The young girl stared as if Vanpelt were speaking a foreign language.
“They don’t have table service,” Nolasco said.
“Just bring me a cup of coffee,” Vanpelt said to the girl. “There’s a tip in it for you.”
The girl went to work. Vanpelt gave Nolasco her everything-has-a-price smile. “So what’s so important it couldn’t wait until the morning?”
“I may have a big story for you.”
“I already have a big story. The Cowboy is getting me the nightly lead, and I’m going live tomorrow with Anderson Cooper about Seattle being a killing ground. Nancy Grace may want me early next week.”
“Good for you.” Nolasco slowly adjusted his position in his seat, put his forearms on the table, and leaned over his cup. “Tracy Crosswhite’s at it again,” he said.
The barista approached. Nolasco sat back to clear room. Vanpelt said, “I don’t have any cash on me.” Nolasco reached into his front pocket, flipped through some bills, and handed the girl a five. “Keep the change,” Vanpelt said. She sipped her coffee and set the cup down. “So what is it?”
“What if I told you I have information Crosswhite is working to free another convicted murderer—another man who killed a young woman?”
Vanpelt had lifted her cup but set it down without drinking. “How good is your information?”
“Infallible. All you’d need to do is make a few phone calls.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. “Start with this one. It’s the number for the State Archives.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Tell them you’d like to review a file. I wrote the case number below the telephone number.”
“They’re not going to give me the file without a FOIA request.”
“They’re not going to give you the file because it isn’t there. Ask who last checked it out and when.”
“What’s in the file?”
Nolasco sat back. “This is when you might want to get out a notepad and pen.”
Vanpelt slowly reached into her purse and retrieved a pen, but she didn’t take out a pad. Instead she flipped over a napkin.
“Nine years ago Beth Stinson was a single woman living alone in North Seattle,” Nolasco said. “Wayne Gerhardt, a Roto-Rooter man, comes to the house to unclog her drain. He comes back later that night and murders her. An eyewitness saw Gerhardt leaving Stinson’s house early in the morning. His prints and DNA were all over the crime scene. He had no alibi, and he pled to the killing and received a twenty-five-year sentence.”
“So what’s Crosswhite’s interest in it?”
“That’s your job.”
“Why isn’t it your job?”
“Because she’s keeping it from me, which means she doesn’t want me to know what she’s doing and isn’t likely to give me a straight answer. I can tell you, however, that she’s working with the same attorney who represented Edmund House. He’s already spoken to the eyewitness and visited Gerhardt in Walla Walla.
“Dan O’Leary,” Vanpelt said, smiling, clearly remembering him. She scribbled another note, then stopped, sat back, and studied Nolasco with a hint of a smile. “You’re worried about this.”
“‘Pissed’ is a better word.”
Vanpelt’s grin widened. She looked positively gleeful. “It was your case.” When Nolasco didn’t answer she said, “What could Crosswhite hope to get out of it?”
“I think it’s her way to try and embarrass me, to get back at me for whatever perceived injustice she thinks I’ve caused her.”
“Embarrass you?” Her eyebrows arched. “You said you had an eyewitness, DNA, a confession. How could she embarrass you?” She paused. “Could this guy be innocent?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“I told you, I’m not worried. I’m pissed.”
“You sound worried.”
“Look, I’m throwing you another bone. You don’t want it, I’ll make another call.”
“To whom?”
“Don’t you think it would make for interesting television drama?”
Vanpelt smirked. “I don’t know, Johnny. If Crosswhite gets booted from the force, I lose my best stories.”
“You don’t need Crosswhite to make your career for you. I can do that.”
“How?”
“There’s something else I’m working on,” Nolasco said. “Something bigger, but you can’t move on it, not yet.” If Tracy Crosswhite was determined to embarrass him, Nolasco would be more than happy to reciprocate.
“What is it?” Vanpelt asked.
“One of the prime suspects in the Cowboy case failed a polygraph.”
“Which one?”
“Like I said, you can’t move on it just yet.”
Tracy pulled to the curb and gazed up at a house typical of the houses in the Central District. Two stories with a narrow front porch, it sat perched above the sidewalk with a sloping front yard. Tracy ascended wooden steps to the porch and knocked on a red door. A moment later she was staring down at the cherubic face of a young boy in blue pajamas spotted with red basketballs. Tracy guessed he was seven or eight.
“Hello,” he said. “Scott residence, may I help you?”
That got a smile. “Yes, you may. Is your mother home?”
Tracy almost didn’t recognize the woman who appeared at the door, but she recognized the voice. “What are you doing out of bed, young man? And what have I told you about opening the door to strangers?”
“It’s a lady.”
“Do you know her?” Shereece asked, hands on hips. “Hmm? Do you know her?”
The boy shook his head.
“Then she’s a stranger.”
The boy displayed a mischievous grin, and a gap where his two front teeth would have been. Tracy had no doubt he was a handful.
“Were you expecting company?” Shereece asked.
He shook his head again.
“Then get on back up those stairs to bed.”
“Good-bye, stranger lady.” The boy dipped beneath his mother’s arm and scurried up carpeted steps.
Shereece couldn’t suppress a smile. “Come on in.” Long curls framed her face and softened her appearance. So did a tight-fitting long-sleeve white shirt and black leggings.
“I’ll bet he gives you a run for your money,” Tracy said.
“That one’s my ticket to heaven,” Shereece said. “If I can keep him out of trouble, I might make sainthood.”
An older woman bearing a strong resemblance to Shereece walked from the back of the house to the edge of the staircase and rested a hand on the banister.
“Hello,” Tracy said.
“You’re that detective who’s been on the television.”
“Yes.”
“When are you going to catch this man?”
“Hopefully soon. We’re working hard on it.”
The woman gave Tracy a disbelieving look. “I heard that on the television a few days ago.”
“TJ’s out of bed, Mama,” Shereece said. “Can you handle it?”
Dressed in blue jeans and a pullover hooded sweatshirt, Shereece’s mother didn’t look much older than Tracy. “Can I handle it? Yes, I think I can handle it.” She started up the stairs, stopped, and peered down at Tracy. “Nice to have met you.”
“Nice to have met you,” Tracy said.
Shereece waited until her mother had reached the top of the stairs and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. “Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem.”
“Come in and sit down.”
The front room was tastefully furnished with comfortable-looking furniture on a dark hardwood floor partially covered by a throw rug. Framed family pictures lined the mantel over a tile fireplace. Tracy lowered slowly into a cloth armchair.
“What happened to you?” Shereece asked.
“Just some aches and pains. Your mother lives with you?”
Shereece sat down across
from her on a red leather couch and folded one bare foot beneath her. “We built out the basement after we lost my dad. My husband works some nights so we needed Mama to watch the kids.”
“You’re lucky to have her,” Tracy said, wishing her own mother was still alive.
“It gets a little crowded at times,” Shereece said, glancing up the stairs. “And she does forget I’m a grown woman. Sometimes I wonder how my husband and I managed to have three kids.”
Tracy smiled. Then she said, “You’re not working tonight.”
“I called in sick. I’m thinking about calling in sick permanently. The money is great, but not enough to die for. We’ve talked about me going back to school when my husband got settled in his job, but maybe now would be a good time.” Shereece sat forward. “But that’s not what I called to talk to you about. I called because Mr. Attorney was in last night. He’s the guy I was telling you about, the one who likes the girls with big boobs. He liked Veronica, a lot.”
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well, last night I saw him paying attention to Gabby.”
Tracy sat forward. “What kind of attention?”
“You know what kind of attention. I was onstage, and I saw him reach out and touch Gabby’s wrist as she walked past his table. Girl looked shocked. He whispered something in her ear, and Gabby was smiling and nodding. Then she took him into the back room. So now I’m thinking, what is he doing with that skinny girl?”
“Did you see them come back out?”
“I made a point of it. Gabby was still grinning from ear to ear. Backstage I asked her what that was all about, and she said he gave her a fifty-dollar tip for a lap dance. Fifty. She was so happy about it I didn’t have the heart to say anything like, ‘Why’d he pick you?’ You know? Now I wish I had.”
“How long did he stay?”
Shereece looked to be on the verge of tears. “Finished his drink and left. Maybe another ten minutes.”
“What time was that?”
“Right around eleven thirty, quarter to twelve.”
“Did Gabby leave about the same time?”
“No. She finished her shift.” Shereece raised a hand. “Stop asking me questions and let me tell you what I called to tell you. When I saw him getting ready to leave, I took a break and went out to have a smoke. I was watching for him, you know, but off to the side. He had his car keys in his hand and I was just about to follow him when a car parked right out front chirped. A BMW. Nice car.”
Tracy felt her pulse quicken as she thought of the dark-colored sedan in the video that had followed Walter Gipson and Angela Schreiber from the Pink Palace parking lot. “What color?”
“Blue. Dark blue.”
“Did you get the license plate number?”
Shereece smiled. “Not a number. One of those vanity plates. Defense for you. Spelled D-F-E-N-C-E, the number four, then the letter U.”
CHAPTER 41
Tracy looked up from her iPad as Kins jogged out his front door carrying his leather car coat. He pulled open the passenger door and slid into the truck cab. “You have someone run the plate?”
Tracy handed him her iPad and started driving through the narrow streets. She’d pulled up the law firm website. “Believe it or not, it turns out ‘Mr. Attorney’ is indeed an attorney.”
“I figured as much,” Kins said, scrolling through the site. “Only a lawyer would have the balls to have that license plate.”
“His bio indicates he was a public defender before opening his own practice. I don’t recall the name, do you?”
“Not ringing any bells.” Kins set down the iPad. “Where does he live?”
“Washington Park.”
He whistled. “He must have done all right in private practice.”
Tracy wound her way through the Arboretum and crossed Madison. Past the exclusive Bush School, the road twisted and they turned left as they neared the lake. Ancient oaks and maples spread their limbs across large lots with lush lawns and manicured gardens. The absence of streetlights and, in some instances, large hedges surrounding the properties, made it difficult to find addresses.
“Slow down,” Kins said, peering out the passenger side window. “I hope nobody ever has a heart attack around here. They’d be dead before anyone found the place.” When the GPS announced that they had arrived at the address registered with the license plate, Kins looked down a driveway between two stone pillars. “I don’t know. I don’t see an address, but GPS says this is it.”
Tracy turned between the pillars and drove forward, past a manicured lawn with its own impressive oak. She stopped before three dark wood garage doors illuminated by lamps. A covered walk connected the garage to an English Tudor with a rock façade, a steeply pitched roof, cross gables, and narrow windows of leaded glass emitting fractured light. The house reminded Tracy of her childhood home in Cedar Grove.
Stepping from the truck, they walked a path to an arched door. “You’d think a house this expensive they could afford to put the address someplace, wouldn’t you?” Kins said, still whining.
“You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?” Tracy said.
“It’s my OCD.”
The porch light hanging over their heads turned on before Tracy could knock. The door pulled open. “May I help you?”
The man fit Shereece’s description, tall with broad features on a wide face and Mick Jagger lips. Tracy and Kins flashed their shields. “Are you James Tomey?” Tracy asked.
“What’s this about?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Tomey wore khakis, slippers, and a black cardigan sweater, but he didn’t look comfortable. He looked on edge. “It’s rather late to be making house calls, Detectives. What is the nature of your questions? Do they relate to one of my clients? If so, I’ll have to invoke the attorney-client privilege.”
Tracy didn’t like the guy’s condescending attitude. She also detected a false bravado. “We know how late it is, Mr. Tomey, and we’d like nothing better than to also be at home. So do you want us to ask you questions out here on your porch, or is there someplace private we can speak? If not, I can find a quiet place for us.”
Tomey peered at her through round, tortoiseshell glasses. After a moment, he sighed in resignation and stepped back from the door. They entered a wood-paneled foyer, where a woman stood leaning against a doorframe. “These are Seattle detectives,” Tomey said. “They’d like to ask me a few questions about one of my clients. I’m going to use the study.”
“It’s awfully late,” the woman said.
“We won’t be long,” Tomey said.
Tomey led Tracy and Kins through an expensively adorned front room into an equally impressive den with an ornate desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the books lined up flush with the edges of the shelves. Tomey slid the doors shut and offered them seats. The furniture was masculine leather, and the lighting subtle, provided by recessed bulbs in the bookcase and a Tiffany desk lamp with a green shade. Tracy detected the lingering odor of an expensive cigar. The leather chair behind the desk creaked when Tomey lowered into it. “So, what is this about?”
“Gabrielle Lizotte,” Tracy said.
“I’m afraid I don’t know that name.” Tomey pushed a mane of blond hair back off his forehead, still doing his best to look relaxed.
“You may have known her as French Fire,” Tracy said, continuing to watch Tomey intently.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Tomey said.
Tracy wasn’t in the mood. “Mr. Tomey, do you drive a blue BMW, license plate DFENCE4U?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And that blue BMW was parked on First Avenue last night around eleven o’clock.”
“Is that a question, Detective?”
“No. It’s a fact.”
“Do you have a question?”
“Did you go to the Pink Palace with anyone, or were you alone?”
Tomey took a moment to clear his throat. “I went alone. I
t’s not far from my office. It also isn’t illegal.”
“Did you ask for and receive a lap dance from a redheaded dancer known as French Fire?”
Tomey maintained a poker face. “I recall a lap dance. I don’t recall the name of the dancer.”
“Red hair. Petite figure. Ring any bells yet?”
“Yes, it does.”
Tracy put a photograph of Gabrielle Lizotte on Tomey’s desk. “She approached your table. You reached out and touched her wrist, whispered in her ear, and she led you to the room at the back of the club.”
“That’s usually how the negotiations are conducted, Detective. And as I said, they are not illegal.”
“So tell me about that negotiation.”
Tomey again cleared his throat. He sat parallel to the desk, legs crossed, looking at Tracy and Kins over his left shoulder, like a man about to tell a casual story. “I offered thirty-five dollars. She accepted my offer.”
“You must have found her services satisfactory. You paid her an additional fifty dollars. That’s what, like a hundred and fifty percent tip.”
“Again, is there a question, Detective?”
“Were you expecting anything more in return for such a large tip?”
“I resent the insinuation.”
“Do you read the newspaper, Mr. Tomey?”
“I’m partial to the New York Times and the Washington Post.”
“Then let me fill you in on local news. Gabrielle Lizotte was found murdered in a motel room on Aurora early this morning. Did that make the Times or Post?”
Tomey faced them. His eyes lowered to a spot on the desk. His voice softened. “I was aware another dancer had been murdered. You pay attention to those things in my line of work. I don’t believe the paper issued the victim’s name or identity.”
“So you’re hearing this for the first time?” Tracy asked.
“The identity of the woman? Yes.”
“How about Veronica Watson, did you know her? She danced under the name Velvet.”
“Yes.”
“You favored her, didn’t you?”
“Favored?”
“You favor large-breasted dancers, do you not?”
Tomey’s brow furrowed. “Are you questioning me as a witness or a suspect, Detective?”
Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) Page 22
