“But it is a motivation,” Tracy said, “from your experience?” The article indicated that while at the seminar in Los Angeles, Peterson had been approached by two men wanting to walk across the street to a hotel and have group sex.
“From the research I did, sex was a big part of the package. It always came up. There might have been other things discussed, but sex was definitely on the table.”
“What do the website owners say about that?” Tracy asked.
“They say sex is always on the table when two people enter a relationship and begin dating, but neither is obligated to have sex unless he or she wants to.” She gave them a rueful smile. “At the same time, these websites let women know up front that these are relationships with no complications and no strings attached. No love is expected or welcomed. So . . . no love, just sex, and the women get paid money. What does that sound like to you?”
“Who signs up on these sites?” Tracy asked.
“No way to know for certain,” Peterson said. “Everything is kept confidential; the women are encouraged to use fake names and fake profiles, and I’m sure the men do also. There’s a lot of smoke and mirrors, and frankly, a lot of stupidity. Think about the scenario of nineteen-year-old women getting into cars with men they don’t know anything about, not even their real names. All they know is what they read on the profile. And often they haven’t told anyone what they’re doing because they’re too embarrassed to be doing it.”
“And much of what is on the dating site is probably bullshit,” Kins said.
Peterson leaned forward, animated. “I interviewed a mental health therapist for the article, and she said these relationships remind men of that carefree time in their lives when they were young and dating. Except this time the men have the money so they have the power. They control the situation and they can steer the relationship in directions they couldn’t when they were just dating. She said the result is a huge power imbalance. The average age of guys using these sites is forty-five. The average age of the women is twenty-six. She said you also have gender imbalance and possibly class and race imbalance, which raises the question of whether the girls are really consenting, or are just so desperate for money either because they’ve lost their job, can’t pay the rent, or can’t see a way to make their dream come true working at Starbucks part-time for minimum wage.” Peterson shrugged. “Everyone wants to blame the women and give the men a free pass when, really, the men are just as guilty, if not more so.”
Tracy glanced at Kins but he ignored her.
Peterson said, “I have to tell you, I never expected I’d be talking to homicide detectives when I concluded the article the way that I did, but I guess it doesn’t surprise me.”
“How’d you conclude the article?” Kins asked.
“The Internet is a dangerous place,” Peterson said, without looking at her computer. “You can go online and protect your identity, but then, so can the person you’re targeting. It can be a very deadly game.”
CHAPTER 39
Del parked his 1965 hunter-green Impala well back from the basketball hoop, not wanting to have the basketball careen off the rim and hit his baby. Faz stood beneath the rim, cradling a ball in his hands. Del had played basketball with Faz when both were younger and his back wasn’t about to seize. Faz was surprisingly agile for his size and proudly proclaimed that he’d played power forward in high school.
As Del got out of the car, he heard a radio broadcasting the final innings of the Mariners game.
“You should have been here an hour ago,” Faz said. “Vera made a salmon to die for.” He tossed the basketball to Del, who caught it but tossed it back. “I better not. The back is still gimpy. I’m liable to shoot and end up in an ambulance.”
Faz banked a shot off the backboard. It kissed the front rim and rolled off.
“How was your day off?” Del asked.
“I’m playing basketball outside, aren’t I?” Faz said. “On leave less than twenty-four hours and I’m already going stir-crazy and driving Vera nuts. You want a beer or a glass of wine?”
“No, I’m good. Came by to talk.”
“I figured as much.” Faz nodded to the patio table and chairs on the deck. “Let’s talk outside.”
He tossed the ball over his shoulder. It bounced twice and settled in the bushes along the driveway. They heard crowd noise, cheering, coming from the radio on the patio table. “They winning again?” Del asked, pulling out a chair. After a slow start, the Mariners had won nine out of ten games.
“Four to nothing last I heard,” Faz said. “Sounds like more.”
Del settled across the table from Faz. “I went back to South Park tonight, to Lopez’s apartment building.”
“Yeah?” Faz smiled. “When we talked this afternoon you said Nolasco told you to send the file to narcotics?”
“I haven’t quite gotten around to it.” Del smiled. “I had to go out there to tell Rodgers’s family about the ballistics report.”
“How’d they take it?”
“About as I expected. They still think Lopez worked for Little Jimmy. I told them we were still trying to make that connection. Since I happened to be in the area I decided I’d drive over and talk to Lopez’s neighbor.”
Faz sat forward, forearms on the table. “Did she talk to you?”
“She wasn’t about to.” Del told Faz about the encounter in the hallway. “She was scared, Faz.”
“Little Jimmy?”
Del shook his head. “No. She’s afraid of us, the police.”
Faz gave that some thought. “She didn’t want anyone to see her talking to you?”
“Maybe, but it wasn’t a general fear of the police. It was more specific.”
Faz gave him an inquisitive look. “Of what?”
“Of who? Gonzalez. I asked Reynoso who told her to say she heard a man yell Gun!”
“And she said Gonzalez told her?” Faz asked.
“After some hemming and hawing she said the woman police officer told her to say she heard a man yell Gun!”
“No shit?”
Del nodded. “No shit.” He told Faz the details of his encounter at the apartment. “Gonzalez told Reynoso she could get in trouble for letting Lopez into her apartment, that things could get bad for her and for her son.”
“Did you tape her?” Faz asked.
He shook his head. “Nah, I was worried she’d spook and clam up. But even if she went on the record, FIT, or whoever else looked into this, would argue that I tainted her testimony and tampered with a witness, especially since I told her you were wearing a body camera so we knew she was lying when she said she heard a man.”
Faz sat back from the table. “You said that?”
Del nodded.
“Shit, Del. I don’t want you to put your job at risk.”
“Yeah, well, there’s more to it,” Del said. “When Nolasco told me to close down our investigation and send the file to narcotics, I went into the file to update the binder. I saw that Tracy had opened the file Monday and Tuesday afternoon of this week.”
“Why would Tracy . . . Wait . . . Tracy was in the Stephenson trial Monday and Tuesday afternoon.”
“I know.”
“Then . . .”
“There was another record of me logging into the file yesterday, when I was home with a bad back.”
“Did you remote in?”
Del shook his head. “No. I was going to ask you the same question.”
“Oh shit, Del.”
“What?”
“Damn,” Faz said. “I let Gonzalez use your computer yesterday, after she gave me a song and dance about her and Tracy having problems. I gave her your password.”
Del nodded, thinking about it. “And if she’d used Tracy’s computer on Monday or Tuesday, she would have known I was the lead detective on Rodgers, not Tracy, and that she couldn’t get into the privatized report files.”
“Why, though? Why would she want to get into your files?”
/> “I don’t know. But her interest was clearly Monique Rodgers.”
“Did you ask Reynoso why Lopez was at her apartment?” Faz asked.
“I did and she said Lopez needed to hide from someone.”
“He knew we were coming?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then who?”
“Reynoso said Lopez was inside her apartment when someone knocked on his door. You told me you and Gonzalez never knocked.”
“That’s true, we didn’t.”
“So someone got to Lopez’s apartment just before you and Gonzalez. Reynoso said they knocked several times, then left. She said after the person stopped knocking, Lopez went to the window and watched the parking lot, and while he was doing that, his phone rang and he started talking in Spanish.”
“I heard someone speaking Spanish.”
Del said, “I know. I also don’t think Lopez was expecting anyone to still be in the hall when he came out. I think he thought whoever he was hiding from had left. There are no peepholes in the doors. So Lopez couldn’t have checked the hallway before opening the door. I’m thinking that you and Gonzalez surprised him as much as he surprised you.”
Faz recalled something else. “Gonzalez asked to run Eduardo Lopez,” he said, leaning forward. “She was there when I got the results from Latents on the handprint. She asked if I wanted help running Lopez.”
“So, she knew we had a positive hit on Lopez,” Del said. “And when she ran Lopez she had his last known address.”
“You think she told Lopez we were coming to pick him up?”
“Maybe,” Del said. “But that doesn’t explain who came to Lopez’s door before you, who Lopez was hiding from.”
Faz recalled the man who’d come down the stairs just before he and Gonzalez stepped onto the elevator. The timing was right. “I might have seen him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know who, but Gonzalez and I saw a Hispanic man come out of the stairwell when we were waiting for the elevator. He gave us a look . . . and when he left the building he walked in the direction of the parking lot.”
“And according to Reynoso, Lopez went to the window and watched him leave,” Del said.
“That’s just about how long it would have taken for us to get up to the apartment, but if Gonzalez told Lopez we were coming, why’d she shoot him?” Faz asked.
“Maybe she didn’t tell him. Maybe she told the other guy, and when he knocked on the door and got no answer he figured Lopez wasn’t home.”
“Still doesn’t explain why she’d shoot him.”
“I can’t answer that. Not yet,” Del said. “All I’m certain about at this point is a dead man can’t testify against Little Jimmy. And Gonzalez shooting Lopez pretty much put an end to our investigation, especially since the ballistics for the bullet that killed Monique Rodgers matches the .38 in Lopez’s apartment.”
“We don’t have enough to accuse her,” Faz said. “I mean we get Reynoso to say Gonzalez told her what to say and Gonzalez will just deny it.”
“And if it comes out that I lied and told her you were wearing a body camera . . .”
“Your balls will be frying right next to mine.”
Del nodded. “I’m going to give Los Angeles a call tomorrow and see if I can talk to some people down there, try to find out what they know about her.”
“Run an address for her,” Faz asked.
“I can’t do that. You know that, Faz.” Officers were not supposed to run addresses unless the address related to a specific case.
“Just get me an address. I’m going stir-crazy sitting here. Let me keep an eye on Gonzalez while she’s off duty. Has anyone checked Lopez’s phone to find out who he was calling or texting?”
“Not yet. I drove straight here. I’ll get on it tomorrow.” Del sat back, shaking his head. After a few moments he said, “What a shit storm.”
“A shit storm within a shit storm,” Faz agreed.
CHAPTER 40
Armed with a smiling picture of Shea in a medical coat, as well as the DMV report indicating he drove a white 2017 Tesla Model X, Tracy and Kins pulled into the parking structure for the medical complex late Friday afternoon. Tracy had called the clinic again, posing as a mother with a sick daughter, and trying to see Shea that afternoon. She was told he was booked.
Parking spaces for doctors’ cars were located on the ground floor closest to the building entrance. They did not see a white Tesla.
“That car has a price tag of about $125,000,” Kins said as they pulled into the parking lot and found a parking space. “So I’m guessing we should only see two or three.”
“My dad was a doctor and he drove a truck,” Tracy said. “If Shea is driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car and living in Medina, he either comes from money or he married into it. It’s rare these days for a pediatrician to earn that kind of money in medicine.”
“Not to mention spending a couple thousand a month on a concubine.”
“Not to mention,” Tracy said.
A white Tesla entered the parking structure. “That’s his car.”
“And that’s him,” Kins said when Shea pulled into a doctor’s parking stall and stepped out. The back doors of the car rose like the wings of a bird.
Tracy and Kins quickly approached. “Dr. Shea?” Tracy said.
Shea had removed a sport coat from the backseat and startled at the sound of his name. His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
Tracy flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Crosswhite. This is Detective Rowe. Can we have a minute?”
“What about?”
“Vita Kumari,” Tracy said.
Shea’s eyes flashed recognition but he said, “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Yeah, you do,” Kins said. “So, don’t go there, okay? We know all about the sugar dating, sugar babies, and sugar daddies. You’d be the daddy. She’d be the baby. Am I right?”
Shea instantly deflated, which had been Kins’s intent. “What is it you want?”
“Maybe it would be better if we spoke in your office rather than here in a parking lot?” Tracy said.
“Did something happen to Vita?” Shea asked. His concern sounded sincere, but officers said Ted Bundy had also sounded sincere.
“Why do you ask?” Kins said.
“Because I have two detectives standing outside my car telling me they want to talk to me about Vita.”
Kins looked at Tracy. “Good point.”
“Yes,” Tracy said to Shea. “Something happened to her.”
Shea looked across the garage to the sliding glass doors of the building. “Follow me.” He led them up a stairwell and used a key to unlock an interior door. They followed him along a hallway carpeted with railroad tracks and train cars that meandered past a mural of an African safari with monkeys in the trees, elephants and lions, and a cheetah lying on a branch overhanging a river. They continued down a hall cluttered with weight and height scales, and eye charts.
“Dr. Shea—” A woman in a blue uniform stepped from one of the patient rooms. Her eyes drifted to Tracy and Kins. “I thought you’d left for the evening.”
Surprisingly, Shea introduced them as Seattle detectives. “I came back to do a little paperwork. Hopefully I won’t be long.”
Shea stepped to a door with his name on an engraved plate and pushed it open. The furnishings were austere for someone driving such an expensive car. Shades, the see-through variety, covered his window. He had a view of the 405 freeway.
“Have a seat.” Shea gestured to two chairs and moved behind his desk, which had a light veneer, in keeping with the office décor. A large computer screen took up much of the surface. On the wall behind him hung several framed degrees. He’d attended Gonzaga University—the Jesuits would surely not condone his sugar-daddy profile—had obtained his medical degree from the University of Washington, and was board certified in pediatrics. He sat. “You said something happened to Vita?”
“When’
s the last time you saw Kavita?” Tracy asked.
“Monday night.”
“What did you do?”
Shea cleared his throat. He looked younger than his forty-four years. He had a habit of pushing blond strands of a boyish haircut from his forehead. “We went to dinner, then to a hotel in Kirkland, as was our routine.”
“Where did you go to dinner?” Tracy asked.
“Lila’s Café. It’s in Kirkland. The reservation was in my name.”
“And the hotel?”
“The Marriott. Also in Kirkland.”
“Also in your name?” Kins said.
Tracy kept notes. If Shea was trying to hide anything he was doing a poor job of it.
“No,” Shea said.
“Was the reservation under Kavita’s name?” Kins asked.
“Yes.”
“Fairly bold actions for a married man living in Medina, isn’t it?” Kins said. “Weren’t you worried about being seen?”
Shea sat back. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. “If anyone saw us at dinner, Vita was a student looking to practice pediatric medicine.”
“And what was she at the hotel?” Kins asked. God he could be a sarcastic pain in the ass when they needed him to be.
“We never went into the hotel together,” Shea said. “Vita always obtained the room.”
“And the hotel management never asked her why she needed a room the same day and time every week?” Kins asked.
“She told them she was in pharmaceutical sales and met with clients on the Eastside early Tuesday mornings. She brought luggage with her.”
This was all very neat. “So, this was a standing engagement?” Tracy said.
“For the most part, yes.”
“What does that mean?” Tracy said.
“It means we met on Monday nights unless something came up for either of us.”
“How would you let each other know if something came up?” Tracy asked.
A Steep Price (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 6) Page 24