Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  Kins found Faz in the break room draining the remnants of coffee from the stained pot into a coffee cup with the word “Mug” embossed on the front and Faz’s face on the back.

  “Here.” Faz held out the cup. “You look like you could use it more than me, and that’s bad.”

  Kins waved it off. “And give up the precious minutes I can kill making another pot? Not on your life, Fazzio. This is the highlight of my day.”

  “What the hell is Nolasco up to?” Faz said. “We ain’t gonna catch this guy sitting with our thumbs up our asses.”

  “Don’t know,” Kins said, “but Santos called looking for him again. Said he asked for her notes on the profile she put together and her assessment of each suspect.”

  “She didn’t know why?”

  “Nolasco didn’t tell her why, just asked for them ASAP.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, that’s one good thing about him being out of the office. He ain’t here.”

  On the way back to his desk, still in need of a mental break, Kins picked up the remote and turned on the television. It remained tuned to Channel 8 from the previous night when they’d gathered to watch the news. He stood sipping his freshly brewed coffee and noticed a news ticker scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

  Breaking News in Cowboy Investigation.

  Kins’s stomach fluttered. He was watching an aerial shot from a helicopter hovering above a white single-story home on a patch of lush green lawn with what looked like half a dozen fruit trees and a metal shed.

  “Hey, Faz?” Kins called out.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think I know what Nolasco is up to.”

  Tracy’s phone woke her from a deep sleep. She lay facedown on her bed, where she’d collapsed fully dressed after getting home from meeting Kins. The screen on her cell glowed just inches from her face, but when she reached for it her right arm felt leaden. She’d slept on it, cutting off the circulation, and her arm and hand had gone numb. She rolled onto her back and felt the tingling sensation shooting needles all over her skin. She and Sarah used to call it a “dead arm,” which could also be caused by a well-placed knuckle punch just above the biceps. She tried to sit up, but her head felt as heavy as her arm.

  She recognized the incoming number and answered the call still lying on her bed. “Hey,” her voice croaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Hey.”

  “Did I wake you?” Dan asked, and she heard the surprise in his voice.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost four thirty.”

  Disbelieving, she turned her head enough to see the clock on her nightstand. “Damn.” She’d only intended to sleep an hour.

  Dan started to laugh. “How long was your nap?”

  “About seven hours.”

  “You must have needed it.”

  She yawned and looked down at her feet. “Didn’t even take my boots off.”

  “Everything all right there?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. Are you still at the storage shed?”

  “Just about to finish up.”

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet. I’m about halfway through, but at least now I have a system. It gives me the false hope that I’m actually making progress. I thought since I’m this far north I’d better get home and get the boys, make sure I still have a house standing.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing them both.”

  “Nothing strange? You’re sure?”

  “I’m fine, Dan, seriously. It’s like you said, I live in a fortress.”

  “I should be there around eight.”

  “I’ll cook dinner.”

  “You’ll cook dinner?”

  “Hey, I can cook.”

  “Knock my socks off then.”

  Tracy disconnected, dropped the phone on the bed, and took another couple minutes to wake up. Lying there, she realized she was hungry. She also felt gross. Eat or shower?

  Definitely food.

  She got up slowly and walked to the kitchen, pulling a carton of leftover Chinese from the fridge and poking at it with chopsticks as she walked to the sliding glass door. She did small stretching exercises with her neck and shoulders, letting her mind and body continue to wake, and looked down into the yard where the man had stood the night before.

  A black ball was trotting across the lawn toward the bushes.

  Roger.

  Kins stood staring at the television, not quite believing what he was witnessing.

  “Who is that?” Faz asked.

  “That would be the FBI. That’s what Nolasco’s been doing. He brought in the Famous But Incompetent to show us up.”

  They didn’t have to wait long to find out who else Nolasco had brought in. Maria Vanpelt held a microphone and pressed a finger to her earpiece. She looked to be the only reporter on the scene. “He tipped her,” Faz said.

  “Had to have,” Kins agreed.

  “I’m live on the scene of what we are being told is a significant break in the Cowboy investigation.” She pointed down the street to the single-story house. “Moments ago FBI agents rushed the home of David Bankston, who they are describing as a person of interest in the killings.”

  “Bankston?” Kins said.

  Vanpelt continued. “Bankston, who works at a warehouse in Kent, came under suspicion when his DNA turned up on a noose found at one of the crime scenes.”

  “It wasn’t at a crime scene,” Kins said.

  Faz was swearing a blue streak. “He shut us out. Nolasco shut us out.”

  “The search is being led by Seattle Police Department captain Johnny Nolasco, who recently took over the Cowboy Task Force.”

  The front door to the house opened, and Vanpelt continued her narration. “FBI agents are now escorting a woman and a young girl out of the house.” The camera cut to a large shed. “Other agents are using what looks to be a bolt cutter to remove a padlock on the shed behind that house.”

  The camera zoomed in. Men and women in blue jackets with FBI in gold across the back were using a pry bar to pop the clasp on the shed. Then they regrouped and entered the shed in tactical gear, guns drawn.

  “Idiots,” Kins said. “If he was inside the shed, how could he have applied the lock!”

  “We’re going to cut away for a moment,” Vanpelt said, “to talk to Captain Johnny Nolasco.” Nolasco, walking across the lawn by the house, wore jeans and a blue jacket, though his said SPD in white. Vanpelt shouted, “Captain Nolasco?” He stopped. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

  Nolasco raised a hand, like he couldn’t be bothered, and kept walking. The camera followed him to the shed, where he looked to be speaking with agents before ducking inside.

  “I got to call Tracy,” Kins said. He hurried to his desk and retrieved his cell phone, placing the call as he walked back to the bull pen. He got voice mail and left a short message. “Tracy, call me. Turn on your television to Channel 8. You’re not going to believe this.”

  On TV, Nolasco was walking out of the shed with something in his hand.

  “It appears that Captain Nolasco has found something of interest in the shed,” Vanpelt said as the camera zoomed in. “That’s a coil of rope.”

  Kins felt his blood run cold.

  Vanpelt shouted again. “Captain Nolasco?”

  This time Nolasco did not wave her away. He stepped closer, holding the coil of yellow rope. Nolasco had his cop face on, stern and determined.

  “Can you tell us if that is the same rope used in the Cowboy killings?” Vanpelt said.

  “I won’t comment on any evidence.”

  “Then why are you holding it?” Kins asked loudly.

  “Is David Bankston the Cowboy?” Vanpelt said.

  “I won’t comment at this time.”

  “Can you tell us what led you to search this property?”

  “When we made changes in the task force, I revisited the evidenc
e, and based on my assessment of that evidence, I felt it warranted.”

  “Do you have David Bankston in custody?”

  Nolasco paused, just a slight hesitation, but Kins instantly knew why. “They don’t have him in custody,” Kins said. “They don’t know where he is.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” Faz said. “They didn’t find him before they went to his home?”

  “We expect to have him in custody shortly,” Nolasco said.

  Kins looked at his phone.

  “What is it, Sparrow?” Faz asked.

  “Tracy didn’t answer. Why wouldn’t she answer her phone?”

  “Maybe she turned it off,” Faz said.

  “She never turns her phone off.” Kins tried Tracy’s number again. The call again went to voice mail. He tried her home phone number, but it rang through to voice mail too. “Screw this,” he said and hurried to his desk to grab his wallet and keys.

  “I’m going with you,” Faz said.

  CHAPTER 52

  Dan rolled the metal door shut and reapplied the padlock through the eyehook. Going through the boxes had been tedious and slow. He’d found files and documents from one business misplaced in a box labeled for a different business, and other files similarly mismarked. It meant that he had to look through the contents of every single box and file. When he’d called Tracy, he’d gone through approximately half the shed. He’d thought about stopping, but the search had become addicting, the odds of finding the materials increasing with the elimination of each box. Three times Dan had lifted the lid on a box, telling himself it was the last box for the day. Three times he’d opened another lid. And on the third box, he beat the odds. He found folders with “Dirty Ernie’s” written on the tabs. A quick look indicated financial records and employment information.

  With the light fading, he’d decided to take the whole box, and now he carried it to the back of the Tahoe. As he shoved the box in the back, lights came around the corner of the row of buildings. Alita Gotchley rolled her Jeep to a stop and stepped out, leaving the engine running and the headlights mixing with the murky dusk.

  “You found what you were looking for?” she asked, looking at the box.

  “I hope so,” Dan said. “I haven’t had the chance to look too closely. I’m assuming it’s all right if I take the box with me?”

  “Be my guest and Godspeed,” she said. “I came to see if you wanted to get that bite to eat before heading home. Traffic heading south will be a bitch this time of night.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but since I’m this far north I’m going to sneak home to Cedar Grove and get my dogs. I’ve been gone so long I’m sure they think I’ve abandoned them.”

  “I like to go antiquing up that way, and there’s a hot spring to die for. A friend of mine turned me on to it. I don’t suppose I could convince you to join me some weekend? You wouldn’t need a suit.”

  Dan smiled. “Alita, I don’t think I could keep up with you.”

  “Story of my life. Your physique, I figured you had a shot.” She gave him another wink and slipped back into her Irish brogue. “I guess this is good-bye then, Dan O’Leary. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine upon your face, the rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.”

  “Ditto,” Dan said and gave her a hug.

  Johnny Nolasco stepped back inside the shed, stomach and mind churning. The FBI had sent two agents to the Home Depot warehouse to arrest David Bankston. According to his supervisor, Bankston was working there that afternoon, but when the agents went to find him, Bankston was gone. No one had seen him leave, but his van wasn’t in the employee parking lot. When Nolasco got word that Bankston wasn’t at his job, he had a critical decision to make. He’d already texted Vanpelt, who was en route to Bankston’s home. The plan was for her to stumble upon the search and to call in a news helicopter. Timing was critical.

  Nolasco made the call to go forward, figuring the odds were Bankston was either at home or they’d pick him up on his way. But that hadn’t been the case. And that was a problem.

  At the back of the shed, Bankston had built a false wall with an interior door secured by a second padlock. When Nolasco stepped in, the first thing he saw was the nylon rope on the table. He felt elated, certain his instincts had been validated. He’d found the Cowboy. There was also a spiral notebook with handwritten entries, like a diary, and multiple scrapbooks containing articles and photographs meticulously cut out and glued to the pages—seemingly every news story on each of the four killings, with words underlined and paragraphs highlighted. It further confirmed Nolasco’s certainty that he had his man. What was troubling him were the dozens of photographs lining a side wall, a collage that seemed to have been meticulously put together—and in every picture a black X had been scratched across Tracy Crosswhite’s face.

  Tracy grabbed a can of cat food from the cabinet and retrieved a spoon to bang on the top. The sound never failed to draw Roger’s attention. Daylight was fading fast, and raccoons and an occasional coyote roamed through the brush beneath her yard at night. Roger didn’t have the temperament for a fight. He was more likely to roll onto his back at the sight of a predator. And if he ventured down the hill to Harbor Way, he’d be certain roadkill.

  She quickly descended the stairs and unlocked the door to the lower landing. With the curtains covering the windows facing east, the room was as dark as night. It wasn’t until Tracy had quickly crossed to the back door and reached to unlock it that she realized the deadbolt had been disengaged.

  Kins bounced his BMW from the parking garage onto Seattle’s surface streets, the portable strobe lights flashing blue and red in the dusk. Faz gripped the handle above the passenger door. The other hand pressed his cell phone to his ear as he talked with dispatch.

  Kins maneuvered around an SUV that had pulled only partway to the curb, slowed to let additional traffic congestion clear, and continued down the hill to the on-ramp to the Alaskan Way Viaduct.

  “Tell them to get ahold of the officer watching her house and have him knock on her door,” Faz instructed dispatch.

  “No good,” Kins said from the driver’s seat. “Nolasco removed the patrol. They’re not watching the house anymore. Have them send a patrol car out of the Southwest Precinct.”

  Faz relayed the request.

  “And tell them to bring the Ram-It,” Kins said.

  Faz repeated that request as well. Then he hung up. “How fast can we get there?”

  “Going to depend on traffic.” Kins merged onto the Viaduct and hit the brakes. A long span of red taillights snaked along the narrow elevated roadway. Faz gave a blast on the siren, but with just three lanes and no shoulders, the cars didn’t have a lot of room to move out of the way. Kins had no choice but to wait for cars to creep over.

  “Bankston wouldn’t look at her,” he said.

  “Who, Tracy?”

  “When Bankston came in for his polygraph, Santos sat in for Tracy. Bankston seemed unhappy about it and kept asking about Tracy, saying he had information for her. He wouldn’t even look at Santos.”

  Faz gave another blast on the siren. His lights lit up the interiors of the cars attempting to pull to the side. Kins weaved slowly forward.

  “So he wouldn’t look at her. So what?”

  “You’ve never seen Santos; most guys can’t take their eyes off her. Bankston wouldn’t even make eye contact. Then he failed the polygraph.”

  “But not the questions about whether he killed them.”

  “Santos says these guys can pass a polygraph because they have no conscience. They don’t believe they did anything wrong and feel no remorse. So maybe it fits. Maybe he couldn’t hide the fact that he knew the women, but he felt nothing about killing them, or he doesn’t believe he is killing them.”

  “You lost me.”

  Kins had to stop again to wait for an SUV trying to get out of the way wit
hout much success. “Santos says that the elaborate strangulation system the Cowboy uses may be a way of divorcing himself from the actual act of killing. He isn’t killing the dancers. They’re killing themselves. Move!” Kins yelled, slapping the steering wheel in frustration.

  “Sounds like a bunch of pyschobabble shit to me,” Faz said.

  “Call dispatch back. Find out if they’ve got Bankston in custody. And try Tracy’s cell again. Hopefully this is one giant wild-goose chase.”

  Tracy turned and ran. In her peripheral vision, she saw him burst from the shadows. She grabbed the wooden handrail and took the stairs two at a time. She’d nearly reached the top when she felt him grip her right ankle. She slipped, fell to her knees, and kicked backward, but the intruder hurled himself forward, pinning her to the stairs. He was heavy, and strong. His hand pressed down on the back of her head, smashing her face against the step. She rammed an elbow into his side and heard him groan. She rammed it again, then reached back and grabbed a hunk of hair, yanking hard. He screamed, enraged, but let go of her head to grab her hand. She’d dropped the can but not the spoon, and she used it to stab at him just below his rib cage. When he retreated, she rolled over.

  David Bankston. And he was holding a noose.

  She kicked at him with both legs, knocking him off balance, but he managed to grab hold of her as he fell backward. They tumbled down the stairs together, rebounding off the walls. Tracy reached for the wooden handrail to stop her descent, then heard it crack and splinter as a piece yanked free of the wall. She tumbled again, heels over head, and landed on her stomach, hard. Bankston landed on top of her, and she heard a pop and felt a sharp pain in her collarbone. The blow had knocked the wind out of her. Trying to gulp in air, she lifted her head.

  When she did, David Bankston slipped the noose over her head, cinching it tight.