Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (33 page)

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

D
an 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.”

“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.