Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (31 page)

“Stand up,” Kins said.

Tomey spoke in a hushed tone. “My children are upstairs.”

“Mine are at home getting ready for bed,” Kins said. “Turn around.”

CHAPTER 42

T
racy stood beside Rick Cerrabone, watching Tomey from behind the one-way mirror. They’d brought him straight to the Justice Center rather than King County Jail to be booked. Given Tomey’s profession and request for an attorney, Tracy thought it was important to consult someone from the prosecutor’s office. Kins was at his desk preparing search warrants for Tomey’s home and office, and to obtain samples of his blood, hair, and saliva for DNA analysis. He’d go over the paperwork with Cerrabone, and if Cerrabone found it in order, he would reach the judge on call to get the warrants signed. In the meantime, Tracy had Faz and Del running a photo montage including Tomey’s picture over to Joon’s Motel. They’d take the same montage to the Dancing Bare. They already knew he frequented the Pink Palace.

With the overhead lights off, the buttons of the recording equipment glowed yellow, green, and red. “I’m certain Mr. Joon will ID him as the man he saw with Veronica Watson on at least two occasions. And I’m betting he was with Gabrielle Lizotte last night.”

“Who’d he call?” Cerrabone asked. “Who’s his attorney?”

“One of his partners. Former prosecutor. Stan Bustamante.”

Cerrabone smiled. “I trained Stan. We worked together for about six years before he went to the dark side.”

Tracy’s cell phone rang. The officer at the front desk in the building lobby said she had a visitor. “Bring him up.”

“Is that him?” Cerrabone asked.

“No, it’s a friend of mine.”

Dan had called earlier and said they had a lot to talk about. Tracy told him they’d just pulled in a suspect and it would likely be another long night, if she made it home at all. Dan persisted, saying it couldn’t wait. With the Justice Center largely deserted and Nolasco nowhere to be found, she decided it was safe to meet him there.

Dan stepped into the room, escorted by a uniformed officer. Tracy made the introductions. After, Dan looked past Cerrabone and stepped to the mirrored glass. “What’s James Tomey doing here?”

Tracy and Cerrabone exchanged a glance. “You know him?” Tracy asked.

Dan turned from the window. “He’s one of the reasons I needed to talk to you. Tomey was Wayne Gerhardt’s public defender.”

“I remember that case,” Cerrabone said. “Beth Stinson, right?”

Tracy nodded.

Cerrabone’s face brightened. “You think the Stinson case is somehow related to the Cowboy killings?”

“Stinson was tied up and strangled with a noose,” Tracy said. “There’s no evidence she was sexually assaulted, and the bed was made.”

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Dan said and proceeded to explain what he had learned.

After Dan had finished, Cerrabone looked to Tracy. “I don’t think we’re going to have a problem convincing Stan his client wants to talk to us.”

When Bustamante arrived, they moved Tomey to one of the soft interrogation rooms and sat around a circular table. The space was cramped enough that Tracy could smell Tomey’s breath, which had a distinct acrid odor. He was using a paper towel to wipe perspiration at his temples and his forehead. Cerrabone had commented that Bustamante had put on weight since he’d left the prosecutor’s office; his stomach protruded beneath a Polo shirt. His hairline was receding, and he had combed forward and gently spiked what remained. He and Cerrabone greeted each other by their first names.

“I’ve advised my client not to speak to you,” Bustamante said.

“That’s okay,” Cerrabone said. “He can listen. So can you. Then you can talk and decide if he wants to speak to us.”

Bustamante crossed his arms and sat back as if to say, “Have at it.”

Cerrabone nodded to Tracy, and she looked to Tomey. “Nine years ago you represented an individual named Wayne Gerhardt.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Bustamante asked, unfolding his arms and sitting forward. Nothing made an attorney more interested than a question he didn’t know the answer to.

“Gerhardt was a Roto-Rooter technician called to the home of a single woman living alone in North Seattle—”

“I don’t see how—” Bustamante started.

“Beth Stinson.”

Tracy saw the acknowledgement in Tomey’s eyes. It was the second time he’d heard those two names in less than forty-eight hours. Bustamante also caught Tomey’s expression and scribbled a note on a yellow legal pad.

“Stinson was found murdered in her home, in her bedroom to be more precise. Her wrists and ankles were bound. She was strangled with a noose. The police took one look at the bondage and concluded the murder was sexual in nature. So did you. But the medical examiner’s report found no evidence of sexual intercourse during the prior seventy-two hours. No semen was found in any of Stinson’s body cavities.”

Tomey’s brow furrowed.

“Beth Stinson was not sexually assaulted. She was not robbed. Neither were Nicole Hansen, Angela Schreiber, Veronica Watson, or Gabrielle Lizotte. The latter four women all danced at strip clubs in Seattle. We know you fancied at least two of them and knew a third.”

“Beth Stinson was a bookkeeper,” Tomey said.

Bustamante’s hand shot out as if to protect Tomey from a sudden stop at a traffic light. “Just listen, James.”

Tracy continued. “You’re right. During the day Beth Stinson worked as a bookkeeper. Nights and weekends, however, she danced at a club in Shoreline called Dirty Ernie’s Nude Review.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“James, please,” Bustamante said.

Tomey looked at his attorney. “I didn’t know any of that, Stan.”

“Beth Stinson told one of her coworkers at the club she had a date the night she was murdered. She’d gone from dancing at the club to bringing men home. When the friend expressed concern, Beth told her not to worry, that the date was someone she knew.”

“A friend? What friend? She’s making this up,” Tomey said.

“James—”

“She’s making it up, Stan.”

“We’re just here to listen, James.”

“The prosecutor never turned over any of this evidence,” Tomey said.

“We’ve determined this on our own,” Tracy said, “as part of our current investigation. What I will tell you is that the witness is very real.” She addressed Bustamante. “The question is, why did your client convince Wayne Gerhardt not to get DNA evidence from the crime scene tested, when it could have possibly exonerated him?”

“They would have taken the plea off the table,” Tomey interjected before Bustamante had a chance to respond. “They had an eyewitness that put him at the scene.”

Bustamante dropped his pen in frustration.

“An eyewitness who may or may not have been wearing her glasses,” Tracy said. “An eyewitness who was looking across the street and claimed to see a man perhaps as tall as six feet five with light-colored hair. How tall are you, Mr. Tomey?”

“Don’t answer that,” Bustamante said.

“Why didn’t you get the DNA evidence processed?”

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

“Did you ever go to Dirty Ernie’s Nude Review?”

“What?” Tomey said.

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

“Now, nine years later, four women have been murdered in similar fashion to Beth Stinson. Three of the four danced at a club that you are known to frequent. In fact, witnesses will testify they saw you engaged in an intimate conversation with Gabrielle Lizotte last night, just before she escorted you into a private room. They’ll testify you gave her a very generous tip just before you quickly departed. They’ll also testify that you fancied Veronica Watson.” Tracy let those thoughts linger before adding, “And the owner of the motel where Veronica Watson died just picked your face out of a photo montage, confirming he saw you there with Veronica Watson at least twice.”

“More than enough to hold him, Stan,” Cerrabone said. “More than enough for me to get search warrants for his home and office, and for his DNA. At a minimum I can hold him seventy-two hours. That means through the weekend. The probable cause hearing would be Monday morning at the earliest, and the arraignment sometime after that. Three Strikes is on the arraignment calendar.” Cerrabone was referring to Judge Karen Kerkorian, who had a well-deserved reputation of being pro-prosecution. “She’ll find probable cause—you know that—and we’ll hold him until I can file the complaint. Then the media circus will begin.”

“We’ll file for bail.”

“On multiple murder charges? Good luck with that.”

Bustamante cleared his throat. “May I have a moment to confer with my client?”

Dan stood when Tracy and Cerrabone reentered the observation room. “What did he say?” Dan asked.

“They’re considering it,” Tracy said.

“How did you get all this information?” Cerrabone asked Tracy.

“The case came up on HITS. I had the file pulled.”

“How did you find the witness?”

“I’d rather not say,” Tracy said. “If we need to get that far, I’ll tell you.”

“Dirty Ernie’s got shut down by the community,” Dan said. “It’s now a convenience store. I ran a search with the Secretary of State’s Office. Maybe the owner is still around and can ID Tomey.”

“Nine years is a long time to remember someone,” Cerrabone said.

“I agree,” Dan said, “which is why we need a post-conviction DNA analysis of the forensic evidence found at Beth Stinson’s home to compare to Tomey.”

“I’m going to need the witness’s affidavit to justify it,” Cerrabone said.

“What happened occurred almost a decade ago,” Dan said. “People have moved on with their lives; a lot of people could get hurt if it comes out Beth Stinson was stripping and bringing home men.”

“I’m going to need it,” Cerrabone said.

“The witness has a new life, a husband, kids, and a church community. And Beth Stinson’s parents are still alive. They don’t know anything about any of this. These were just young girls being stupid and naïve.”

Cerrabone looked to Tracy. “You’ve got to give me something to go to the judge with, and I’m going to have to justify it with Dunleavy,” he said, referring to Cerrabone’s boss, King County prosecutor Kevin Dunleavy. “Stinson’s murder was high-profile. The people in Shoreline are not going to react well to the possibility of Gerhardt getting out.”

“Hang on,” Tracy said. “What are the options?”

“I need the affidavit,” Cerrabone persisted.

“What if I sign an affidavit saying I spoke to the witness and this is what she told me,” Dan said. “I know it’s hearsay, but I’m an officer of the court and I could attest to it for the limited purpose of getting the DNA tested. If the test reveals the DNA didn’t belong to Gerhardt and does belong to Tomey or some other person, then we can go down that path.”

“I’m not sure how that is going to sell,” Cerrabone said.

“Come on, Rick,” Tracy said. “We’re talking about someone who may have gotten started killing women nine years ago. The DNA at that crime scene might very well be his. It might be Tomey’s. It could tie him to the other murders. Either way, you want the public to find out this guy continued to go on killing because you didn’t want to get the DNA tested? Ask Dunleavy how that’s going to look when he comes up for reelection.”

“I’m not convinced it’s Tomey,” Cerrabone said. “It’s one hell of a coincidence he ended up defending Gerhardt.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it’s not a coincidence at all,” Tracy said. “The FBI profiler said the Cowboy is extremely bright. We know Tomey is smart enough to pass the bar exam. He knows the law. We know he fancies strip clubs, and that could very well have included Dirty Ernie’s. So he kills Stinson, and the police investigate and arrest Gerhardt. Tomey’s a PD. He goes to his boss and asks to defend him.”

“I don’t know,” Cerrabone said, clearly not convinced.

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s gospel,” Tracy said. “But at the very least I want to know what else Tomey knows, and who might have seen him with Veronica Watson and Gabrielle Lizotte. You know how these cases go. You follow the evidence where it takes you, which is usually one dead end after another. Then you get a break. This may be that break, Rick. Beth Stinson may be the break we need to catch this guy.”