Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  “Your wife won’t be able to vouch that you came home?” Tracy said.

  Tomey sat back. “My wife is an alcoholic. By the time I get home, she’s usually mean or passed out. She’d have no recollection of specific nights when I came home, or even if I came home. I frequently sleep in the guest room, and I’m often out of the house before she gets out of bed.”

  “Why does she drink?” Tracy asked.

  “Irrelevant,” Bustamante said. “Don’t answer that.”

  “Maybe she drinks because her husband is out sleeping with prostitutes,” Tracy said, trying to get under Tomey’s skin and find out how easily he angered.

  “Don’t answer that either.” Bustamante gave Tracy his best death stare.

  Tomey looked more tired than upset. “I need to check my calendar. We have season tickets to the Fifth Avenue Theatre and to the symphony. It also could have been one of those rare nights when my wife was relatively sober and we all went out to dinner. It would be on my credit card. I’m also active with my children’s sports teams. I could have left work to coach one of them.”

  “We’re willing to voluntarily turn over James’s calendars,” Bustamante said.

  “We want permission to search his home as well as his office and car,” Cerrabone said. “And we’re going to need a DNA sample. We’ve prepared search warrants, but it would expedite things if your client cooperated.”

  “So long as the search of the home can be done when his children are in school and the office search is completed after hours, and only after I’ve ensured protected attorney-client information is not compromised. We have several active files against your office, Rick.”

  “I can live with that,” Cerrabone said.

  “And my client’s name stays out of the newspaper,” Bustamante said. “If you decide you’re going to charge him, you call and give me twenty-four hours’ notice for him to turn himself in. No big show with police descending on his home.”

  “I can assure you I’m not looking for any more press coverage,” Tracy said.

  CHAPTER 43

  He closed the door, crossed quietly to the desk, and unlocked the drawer, removing the videocassette. He’d dismantled the VCR and disposed of the various pieces in Dumpsters around the city. He’d also monitored the news reports for the fourth dancer, but there had been no mention of the VCR, which didn’t surprise him. It was the kind of detail the police didn’t like to divulge, a piece of evidence they could use to interrogate their suspects. It was why they’d been so upset when the reporter leaked the type of rope he’d used for Nicole Hansen.

  He turned on the television, which had DVD and video players built in, and carefully slid the cassette into the slot. His palms were slick and his stomach queasy. The cassette didn’t look damaged, but he had no way to know for sure until he played it.

  He stepped back, remote in hand, and sat in the armchair, watching. The screen went black, then filled with static. He could hear the cassette spinning, but nothing seemed to be happening. The screen flickered and went black again. Then it flashed a burst of static. His stomach gripped.

  The cartoon started. Scooby-Doo.

  He smiled as the familiar comforting feeling warmed his groin and radiated throughout his body.

  The door to the room opened behind him, and he heard them stumble in. He didn’t have to turn around to know she wasn’t alone. She was never alone. She always brought someone home with her. He could hear them talking in hushed voices, and he smelled the sickening odor of cigarettes and sweat, perfume, and alcohol.

  He sat on the floor, legs crossed, concentrating on the television.

  “Shit, you didn’t tell me you got a kid,” the man said.

  “Don’t worry about him. He doesn’t pay attention to anything but his cartoons.” She rubbed his head as she walked past. “He’s a good boy. He keeps the apartment clean for me. Don’t you, baby?”

  He shifted and lowered his head so he wouldn’t have to feel her touching him. The man walked over and stood in front of him. Beefy legs in gray slacks blocked his view of the television. He slowly raised his gaze. The man’s vest was unbuttoned and his shirt stretched tight. Hairs poked through the gaps between the buttons. His stomach protruded over a belt buckle. Folds of skin fell over the collar of his shirt, and he was bald.

  He looked like Porky Pig.

  “What, what, what are you making?” the man asked.

  He even stuttered like Porky Pig.

  “He ties knots,” the woman said from the small kitchen. “He’s obsessed with them. Sits there and ties them all day unless I make him do something. Knots and cartoons.”

  “Is he retarded?”

  He stared at the man’s face and continued to tie the knot.

  “Why are, are, are you looking at me like that, boy? Why, why is he looking at me like that?”

  “You’re blocking his view.”

  The man turned and, off balance, stumbled, nearly falling. “I don’t like him look, looking at me like that.”

  “Stop looking at him,” she said, then to the man, “Come on. Let’s have that drink.”

  The man pointed a finger at him. “Don’t look at me, boy.”

  On the television, Foghorn Leghorn, the overgrown rooster, was doing battle with the chicken hawk, getting smashed over the head with a mallet, tied up, and roasted over a fire.

  He had to turn up the volume to cover the moans and grunts coming from the other room. The bedsprings creaked and snapped. Their noises grew louder.

  Sylvester the Cat had hatched another plan to get to Tweety. He was trying to cross the water to get to the bird’s cage, but he wouldn’t make it. A big wave would pick up his raft and smash him face-first into the rocks. That was the funniest part of the cartoon, seeing the cat smashed against the rocks.

  Their breathing slowed. The bed had gone silent.

  He reached under the sofa and pulled out the noose he’d been tying; he’d learned from a book. He held it up, admiring it. He liked it the best, liked the way the rope slid through the knot, making the noose shrink and grow.

  He turned and looked to the bedroom but heard no further sounds.

  He walked to the door, peering in. The fat man had collapsed on top of her.

  He stepped in quietly to her side of the bed and gently touched her shoulder. “Mom?” He touched it again. “Mom?”

  She didn’t respond. The man did not move.

  He slid a loop around her wrist and secured the rope to the bedpost using a simple figure-eight knot. He did the same with her other wrist, tying it to the post on the other side of the bed. His mother’s breathing remained deep and rhythmic.

  The fat man snored, twitched and coughed, and rolled off her, but he did not awake.

  Carefully, he slid the noose over her head and slowly cinched the knot until it was close to her chin. He weaved the other end of rope under the bottom rail of the headboard, then up and over the top rail, watching it slither between the boards like a snake. He left the room and returned with one of the kitchen chairs, positioning it close to the bed. Standing on the seat, he held the length of rope over his shoulder and looked back out the open door to the television. The cartoon was ending. The stupid cat had failed again. He always failed.

  The music played. He waited, wanting to time it.

  Porky Pig popped onto the screen.

  He said the words with him. “Ba-dee, ba-dee, ba-dee . . . That’s all, folks.”

  He jumped.

  “Daddy?”

  He looked up from the television. His daughter stood in the doorway, holding the doorknob, her pink nightgown dragging on the floor.

  “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I had a bad dream.”

  He held out his arms, and she walked into them. He lifted her, cradling her to his chest, and sat back. She curled into him, sucking her thumb, her other hand twirling a lock of hair as she watched the cartoons. “They’re funny, Daddy.”

  He smiled. “T
hey’re my friends,” he said.

  CHAPTER 44

  James Tomey had voluntarily provided a DNA swab and hair samples, but he’d declined to take a polygraph before departing the Justice Center with Bustamante.

  The following morning, Tracy and Kins were awaiting a telephone call from Cerrabone, who was talking to his boss about bringing a motion in King County Superior Court for post-conviction DNA analysis in the Beth Stinson case. If Dunleavy provided his consent and the judge granted the motion, Tracy would drive to the evidence warehouse and pick up the DNA evidence from the investigation, assuming it was still there. SPD had a policy of keeping homicide evidence for eighty years, unless the detectives had a reason to approve of its earlier disposal, such as if the person convicted died in prison. Tracy doubted Nolasco or Hattie, long retired, had given Beth Stinson a second thought.

  She looked at the bottom right corner of her computer screen. The second the clock showed 8:00, she picked up the phone and called the Evidence Unit, provided the sergeant at the desk with the case number, and listened to his fingers striking keys. The sergeant sighed and cleared his throat. Then he said, “Still here.”

  Tracy started to ask if the biological evidence was also still there when the sergeant interrupted. “You’re the second person to call in two days. Something going on in that case, Detective?”

  Tracy felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. Recovering, she said, “Sorry. You know how these things go; they heat up when they come up for parole and appeal. Was it my partner, Kinsington Rowe, who called? Sometimes we don’t know if one hand is washing the other.”

  Fingers again pecked the keyboard. “Nope, wasn’t him. It was your captain, Johnny Nolasco, Violent Crimes. Called late yesterday, just before we closed.”

  She kept her voice even. “Sorry to double up your work. Has Captain Nolasco picked up the evidence?”

  “Not yet. Just asked if it was still here.”

  “I’m close. I’ll stop by and take care of it.”

  “I’m here all day.”

  Tracy hung up and quickly slipped on her corduroy jacket, which caught Kins’s attention. “Where’re you going? We have Taggart’s polygraph this morning.”

  For six years they’d worked together under a “total honesty” policy, and she was breaching it. Kins would not be happy she’d kept the information from him, but Nolasco calling to ask about the evidence only confirmed she was doing the right thing. It was possible Nolasco had somehow put together the similarities between the current Cowboy killings and Beth Stinson, but even if he had, it didn’t explain why he’d called the Evidence Unit. The only reason for him to do that would be if he was concerned, and the only reason she could think of for why Nolasco would be concerned was that he’d somehow learned Tracy or Dan was looking into the investigation. Now more than ever, she needed to protect Kins and his family from any potential fallout.

  “Can you handle it?” Tracy said. “That was Cerrabone. I need to coordinate CSI’s inspection of Tomey’s house, and we have a short window. Why don’t you meet me there after Taggart takes his test.”

  Half an hour later, Tracy hurried from the warehouse to her truck, box in hand. She checked South Stacy Street in both directions, expecting to see Nolasco’s red Corvette speeding down the block, but the street was clear. She slid into the cab of her truck, set the box on the seat, and pulled quickly from the parking lot.

  Her cell rang. She put the caller on speaker.

  “The judge signed the order,” Cerrabone said. “You can pick up the evidence and bring it to Melton.”

  “I’m on my way,” she said.

  CHAPTER 45

  Dan pulled to the curb, looked out the window at a dilapidated A-frame house on a plum-tree-lined street in the city of Everett, and double-checked the address. He’d spent the morning going through the Secretary of State records online. Dirty Ernie’s business license had lapsed after a year. The registered agent was an A. Gotchley, but the address provided was no longer correct and the listed phone number had been disconnected. Dan ran further searches for other businesses registered to the same person, and the computer spit out dozens of UBI numbers—for development companies, construction companies, two bars, a pawnshop, a real estate company, a door- and window-repair company. The most recent was a limited liability company called A-Frame Restorations, with an address in Everett, thirty miles north of Seattle.

  If the condition of the property were any indication, A. Gotchley had made some poor investments. It looked like a crack house, the wood siding unpainted, the front porch slanted, the concrete front walk crumbling, and the brown lawn overrun by dandelions.

  Dan stepped from his Tahoe and walked around the hood to the sidewalk. He noticed a “For Sale” sign staked in front of the house to the immediate left. He noticed two additional signs in front of the two houses further down the block, but those two said “Sold.” The three homes were remarkably similar to each other and to the crack house. In fact, all four were identical in terms of their architecture. Maybe A. Gotchley hadn’t made bad investments after all.

  Dan felt the wooden steps sag under his weight. The porch boards also felt soft, like a plank could give way at any moment. He stepped lightly and knocked on the front door, which had been stripped and sanded to the bare wood. A woman answered, wearing splattered painter’s coveralls and a backward painter’s cap that covered short gray hair folded behind her ears.

  Dan smiled. “Looks like I’m catching you at a bad time. I’m looking for an A. Gotchley.”

  “You’re looking at A. Gotchley. Who might you be?” Gotchley had multiple rings piercing her right earlobe and the tiniest diamond stud in her left nostril to go with her youthful demeanor, but Dan estimated from the dates she first started incorporating her businesses that she had to be early to midfifties.

  “I might be Dan O’Leary.”

  “Ah, Dan O’Leary,” she said, imitating a thick Irish brogue. Her blue eyes shimmered. “You’re a nice-looking man, Dan O’Leary, and wearing some fine dungarees you are. I don’t suppose you’ve come to bid on me house for sale now, have ya?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t,” Dan said.

  She dropped the accent. “Well, that’s a damn shame. Do you paint?”

  Dan smiled. “I’ve been known to slop on a coat or two, but I haven’t brought my work clothes.”

  “Alita,” she said, introducing herself. “And you’re catching me at a good time. Unless you’re a process server.”

  “Nope. Just a man looking for some information.”

  “All right then. I just finished applying a coat to the kitchen, and I need to let it dry.”

  “These are all your houses, Alita?”

  She stepped out onto the porch and pointed down the row. “Two sold. That one just went on the market, and one to go.”

  “Is this one going to make it? It looks like it’s on life support.”

  “Should have seen the other three when I bought them. These houses are nearly a hundred and fifty years old.”

  “I feel for you. I remodeled my parents’ home in Cedar Grove, and it was a lot of work,” Dan offered, continuing to try to find common ground.

  “Where’s Cedar Grove?”

  “North Cascades.”

  Well you’re a long way from home,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for information about a business you once owned.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific. I’ve started upwards of fifty-two businesses. Secretary of State loves me.”

  “Dirty Ernie’s,” Dan said.

  Alita smiled. “Ah, yes, Dirty Ernie’s Nude Review. That was short-lived but a lot of fun. People say I brought the city council of that town together as never before or since.”

  “They shut you down.”

  “Changed the zoning—no nudity. Bunch of prudes. I did a bustling business for about a year. Hypocrites, all of them. Everyone talked a good game—too close to schools,
attracts the wrong element, but let me tell you, they came in droves and they weren’t coming from far. Nothing sells better than beer and boobs, Dan, remember that. What kind of information you looking for?”

  “You know, Alita, it’s one of those things that I’ll know when I see it.”

  “That’s a mouthful of nothing, isn’t it?”

  “Here’s what I know. You had two dancers work for you. One was Beth Stinson.”

  “Betty Boobs,” Alita said. “Nice kid. Wicked figure. Tragic end. I remember getting the news. So sad—young girl like that. And so random. Would you believe, the politicians used it to close me down. Said it was attracting the wrong kind of people. You a cop?”

  “A lawyer. The other dancer was Celeste Bingham.”

  “Bing Cherry. More reserved. Quieter than Beth. Didn’t stay as long. They were high school buddies if I remember correctly.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “For good people, good lovers, and good wine.”

  “Do you remember all your employees?”

  “Fifty-two businesses, Dan O’Leary. Give me a name.”

  “I don’t have one. That’s the problem. Like I said, I might know it if I see it.”

  “I think you better give me a bit more information. I’d invite you in, but you’re liable to get paint on those nice dungarees.”

  They sat on the top step of the porch, and Dan explained the purpose of his visit. Finishing, he said, “So I’m trying to see if there could be any connection, the name of an employee who was working for you at Dirty Ernie’s that comes up now.”

  “I get you.”

  “Did you know Beth or Celeste outside of work?”

  “No.”

  “So no inkling Beth was taking some of the customers home?”

  “None. Too bad. I would have said something to her. Young girl like that probably didn’t realize fully what she was getting herself into. Live and let live, I say, but that’s a dangerous line to cross.”