She nodded to Kins, who approached. Taggart glanced over his left shoulder, sighed, and put down the bottle. He raised his hands in an exaggerated motion of surrender and slapped them on the bar loud enough to draw attention. The couple on the barstools to Taggart’s left quickly moved out of the way. Tracy walked behind Taggart and reached around his right side. She slipped a handcuff just below a silver bracelet shaped like a snake with two red stones for eyes. When she pulled Taggart’s hand behind his back, the stool rotated. Taggart’s left hand shot up and grabbed her crotch.
Startled, Tracy instinctively swung her elbow across Taggart’s face and heard bone on bone. She grabbed the back of his head and shoved it hard against the bar. Kins moved in quickly, using his body weight to help pin Taggart, who had started to struggle and to swear a blue streak.
“You’re all witnesses! I didn’t do nothing! Police brutality!” Blood ran from Taggart’s nostrils, coloring his teeth.
“Hey!” The bartender had stepped back behind the bar from wherever he’d been. “Is that necessary?”
Tracy managed to get Taggart’s left arm behind his back and finished cuffing him. She removed the knife from his belt and handed it to one of the patrol officers who’d joined them, then patted down Taggart for any other weapons.
Finding none, she said, “Get up.”
She yanked Taggart from the seat, but he continued to resist and his foot slipped on the blood and spilled beer. Before Tracy and Kins could right him, Taggart fell, smacking the back of his head hard against the tile floor.
“There’s no need for that,” the bartender said.
“I want a lawyer,” Taggart yelled from the ground. “You’re all witnesses. Police brutality!”
The crowd had become interested, never a good thing, and was rapidly becoming animated, voicing its disapproval and hurling profanities. Sensing a bad situation about to get worse, Tracy and Kins lifted Taggart and slid him out the back door, kicking and screaming, to the waiting patrol car.
CHAPTER 25
They decided to let Taggart cool down in a cell at King County Jail. The way he’d continued to carry on in the back of the patrol car and throughout booking, Tracy figured that could take a week. It took much less time for word about the confrontation in the bar to spread through the Violent Crimes Section. Billy called to give her a heads-up that Nolasco wanted to see her in his office and that he didn’t sound happy. Tracy had little hope she was going to get any sympathy from the man who’d once grabbed her breast to demonstrate a pat-down to a room full of recruits. Kins accompanied her, though he hadn’t actually seen Taggart grab Tracy because Taggart had rotated his stool. He’d only witnessed her response.
The venetian blinds were down, but Nolasco’s office door was open. He sat talking on the phone. When he looked up at them, his face was crimson and his jaw clenched. He pointed emphatically to the two chairs. Tracy and Kins sat.
“Yes, sir. I understand. Yes, I will,” Nolasco said before replacing the receiver. He took a moment to run a hand over his face, then spoke with his eyes shut. “Please tell me you did not just break a man’s nose in front of a bar full of witnesses.”
“A suspect,” Tracy said.
Nolasco lowered his hands. “What?”
“I broke a suspect’s nose in front of a bar full of witnesses.”
“Are you freaking kidding me, Crosswhite? The guy is screaming he’s going to sue everyone.”
“We know. We were there.”
“Yeah, well, did you know we’ve got five calls already and not one of them is going to bat for you? They say you slammed his face into the bar, then cut out his legs and let his head hit the floor.”
“That’s not what happened, Captain,” Kins said. “The guy grabbed her.”
“I want to hear it from her, Sparrow. You’ll get your chance to fill out a report. And, trust me, you will be filling out a report, because I guaran-fucking-tee you OPA is going to be crawling up my ass on this. In fact, get out of here.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” Kins said, “but I believe I can corroborate—”
“That’s my problem, Sparrow. I don’t want you corroborating shit. If there is an inquiry, they’ll claim you just parroted whatever she says here. So get the hell out of here and fill out a report.”
Kins stood, gave Tracy a look, and started out of the room.
“And shut the door,” Nolasco said. When the door closed, he said, “Do you know who that was on the phone?”
“No, Captain.”
“That was Martinez. He called to let me know that with the Justice Department’s report still hanging over our heads, this is just about the worst possible time to have something like this happen. What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Tell him Taggart resisted arrest.”
“Who’s Taggart?”
“Veronica Watson’s boyfriend. His employer called and gave us a lead that Taggart drinks at a bar in Pioneer Square. We ran him and found out he has an outstanding warrant and violated his parole when he quit his job. I asked him three times to place his hands on the bar. I told him I intended to leave the bar with him and that he could either walk out in handcuffs or be dragged out. He put his hands on the bar.”
“So he complied.”
“No.”
“You just said he put his hands on the bar.”
“He did, and I got the cuff on his right wrist. Then he rotated the stool and grabbed me.”
“Grabbed you where?”
“My crotch.”
“Did he have a weapon?”
“A knife.”
“In his hand?”
“No.”
“Do you have any physical injuries?”
“No, Captain.”
“And nobody saw it.”
“You’ll have to ask them.”
“The bartender said he saw you slam the guy’s face into the bar.”
“The bartender walked over after Taggart grabbed me.”
“So you did slam his face against the bar.”
“I applied an armlock to immobilize him.”
“How’d his head hit the floor?”
“When we pulled him from the barstool, his boots slipped.”
“And no one was in a position to catch him?”
“Apparently not.”
Nolasco ran a hand through his hair. “With everything going on, you couldn’t find the ability to control your temper?”
“My temper had nothing to do with it. He provoked the confrontation. He had a knife on his belt, and he told me he had a gun down the front of his pants.”
Nolasco leaned forward. “Did he?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“No, Captain.”
Nolasco stared at her. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything, Captain.”
“You’re thinking I’m not going to go to bat for you.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“Well, I’m not going to make it that easy on you.”
“Sir?”
“You wanted to be the lead on the Cowboy Task Force. You’re not getting off.”
“I didn’t ask off.”
“Because when you screw that up, you’re not going to be able to blame me and say I had it out for you because of what happened twenty years ago.”
So that was it. That was why Nolasco had backed her as the lead detective, why he’d given them a bare-bones task force. He wanted her to fail. He wanted every Cowboy murder to be another mark on her record. “Are we done?” Tracy asked.
“I’ll let OPA know where they can find you.”
As Tracy passed through the bull pen, she noticed a brown Bekins box on her desk, which momentarily puzzled her until she saw the name below the case number—“Beth Stinson.” She picked it up, took the stairs to the garage, and dropped the box in her truck cab. Then she returned to the Bundy Room.
Kins was on his desk phone but en
ded the conversation when she entered. “I’ll call you back,” he said. “Yes, I’ll talk to him when I get home. I don’t know. Hopefully not too late.”
“Everything all right?” Tracy asked when Kins disconnected. She could tell from the tone of his voice that he’d been talking with Shannah.
“What?”
“At home. Everything okay?”
“Eric’s flunking algebra.”
“I thought he was good at math.”
“He is. We don’t know what it is. We think maybe he’s got a girlfriend. What happened with Nolasco?”
She set her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk. “He chewed my ass and said I was on thin ice. Can you get him a tutor?”
“That’s what we were debating, but tutors aren’t cheap. Are you going to call the Guild?”
“I don’t know.”
“If there’s going to be an investigation, you should be represented.”
“We have computers yet?” She played with the mouse, and a generic screensaver of flying windows appeared on her monitor.
“Tracy?”
Maybe it was misguided pride, but Tracy didn’t want to tell Kins she’d been appointed the task force lead only because Nolasco wanted her to fail and derail her career. She wanted Kins, and everyone else, to believe it was because she’d earned it. “Nolasco says he’s going to back me.”
Kins thrust his hands into his pants pockets, studying her. “He said that?”
“That’s what he said.” She shrugged. “Surprised me too.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Yeah, he asked when we were going to catch this asshole.”
CHAPTER 26
A light drizzle splattered the truck’s windshield as Tracy left the parking garage just after seven. She’d decided to get home at a decent hour, anxious to review the Beth Stinson files in private. As she crossed the West Seattle Bridge, the drizzle became a steady rain and the wind churned the waters of Elliott Bay. Gusts caused her truck to shudder. By the time she took the off-ramp onto Admiral Way, the rain had become a downpour that her wiper blades struggled to clear.
She gave a wave to the officer in the patrol car parked in front of her home and drove into her garage. When the door rolled shut, Tracy retrieved the cardboard box containing Beth Stinson’s files. Juggling it on a knee, she freed a hand to unlock and open the door to the house, and stepped through. She immediately sensed someone inside. She heard approaching footsteps, dropped the box, drew her Glock, and took aim.
“Surpri—!” Dan swallowed the end of the word, and dropped the glasses of wine he’d been holding. They shattered on impact, red wine spraying.
Tracy lowered the gun. Her heart was jackhammering, and the backs of her knees felt weak.
Dan’s face had drained of color, and he looked to be having trouble catching his breath. “Surprise,” he said, though it came out an almost unintelligible croak.
Tracy fell back against the wall. “What are you doing here?”
“My arbitration settled, so I came over early to make you dinner. I thought I’d surprise you. I guess I succeeded.”
She felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Kind of spoils the surprise.”
“Where’s your car?”
“I parked across the street. I didn’t want to block the driveway and, again, it kind of spoils the surprise if I park in the driveway.”
Tracy shut her eyes, still feeling light-headed from the rush of adrenaline.
Dan touched her shoulder. “Hey, are you all right? I’m the one who should be—”
She fell into him, burying her face in his chest, fighting back tears of anger and frustration and fatigue.
Dan wrapped his arms around her. “Hey. Hey, take it easy. I’m fine.”
She pulled back, took a breath, and composed herself. “I’m sorry, Dan.”
“Don’t be sorry; I should have thought this through better, with everything you have going on. I should have called.”
“No. No, it was a nice gesture. I’m just on edge, and I’m tired and . . .” She wiped her cheeks. “It’s fine, really. I’m glad to see you.” She forced a smile and looked around the room. “Where are the boys?”
“I came straight from the arbitration. My neighbor said he’d look in on them to make sure they don’t tear the furniture apart. “You sure you’re okay?” he said.
“It’s been a rough few days. That’s all.” She stepped into the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel, and blew her nose. She’d spent twenty years burying her emotions. It had been easier than acknowledging that her entire family was gone, easier than acknowledging that, despite all her efforts to find justice for Sarah, she remained a long way from finding closure.
“Are you hungry?” Dan asked.
“Actually,” she said, stepping close and wrapping her arms around him, “I’m in the mood to be pitied.”
Unable to sleep, Tracy slid from bed without waking Dan. She retrieved the box containing Beth Stinson’s files from where she’d dropped it in the hallway, and set it on the dining room table. She didn’t immediately open it. She traced her finger through a layer of dust on the lid and thought of the moment when she’d pulled the box containing the files she’d compiled on Sarah’s murder from the closet in her bedroom.
Years earlier she’d conceded that the investigation had hit a dead end, and stored the files, determined to move on with her life. She recalled how hopeless she’d felt, and how profound her sense of loss. She never expected to open the box again. Then two hunters had stumbled across human remains in the hills above Cedar Grove, and Tracy’s hope had flared. When the medical examiner identified the remains as Sarah’s, Tracy got the box back out and renewed her investigation.
She knew if she lifted the lid on Beth Stinson’s box, there might be no going back, and she doubted Stinson’s family, who believed their daughter’s killer had been brought to justice, would want to go through those horrible days again.
Still, she set the lid aside, pulled out one of the files, and started reading.
An hour into the task, she heard Dan come up behind her. He draped himself around her, nuzzling his chin into the side of her neck. “Didn’t hear you get up.” He sounded tired, his voice hoarse.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
He yawned, sat in the chair beside her, and looked at the files spread across the table. “So what’s all this?”
“An old file. It came up when I was searching for cases similar to Nicole Hansen’s.”
“Similar how?”
“You don’t want to hear this now. You should go back to bed. You can sleep in.”
“I’m awake.”
“Then let me make some tea.”
Back at the table, Tracy grasped her mug of tea and explained what she’d learned about Beth Stinson and Wayne Gerhardt. “Gerhardt made a service call the prior afternoon to Stinson’s home in North Seattle. Otherwise, he had no connection to her, at least not one I can tell from the file.”
“And the theory is he came back that night and killed her,” Dan said.
“They had a witness—JoAnne Anderson, a neighbor across the street—who said she saw a man fitting Gerhardt’s description leaving Stinson’s home early in the morning.”
“But . . .”
“It was still dark, and in her statement she said she couldn’t be certain she’d even put on her glasses.”
“You think she made it up?”
She heard the doubt in Dan’s tone. “No. But she told the officers she got up to get a drink of water and was standing at the sink when she saw the man out the window and across the street. She was sixty-two, nearsighted, and may not have been wearing her glasses.”
“Then how’d she ID him?”
“According to the file, she picked him out of a police montage, then picked him out of a lineup.” Tracy handed Dan a typed witness statement. “Stinson’s credit card records had revealed the ser
vice call by Roto-Rooter, and they matched Gerhardt’s fingerprints to those found in Stinson’s bathroom and on the kitchen counter.”
“Gerhardt had no alibi?”
“He lived alone. He said he was sleeping.”
“So what’s the connection to the guy killing the dancers?”
Tracy handed Dan a couple of crime scene photographs. He considered them briefly and set them aside. “No wonder you can’t sleep.”
Tracy adjusted in her chair. “It’s not just the fact that Stinson was tied up. Look at the room.”
Dan reconsidered the photos. “It’s neat. No sign of a struggle.”
“Look at Stinson’s bed.”
“It’s made.”
“The beds in the motel rooms were still made, with the victims’ clothes neatly folded and placed on a corner. Stinson was killed early in the morning. Why would her bed be made?”
“What about DNA?”
“This is where it gets interesting; they obtained DNA from Stinson’s clothing and beneath her fingernails, but it was never tested.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the prosecutor didn’t see the need. They had an eyewitness. Fingerprints. Gerhardt had been at the home that afternoon. He had no alibi. We’re a lot more adept with DNA now than we were back then.”
“What about the defense attorney? Why didn’t he ask to have it tested?”
“Again, don’t know. He was court-appointed. He must have convinced Gerhardt to plead after JoAnne Anderson testified. That was the end of the trial.”
“So the prosecution decides they have enough evidence to convict,” Dan said, “and testing might only raise reasonable doubt if the DNA comes back as not being Gerhardt.”
“That’s my thinking.”
“And the defense attorney is lazy, stupid, or both, and he convinces Gerhardt to take the deal.”
“Maybe not so stupid. Gerhardt was facing the death penalty or life. He got twenty-five years. He’ll be early fifties when he gets out.”
“But if he was innocent, why not at least get the DNA tested?”
Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) Page 13
