Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (32 page)

Cerrabone considered it a moment, dour-faced and squinting as if fighting a headache. He turned to Dan. “All right, look, you get me your affidavit—but I want it to include the name of the witness and how you located her.” Dan started to protest, but Cerrabone said, “That’s the best I can offer. I’ll file the request and ask the court to seal her identity on the grounds that we’re concerned about her safety and her privacy.”

“We need to rush the DNA analysis,” Tracy said.

“Yeah, well, tell Melton to start playing a little less guitar.” Cerrabone looked at his watch. “I’m tired. They’ve had enough time to make a decision. Let’s go see what Bustamante wants to do.”

Bustamante had regained his swagger. He started defiantly, as Tracy expected any lawyer would, with his client sitting in the room. “First of all, if this exculpating information was not in the file or turned over by the prosecution, then there is no way my client could have known the witness existed and, by extension, that he could have somehow used that to his advantage, as you insinuate.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t in the file,” Tracy said. “And any attorney worth his bar number representing a client on trial for murder would have combed the police file, found the name, and followed up on every lead.”

Bustamante tapped the tip of his pen on his notepad. “Regardless. He didn’t know about it. He didn’t know Stinson danced or that she was a prostitute. He’s never been to Dirty Ernie’s. Never even heard of it. As for the Pink Palace, going to a strip club isn’t illegal.”

“Solicitation is.”

“Misdemeanor,” Bustamante said.

“Not when the dancer dies.”

“Hang on,” Cerrabone said. “Can he account for his whereabouts the nights the dancers were murdered?”

“He needs his calendar.”

Tracy looked to Tomey. “Do you know the owner of the Pink Palace, Darrell Nash?”

Tomey looked to Bustamante, who nodded his consent. “Yeah, we’ve talked.”

“Did you ever mention meeting Veronica at the motel to him?”

“I don’t see why I would have.”

“What about last night, did you see Nash at the club?” Shereece had told Tracy that Nash showed up late in the evening.

“I don’t recall seeing him last night, no.”

“Did you tell anyone you’d made a date with Gabrielle?”

Bustamante’s hand shot out. “He won’t answer that without some sort of agreement.”

“Where did you go after you left the Pink Palace?” Tracy asked.

Tomey’s eyes shifted from Tracy to Bustamante, who again nodded. “I drove home. My wife, however, will not be able to attest to that fact.”

“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

H
e 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. “They’re my friends,” he said.

CHAPTER 44

 J
ames 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.”