”

  “Did Veronica say anything to you about it?” Tracy said.

  “Like what?”

  “Anything.”

  She shook her head.

  “Does Nash come in often?” Kins asked.

  “He’s the boss,” the blonde said, and Tracy was definitely detecting an attitude. “V had a boyfriend. You talked to him yet?”

  “That guy is a creep.” The brunette slipped on a red teddy and unrolled long lace gloves.

  “Why do you say that?” Tracy asked.

  “V danced here, so he thought he could touch us. Asshole.”

  “What’s the club’s policy on that?” Tracy asked.

  “You set your own boundaries,” the blonde said. “You don’t want to be touched, that’s up to you. Guys will always try. You just get up and walk away.”

  “Does that make them mad?”

  “It can.”

  “Especially if they’re drunk,” the redhead said.

  “You ever see a customer get mad at Veronica or Angela?”

  “Not that I can remember,” the blonde said. The other two shrugged.

  “Veronica’s parents said the boyfriend knocked her around,” Tracy said.

  The redhead nodded. “She came in with some bruises once, but she wouldn’t talk about it.”

  The brunette stepped to where Kins sat blocking the door. “I got a set,” she said.

  Kins started to get up, but the brunette put her hands on his shoulders and deftly lifted a long leg, straddling him momentarily before stepping across his lap. She smiled and winked. “That one was on the house.”

  As she departed, the African American woman who’d been onstage stepped into the room breathing hard and dabbing a paper towel to her forehead and chest. She was more voluptuous than the others.

  “They’re the detectives for Angela and Velvet,” the redhead said.

  “I figured you as cops when you came in this afternoon. I asked Nabil what it was about.”

  “What did he tell you?” Tracy asked.

  “Veronica was dead. You think it’s the same guy. Is it?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  Kins offered the woman his chair, since there was no place for her to sit.

  She smiled. “Are you for real? Thanks. My back’s killing me. I’m Shereece.”

  “They want to know if anyone was bothering V last night or paying special attention to her,” the blonde said.

  Shereece slid off a wig revealing a peach-colored skullcap. Tracy estimated she was in her early thirties. “It was pretty slow last night.”

  “No one stood out?” Kins asked.

  “What about Mr. Attorney?” the blonde asked.

  “He likes big tits,” the redhead said. “He doesn’t ask for me.”

  “I didn’t see him,” Shereece said.

  “You know his name?” Tracy asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “But he’s an attorney?”

  “That’s just what we call him,” the blonde said, “because he comes in wearing a suit and tie.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Likes to talk,” the blonde said. “Nothing weird or anything.”

  “How old?”

  “Maybe early forties?” She looked to Shereece. “They asked about V’s boyfriend.”

  “He was here,” Shereece said. “Came in looking for money.”

  “How do you know he came in looking for money?” Tracy said.

  “Because that boy’s always looking for money. He treated Veronica like an ATM.”

  “Can you think of any regulars that Angela and Veronica might
have had in common?

  Shereece shook her head again. “Not really.”

  “What the hell?”

  The women startled. Darrell Nash stood in the doorway red-faced and scowling. Nabil Kotar stood behind him looking sheepish. Nash turned on him. “What the hell, Nabil? Is this why there’s only one dancer on my dance floor?”

  Kins was on his feet. “We’re asking them questions.”

  “Ask them on their own time.”

  “They’re on break.” Kins stepped closer, causing Nash to take a step back and stumble into Kotar.

  “This is a private club. You have no right to talk to my employees during business hours.”

  “Independent contractors,” Tracy said. She was also standing now. “And the club is open to the public.”

  “You’re backstage. The public area is out there.”

  “Fine, we’ll finish asking our questions in a booth. How’s that?” Tracy said.

  “I’m calling my lawyer. You have no right to disrupt my business!”

  “While you’re at it, ask your lawyer the penalty for hiring underage dancers.”

  “That doesn’t happen here.”

  “No? Veronica Watson was nineteen. How long was she dancing here?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. What I know is that when they’re here, they dance, or I find others who will.”

  The women filed out the door, all except Shereece, who took a vacated seat at one of the makeup stations.

  “What are you doing?” Nash said.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m resting my feet.”

  “Don’t give me lip, Shereece.”

  “You’ll know when I’m giving you lip. I just got done with a set. I’m on break.”

  Kins said to Nash, “Why’d you come in tonight, Darrell?”

  “I came in because I heard we’re three girls short, so I brought a couple dancers from the Aurora club.”