“Did you keep employment records, W-2s, anything that would help me identify former employees?”
“Wouldn’t be in business if I hadn’t; the IRS requires I keep certain records for a certain number of years—seven, I think it is, but I’m a bit of a pack rat. Actually, I’m lazy. I keep everything because it’s easier than going through it and deciding what to throw out. But I can’t guarantee you what I have and what I don’t have.”
“How would we find out?”
“By digging through a lot of boxes of crap.”
“Where would I find those boxes?”
“Same place you’d find the boxes for the other fifty-two businesses—the storage locker I rent across town. I could look for it after I wrap up here. Have to finish a few touch-ups on the house next door. I have an open house coming up. And I want to get another coat on the kitchen.”
“I could meet you at the storage shed and help you go through the boxes.”
“The more the merrier, especially if the merrier isn’t married.” She nodded to Dan’s hands. “I noticed you’re not wearing a wedding ring, Dan O’Leary. Maybe I’ll remember you.”
Dan smiled. “I’m seeing someone.”
“Are you faithful?”
“I am.”
“Good for you,” she said.
“Can I ask you a personal question, Alita?”
“Tit for tat.”
“Why a strip club?”
“Because the good ones make money, and I like to make money. Never punched a clock in my life. Dirty Ernie’s would have been a gold mine.” She shrugged. “That’s all right. I take my lumps and move on.”
“So who was Ernie?”
Alita smiled. “My ex-husband. I name all my businesses after people who’ve wronged me. Stinky Pete’s Café, Stuck-Up Richard’s Lube and Oil. I can’t tell you the pleasure I got going to work every day and seeing ‘Dirty Ernie’s’ in bright lights atop the building.”
“You’re a brave woman.”
“He threatened to sue me. I begged him to. I’m like Madonna. Any publicity is good publicity. Fighting with the city of Everett to renovate these eyesores had me front-page news. People lined up to buy them when I put them on the market.” She stood. “You happy in love, Dan? I’m a wealthy woman and could be a hell of a sugar mama.”
“I doubt you’re hurting for male companionship,” Dan said.
“You meet me here at five and I’ll let you go through my things.” She winked and headed back inside the house.
Tracy and Kins stood beside the CSI truck parked in the driveway of James Tomey’s home. Sunlight streamed through the branches of the gnarled oak, casting slatted rays on the ground. “Taggart passed the lie detector,” Kins said. “No indication of any deception.”
“Of course he did. Taggart passes, Bankston fails. Nothing in this case makes sense. What did you do with him?”
“Sent him to back to jail. I talked to narcotics. Got a name for Taggart’s likely meth source in Belltown. They said they’d roust him for us, but I told them to hold off. I think Taggart’s telling the truth. The guy in Belltown is well connected. If Taggart was going to lie, this would not be the guy he’d give up.” Kins looked around. “What do you got here?”
“No coils of rope yet,” she said. She’d dropped the DNA evidence off at the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab. While she was talking to Melton about her hunch, Cerrabone had texted her to advise that they had the green light to search James Tomey’s home. He was still working to coordinate a search of Tomey’s office.
“Let’s go see where they’re at,” she said, indicating the CSI team.
Dan returned to the dilapidated house in Everett just after five but didn’t get an answer when he knocked on the door. He put his ear to the freshly sanded wood, heard no sounds inside, and wondered if Alita had stood him up. He had descended from the porch and started down the gravel drive when she came around the corner at the back of the house.
“Thought I heard someone. I was cleaning rollers in the backyard.”
She smelled of paint thinner. “I thought maybe you forgot about our date,” Dan said.
“Don’t tease an older woman, Dan. There’s a lot of cougar left in this one.”
“You want me to follow you?”
“It’s not far,” she said. “I’ll ride with you if you wouldn’t mind dropping me back here when we’re done.”
“I’d be glad to. Could I buy you dinner for your troubles?”
Alita smiled. “I’m warning you, Dan. You keep talking dates and dinners and I might never let you go.”
The storage facility wasn’t far. Alita directed him down the aisles to a locker the size of a one-car garage. The rolling metal gate was padlocked to an eyehook in the ground. Alita removed it and raised the gate.
“Ta-da!” she said.
Dan winced. She hadn’t exaggerated about being a pack rat. Boxes were stacked from the cement floor to the metal ceiling and appeared to fill the space back to front. The task could take days. “Do you have them organized by year or company?” he asked.
“That would have made sense, wouldn’t it?” she said.
“Well,” Dan said, rolling up his sleeves, “I guess there’s only one way to go about this then.”
Alita pulled a stepladder from behind a stack of boxes. “Why don’t you hand the top boxes down to me. I can go through them more quickly, and maybe this is a good time to start throwing some of this stuff away.”
Dan climbed the ladder. Alita grunted when he lowered her the first box. “You sure you don’t want to switch places?” he said.
She smiled, her eyes focusing on his backside. “And miss this fine view?”
CHAPTER 46
They didn’t find coils of rope or bottles of Rohypnol at James Tomey’s house, and Tracy doubted they’d find any at his office. When Tracy and Kins returned to the Cowboy Room, she gave Ron Mayweather the task of going through Tomey’s calendars checking the dates of the four murders.
“We got copies of Bankston’s time cards from Home Depot,” Mayweather said. “He worked the swing shift the night of all four murders.”
Faz pulled open the door and stepped in, Del behind him. “Hey, Sparrow, heard that little shit Taggart passed his polygraph.”
“You heard right,” Kins said.
“In the good old days, we would have just beat the truth out of him and saved the county the expense.”
“When was that, 1920?” Ron Mayweather said.
“Nah,” Del said. “Just before the Justice Department report came out.”
Everyone laughed.
“The news is starting,” Mayweather said. “And there’s our favorite reporter. Maybe she’ll tell us there’s been another murder; seems like she knows more than the rest of us.”
Vanpelt wasn’t standing outside a motel room or a bar. This time, she sat at the studio desk, which was unusual. “Surprising new developments tonight in the Cowboy investigation,” the anchor said as she tossed to Vanpelt.
“That’s right. Police have still not caught the so-called Cowboy,” Vanpelt said. “But Channel 8 has learned that the Cowboy Task Force is looking into a possible link between the four recent killings and a murder that happened nine years ago.”
Tracy felt her blood run cold.
Vanpelt continued, “Embattled Police Chief Sandy Clarridge held a news conference this afternoon to report on the progress of the Cowboy Task Force, and it was there that I asked him about the old case.”
The video rolled, and Clarridge appeared, reading from the prepared statement Tracy had written for Bennett, before Clarridge went off-script and said, “The men and women of the task force are devoting one hundred percent of their time to this investigation, and that will remain the case until the killer is found and brought to justice.”
Vanpelt, seated in the front row, stood. “Chief Clarridge, why is the task force also investigating a decade-old murder that took place in North Seattle?”
Clarridge froze. Then he looked to Bennett, who looked equally stumped.
“What’s she talking about?” Faz said.
“More Vanpelt bullshit,” Kins said.
Tracy felt sick.
“I understand that the task force has reopened the investigation into the murder of Beth Stinson,” Vanpelt said, “and that they’ve requestioned the eyewitness in that investigation. Is that true?”
Clarridge’s cheeks flushed. “I have no comment on any specifics of the task force’s work,” he said.
“Are you aware that an attorney named Dan O’Leary recently met with Wayne Gerhardt at the Walla Walla State Penitentiary?”
“Again, I won’t comment on any specifics,” Clarridge said. He looked over the crowd. “Thank you.”
Tracy felt Kins staring at her.
Back live in the studio, Vanpelt was wrapping up her report. “You may recall the gruesome murder of twenty-one-year-old Beth Stinson. A man named Wayne Gerhardt pled guilty to that crime and is serving a twenty-five-year sentence. Despite the fact that the case was closed, Channel 8 has learned that an attorney has been reinterviewing witnesses from the Stinson case. And, according to records at the Walla Walla State Penitentiary, the attorney met with Gerhardt at the prison.
“To make matters even more interesting, it turns out that the attorney is none other than Dan O’Leary, who successfully argued for the release of Edmund House. House had been convicted for the murder of Sarah Crosswhite, the sister of Seattle homicide detective Tracy Crosswhite. And Tracy Crosswhite is the lead detective on the Cowboy Task Force. We have tried to reach Detective Crosswhite and Dan O’Leary, but neither has returned our calls.
“Earlier this evening I spoke to Beth Stinson’s mother and father, and they expressed outrage at the prospect of their daughter’s killer being freed. Neither had been told that the investigation has been reopened.”
“What the hell?” Kins said.
“What’s going on, Professor?” Faz asked.
The phone on Tracy’s desk started to ring.
Sandy Clarridge’s cheeks remained as flushed as they’d appeared on camera. Thin maroon veins traversed his nose like a street map. To his left sat Stephen Martinez, eyes blazing. Johnny Nolasco had also taken a seat on their side of the table, leaving no doubt of his loyalties. Tracy joined Kins; their lieutenant, Andrew Laub; and Billy Williams across the table. She wasn’t expecting much support, however. They knew nothing about Beth Stinson.
“Kins had nothing to do with this,” Tracy assured. “This was my decision.”
“You didn’t bother to tell your partner?” Clarridge asked.
“No.”
“Because you knew the impropriety of your actions?”
“I understood the potential blowback if I was wrong.”
Clarridge squinted as if not understanding. “Then why do it?”
“Because I don’t believe I’m wrong. I believe the evidence supports my instincts.”
“And what is that evidence?”
Tracy summarized the similarities between Beth Stinson’s murder and the deaths of the four dancers.
“Chief, Beth Stinson was my case,” Nolasco said. “The witness was certain in her identification of Wayne Gerhardt.”
“The witness was not certain until she was shown a photograph of Gerhardt as a person of interest.”
“She picked him out of a police lineup, Chief, and Gerhardt pled.” Nolasco sounded more tired than irritated.
“She picked him after she was shown his photograph, and he pled because he was told he was facing the death penalty if it went to the jury.”
“Or because he was guilty,” Nolasco said.
Tracy looked to Clarridge. “There was forensic evidence available that neither the prosecutor nor the defense attorney asked to have analyzed.”
“The defense attorney declined because had the test derived a hit for Gerhardt, the plea was off the table,” Nolasco said. “The prosecutor won’t plead a murder one charge. Gerhardt faced the death penalty—”
“The medical examiner didn’t find any evidence of sexual intercourse in the seventy-two hours prior to her death,” Tracy said. Nolasco looked like he’d taken a short jab, and she used his stunned silence to push forward. “The HITS form stated that Beth Stinson had been raped, which is in direct conflict with the medical examiner’s findings.”
Nolasco looked to Clarridge. “Chief, we all know Detective Crosswhite and I have a history.”
“This has nothing to do with our history. Beth Stinson was not raped,” Tracy said, voice rising.
“Then how would the DNA analysis exonerate Gerhardt?” Clarridge asked.
“Gerhardt was at the house that afternoon attempting to unclog a toilet,” Tracy said. “His fingerprints and bootprints were all over the house. One would have expected someone that careless to have left hairs, sweat, bodily fluids, something, on either the victim or on the rope.”
“Chief, there was no way to pull fingerprints from a piece of rope then or now,” Nolasco said.
“But you can get DNA,” Tracy said. “His DNA should have been on the rope or the victim.”
“Again, Chief, this is all pure speculation.”
“You never followed up with the other witnesses.”
Nolasco dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “We spoke to the witnesses.”
“There are no reports in the file.”
“Nothing led us to believe we had the wrong individual.”
Tracy countered again. “If you spoke to the witnesses, why didn’t you know Beth Stinson was stripping?”
Nolasco remained outwardly calm for the most part, but his Adam’s apple bobbed and he paused as if absorbing another blow. “Stinson was a bookkeeper.”
“By day. At night she was dancing and bringing men home.”
Clarridge raised a hand. “Regardless, how did”—he checked his notes—“Dan O’Leary obtain the information concerning this case?”
“I provided it to him.”
Clarridge scowled. “And did you provide him with the file and reveal your concerns?”
“I did. And I would do it again if I believed—and I do—that it might help us catch the son of a bitch who is killing these women.”
“Revisionist history,” Nolasco said.
“It needed to be pursued.”
Clarridge removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Detective Rowe?” Kins looked up from a spot on the table he’d been tracing with his finger. “You had no knowledge of this investigation?”
Kins shook his head, his voice barely audible. “No.”
“You’re free to go. You will continue in your role on the task force.”
Kins pushed back his chair but did not immediately stand, as if he had something he wanted to say. Then he stood, turned his back to Tracy, and left the room.
“Detective Crosswhite,” Clarridge said, “I’ve been a proponent of yours, because I believed, and continue to believe, it is important to have female officers at every level of this department, and because, regardless of your gender, you are an excellent detective. But your actions have not only brought criticism on this department, they have forced me to reevaluate my personal assessment of your priorities, and your abilities. Providing an attorney with access to a police file is an impropriety I cannot ignore. I will ask OPA to make an official and complete inquiry, and you will participate fully in that inquiry. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Until they’ve had a chance to gather the evidence and render a decision, you’ll be assigned to an administrative role in the department.” He turned to Nolasco. “Captain Nolasco, you’ll oversee the Cowboy investigation and report directly to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Nolasco said.
Clarridge pushed back his chair. So did the others. Tracy remained seated.
Tracy found an empty box at the back of the seventh floor, where the administrative staff sat, and bro
ught it to her cubicle. Kins sat at his desk, his back to her. When he didn’t turn from his keyboard, she commenced cleaning out her desk drawers.
“You made me look like an idiot,” Kins finally said. “If I’d known, I might have been able to support you.”
“That’s exactly what I didn’t want. If you’d known, you’d be packing your desk with me.”
“Total honesty,” he said. She heard his chair creak, put down a stapler, and turned. He was facing her.
“I knew that if Nolasco found out, this was likely.”
“We’re partners,” he said, approaching.
“And you have a wife and three boys depending on you. If you didn’t know, no one could blame you and say you should have come forward.”
Hands shoved in his pants pockets, Kins stared at the floor. Tracy knew him well enough to know he was processing her reasoning. He looked up.
“So what happened after I left?”
“I’m off the task force. Nolasco’s in charge. And I can’t help but think this is how he wanted it.”
Kins stifled a sarcastic laugh. “Can’t imagine why. We’re no closer to catching this guy than we were the first day. This has all the makings of a career-killer.” He looked over the tops of the cubicles before lowering his voice. “What about this Beth Stinson case? You don’t think Nolasco and Hattie were covering something up, do you?”
“No, nothing that sinister.” Tracy also lowered her voice. “Stinson was Hattie’s last homicide. He’d put in for retirement. I think he had one foot out the door and didn’t want to put in the work. He and Nolasco had a perfect record. According to the witness, they showed her Wayne Gerhardt’s photograph before she picked him out of the lineup.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“It wasn’t a montage, Kins. She apparently said it was just the one photograph, though you’ll find four other photographs in the file.”
“She could be mistaken. That’s a long time to remember a detail like that.”
Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) Page 25
