Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5)

by Robert Dugoni

Tracy did the math in her head. If she and Dan were to have a child, she’d be in her early to midsixties before their child graduated from college. God only knew what tuition would cost by then.

  Kins took a bite of the hot dog and wiped mustard from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “What do you think of our man Lazarus?”

  “Laszlo?” she said, thinking she’d misheard him through a mouth full of hot dog.

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I think it’s a long way for him to travel that late at night.”

  “So you think he’s telling the truth, that his car was stolen?”

  “I’m open to hearing what he has to say.”

  “Wouldn’t the base keep records of people coming and going?”

  “He doesn’t live on base. He lives in an apartment complex.”

  “You said he lived in Navy housing.”

  “It is, but not on base, which is why we can talk to him without jumping through hoops. Haven’t you ever worked with the Navy?”

  “No,” Kins said, taking another bite of hot dog. “You?”

  “Once. A home burglary. An enlisted man robbed his ex-girlfriend and NCIS got involved.” Navy Criminal Investigative Services were civilians, the Navy equivalent of detectives. “They made it a nightmare just to talk to the guy, but ultimately decided not to push jurisdiction and backed off.”

  “Yeah, I heard they can be difficult.”

  “I was told that after 9/11, the best investigators got pulled from the criminal division and transferred to counterterrorism. Those who remained aren’t as good or as cooperative. Laszlo’s apartments are zoned for federal and civilian jurisdiction, which means we can talk to him without going through NCIS.”

  An hour and fifteen minutes after departing, the boat docked at the Bremerton Ferry Terminal with a slight jolt. The sun had faded, and dusk and the low cloud layer made everything nearly as gray as the water. The temperature had also dropped to the upper thirties. Kins and Tracy had returned to their car on the car deck and were waiting to disembark.

  “So how do you like living at the edge of the world?” Kins asked.

  “Don’t be a snob,” Tracy said. Kins lived in Madison Park near the university. “Redmond is far from the edge of the world.”

  “You miss West Seattle?”

  “I miss the commute. And the views.” The house in West Seattle had been a fifteen- to twenty-minute commute to the office, and the deck provided a billion-dollar view looking back across Elliott Bay to the Seattle skyline. “Some mornings it can take me an hour to get in, but the house is homey, and when we’re there, work seems far away.”

  A ferry worker directed cars off the ship. “Have you and Dan talked about kids?” Kins asked.

  The question came out of the blue. Tracy played dumb. “Here and there. Why?”

  He shrugged. “You said you wanted kids.”

  “Eventually.”

  “Are you trying?”

  She laughed. “That’s a little personal.”

  “So is busting in a new partner, which I’m not looking forward to with one good hip.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Kins—you are.”

  “And my wife wasn’t quitting her job when we got married either. Things change when you have kids.”

  She shook her head. She knew it was just the stress of the upcoming surgery and the downtime that would follow. “Well, you’ll have nine months’ lead time.”

  “You’re not pregnant now, are you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.” The car in front of them moved forward. “Drive. If we want to get off this ferry, I’d suggest we get going.”

  “Feed the squirrels,” Kins said, making fun of the Prius’s lack of horsepower.

  At first blush, Jackson Park did not appear to be a bad place to live, abutting Ostrich Bay to the east and the Kitsap Golf and Country Club to the west. Like most military bases, it seemingly included everything Navy personnel and their families could need—a day-care center, an elementary school, a hospital, a minimart attached to a gas station, and outdoor tennis and basketball courts. As they drove the labyrinth of streets, Tracy didn’t see a scrap of errant paper. The lawns were manicured, and the wood-sided buildings looked freshly painted, even in the fading light. One- and two-story structures, they had all been cast from the same mold. Signs designated parking in outdoor carports, or in stalls at the bottom of long sloped lawns, which, Tracy deduced, could make it more plausible for someone to steal a car and not be seen.

  “It’s like that movie with Jim Carrey,” Kins said, looking around at the pristine world. “The one where they’re all living on a movie set.”

  “The Truman Show?” Tracy asked.

  “That’s the one. Creepy the way everything is so perfect.”

  Creepy and deserted. Tracy figured that was likely in part due to the freezing temperature. Still, it was odd to drive through a community and not see a single living soul outside walking, driving, or taking Fido out to do his business. Maybe the Subaru could have been stolen. If it had been on a night like this, there wouldn’t have been anyone to witness it.

  Laszlo Trejo lived on the ground floor of a building adjacent to a fenced-in basketball court. Kins parked in an area designated for visitors. Lights on poles illuminated a tree-lined walkway. At the building, they descended steps to the apartment’s front door. Kins knocked, and a moment later, the door opened and a Hispanic woman, perhaps late twenties, greeted them with a smile.

  “You must be the police officers from Seattle,” she said with just a hint of a Mexican accent. She invited them into the hall and shut the door behind them. “Laz just got home.” She led them into a neat but sparsely furnished living room of bleached white chairs and a sofa that likely came with the apartment. “I’ll get him for you.”

  Adjoining the room was a six-by-six linoleum floor with a kitchen table. Tracy stepped to the mantel over a fireplace and considered framed photographs depicting the Trejos getting married, she in a white dress, he in his spanking-white naval uniform. It was warm in the apartment and it smelled the way Tracy’s apartment used to smell when she didn’t get around to cleaning Roger’s kitty litter for a few days.

  “Are you the officers from Seattle?”

  Laszlo Trejo entered the room from the hallway. He was dressed in Navy blue-and-gray camouflage shirt and pants, which he’d tucked into black boots. Perhaps five foot six, he wasn’t much taller than his wife. He had a wedge of black hair and held an energy drink, which Tracy initially mistook for a beer.

  “Have you found my car?” Trejo asked. His accent was thicker than his wife’s. He didn’t look or sound the least bit intimidated, or as if he had anything to hide.

  “We were hoping to ask you a few questions, Mr. Trejo,” Kins said.

  “I already told that police woman everything I know,” he said, not exactly hostile, but not friendly either.

  “Was that a police officer from Bremerton?” Kins asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Your car was found in Seattle,” Kins said.

  “That’s what she said.” Trejo gestured to Tracy.

  “When was the last time you saw your car?” Tracy asked, getting to the point quickly to keep Trejo from directing the conversation.

  Trejo, perhaps realizing they weren’t there to hand him his car keys, sat in one of the recliners. “Monday night. I came home from work and parked in the carport.” He alternately sipped the drink and flexed the aluminum can.

  Tracy and Kins sat on the couch across a coffee table. The more Trejo spoke, the more Tracy sensed he’d scripted the conversation, which accounted for his initial assertive demeanor. As the interview progressed, no longer scripted, he started to look and sound uncomfortable. He had a habit of glancing down when he spoke rather than making eye contact, and he continued to crinkle the aluminum can.

  “What time did you get home from work?”

  “I think it was around six.”

/>   “Which carport did you park in?” she asked.

  “It’s just up the hill,” he said, making a vague gesture.

  “Can you see it from here?”

  Trejo shook his head. “No.”

  “And you didn’t go out again?” she asked.

  “Not that night.”

  “Your wife didn’t take the car out again?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “And when did you notice the car was missing?”

  “The next morning when I went out to go to work and the car wasn’t there.” He shrugged. “I told this to the woman who took the report.” He was like an actor reciting his lines.

  “Yeah, we haven’t read that report yet,” Kins said.

  “So how was it stolen?” Tracy asked. “You had the keys, right?”

  “Yeah, but I got a hide-a-key I keep along the bottom of the back bumper. They could have gotten that.”

  “Who knows about that key?” Tracy asked, skeptical but trying not to show it.

  “I don’t know,” Trejo said. “Maybe somebody saw it.”

  “What did you do when you found out your car was missing?” Tracy asked.

  “I came back here and asked my wife where it was,” he said, back on script. “She said she had no idea. So I called the police and told them it was stolen.”

  “And what did they do?”

  Trejo frowned. He was starting to look frustrated, which is what Tracy intended. “They sent out an officer. She asked me the same questions and said she was making out a report and said they’d be in touch. Then I had no way to get to work.”

  “You just have the one car?” Tracy said.

  “I told you that on the phone,” he said, setting down his drink and leaning forward, toward Kins. “Can I ask a question? Did you find my car?”

  “Do you know anyone in Seattle, Mr. Trejo?” Tracy asked.

  He glanced at her. “Know anyone? What does that mean?”

  “Do you have any friends or family who live in Seattle?”

  “No.” He sipped his drink. Again, Tracy thought that act was deliberate, to disengage from her and the question.

  “Where’s home for you?” she asked.

  “Here.”

  “I mean where did you grow up?”

  “I grew up in the San Diego area. What does that—”

  “You’ve been enlisted for five years?”

  “Almost six.”

  “Never lived in Seattle?”

  “I just told you I didn’t.”

  “What do you do at Bremerton?”

  “I’m a logistics specialist for FLC.”

  “What’s FLC?”

  “Fleet Logistics Center.”

  “What do you do? What’s your job?”

  “When I’m on ship, I work in the storeroom. When we’re in dock, I work in the warehouse. What does that have to do with my car?”

  “You order parts, maintain inventory, that sort of thing,” she persisted.

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you been overseas?”

  He nodded. “I worked in Kuwait and Iraq.”

  “In supply stores?”

  “Correct. Oh, and Afghanistan. I’ve been over there too.”

  “What ship?”

  “The USS Stennis.”

  “Which is what kind of ship?”

  “An aircraft carrier. A nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.”

  “When were you in Afghanistan?”

  “Last time? In 2013. How does this have anything to do with my car?”

  Tracy persisted, hoping to continue to rock Trejo from script. “And the Middle East, when was the last time you were there?”

  “Last time was 2012.”

  “How long have you been on base here in Bremerton?”

  “Four months.”

  “And before that where was the ship?”

  “Thailand.” He looked to Kins. “Did you find my car? Can I pick it up?”

  “We found your car in Seattle, Mr. Trejo,” Kins said.

  “I figured that much,” he said, sarcasm seeping in. “Can I go get it?”

  “You have no idea how it got to Seattle?” Tracy pushed.

  “I told you, somebody had to steal it.”

  “Have there been any reports of cars being stolen from this complex?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask the police. When can I get my car back?”

  “It’s going to be a while.”

  “Why?” he said, now clearly aggravated. “I need that car to go to work.”

  “Your car was involved in a hit-and-run accident, Mr. Trejo.” She watched for any signs Trejo already knew this information, but his face remained impassive.

  “It hit another car? Oh man. How bad is the damage?”

  “It hit a pedestrian. A twelve-year-old boy. It killed him.”

  Trejo’s line of sight focused on the carpet. For a moment he didn’t speak. Tracy thought it was a legitimate reaction. “That’s terrible, man.” He sipped his drink.

  “One more question, Mr. Trejo,” Tracy said.

  Trejo lowered the can. Tracy waited until he looked at her.

  “How did you cut your forehead?”

  CHAPTER 8

  From the outside, the modest, single-story brick home in Seattle’s Loyal Heights looked very much like the other houses in the neighborhood. The sloped lawn, dormant during winter, showed no signs that spring was around the corner, nor did the flower beds. To Del, it was bleak, as if the house too were mourning Allie’s death.

  A car gave a polite horn tap. Del looked in his rearview mirror and waved an apology. With vehicles parked along both curbs—many of the homes did not have driveways or garages—the road was barely wide enough for one car. He squeezed his hunter-green 1965 Impala into a spot at the curb. He’d managed to keep it in the divorce, though his ex-wife, Norma, had made him pay a steep price. The car had belonged to Del’s father. He’d handed Del the keys after the DMV refused him a license following a third stroke. Del had driven the Impala to work every day since, amassing some 289,000 miles. The original engine still purred, and the paint gleamed beneath the streetlamps. He changed the oil and filter regularly, did the spark plugs and brakes when needed, and flushed the fluids once a year. He told people he took better care of his car than his body. He wasn’t joking. When his nephews were in Little League and pleaded with him, he’d driven the car in parades. The boys loved it.

  He looked again at his sister’s house, framed between the branches of two mature plum trees sprouting from dirt squares in the sidewalk. The light above the front door cast a sickened glow, as if to mark the house with some biblical plague. Night came early and stayed late during Seattle winters, but the darkness enveloping this home had nothing to do with the time of year or time of night.

  He’d helped his sister, Maggie, purchase the home with what savings he’d had, which hadn’t been much. Neither was the home, just 1,600 square feet with two bedrooms on the main floor. Del had converted the daylight basement for the two boys, identical twins. He doubted either would be moving upstairs to Allie’s bedroom; Maggie hadn’t touched it since the morning she’d found Allie.

  He grabbed the brown paper bag from the seat and trudged up the concrete walk. Frost covered the lawn and the leaves of the rhododendrons. A shade shrouded the front window, but it leaked blue-gray light from the gaps along its edges. The television would shut off quickly if Del knocked, but that was never necessary. The only time his sister locked the front door was when she went to bed, and lately, she hadn’t been locking it at all, despite Del’s admonitions.

  Del pushed open the door. His two nephews, slumped on the couch, scurried like frightened squirrels. One fumbled for the remote. Too late. He’d caught them in the middle of a Seinfeld rerun. Del’s fault. He’d hooked them on Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer the week he’d stayed with them when his sister traveled to a friend’s wedding.

  “You get all
your homework done?” Del asked, stepping in.

  “We were just taking a break,” Stevie said, looking and sounding flustered.

  The mail lay scattered on the floor where the mailman had inserted it through the door slot near an assortment of socks and shoes. Unopened newspapers cluttered the coffee table amid bowls and cups. Del had been swinging by before working the night shift, but given the number of murders they’d already had this year, it was becoming more difficult to do so.

  “Uh-huh.” Del eyed an empty bag of chips and a jar of salsa amid the newspapers and magazines on the coffee table. “Did you eat dinner?”

  “No,” Mark said. “Mom’s sleeping. I think.”

  Del looked toward the darkened hallway. “Did you talk to your dad today?”

  “No,” they each said.

  It wasn’t surprising. Their father worked in a Los Angeles insurance firm, which was where he’d met his new, young wife. He’d come up for Allie’s funeral, blamed Maggie for Allie’s death, and left the next day. If he hadn’t, Del would have escorted him back to Los Angeles with a size-fourteen loafer shoved in a very uncomfortable place.

  Del bent and grabbed the letters and magazines. “You boys can’t pick up the mail?”

  “We didn’t see it,” Mark said. They frequently spoke for each other.

  “Maybe you need glasses,” Del said. He considered the two backpacks dropped near the front door beside their discarded tennis shoes and jackets. “Doesn’t look like you can see your backpack or clothes either.”

  They didn’t respond, which, for nine-year-old boys, was always an admission of guilt. They could ordinarily think up excuses on the fly. Del flipped through the mail and saw the name Allie Marcello in one of the windows. It looked like a check, likely Allie’s final payment from her job at the coffee shop. He didn’t need to see that at the moment, nor did his sister.

  Feeling tears, he said, “Okay. Come on into the kitchen. I got burritos.”

  The boys scrambled off the couch, following him like two dogs about to be fed. Del turned on the kitchen light. Pots, plates, and glasses filled with utensils littered the counter and the sink. Cabinet doors had been left open. A dish towel lay on the floor. He set the mail on the stack he’d placed on the tile counter the prior day, still unopened. His list of groceries had also not been touched.