“You think he’s high?” Del asked.
“Hard to tell,” Faz said. “Left leg is doing a hell of a jig under the table, though. Based on what the mom said, he might be coming down after a binge.” Faz paused and turned from the window, facing Del. “Listen, why don’t you let me handle this one on my own, at least to start. Let’s see what he’s going to say.”
“I’m good.”
“Del—”
“I’m good.” He looked Faz in the eye. “Seriously, I’m all right. I understand what we’re trying to get out of this guy and I’m not going to screw that up.”
“You’ll let me take the lead, right?”
“I understand.”
“So how do you want to play it?” Faz asked.
“Same as always,” Del said. He pulled open the door to the room and stepped into the hallway. “I’ll be the hard-ass. Comes naturally.”
Faz followed Del around the corner. Del pulled open the door to the interrogation room and Welch glanced up at him through his long hair. Faz picked up a chair from the hall and made a production of fitting it into the room and setting it beside the other chair. He and Del sat shoulder to shoulder and leaned across the table, further closing the space with Welch. The young man pulled back as far as the chain, attached to handcuffs on one end and hooked to an eye bolt in the floor, would allow. If Welch hadn’t been claustrophobic before, he was one step closer now. The leg kept shaking.
“You’re sure you don’t need any medical care?” Faz asked.
Welch shook his head.
“Is that a no?” Faz asked.
“Sit up,” Del said, voice harsh. Welch turned his head and looked at him. “I said sit up or we’re finished here. We take you to jail and we book you on a whole host of charges—eluding arrest, driving under the influence, dangerous and reckless driving and, while we’re at it, how does controlled substance homicide sound to you?” Del waited a beat before adding, “We’re not talking about the penny-ante, bullshit charges that allow you to walk out of here and go home to Mommy. We’re way past that, Jack.”
Welch flipped his hair from his eyes and looked from Del to Faz. He sat up. “Homicide?” He sounded confused, voice hoarse. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“No? Does the name Allie Marcello ring any bells?” Del didn’t give Welch time to answer. “We have e-mails, text messages, and Snapchats that prove you pressured Allie Marcello to buy and use heroin the night of her death. She was clean, J-Man.” He emphasized the e-mail name, saying it with sarcasm. “She’d been clean for almost two months until she came home and you started in on her.”
“I didn’t sell her any heroin,” he said, stuttering. “I wasn’t even there.”
“You’re lying,” Faz said, voice calm. “And we know you’re lying.”
“I just told you, genius, we got her phone and her computer, and your name is all over both. What, do you think we’re stupid?” Del let that thought linger a few moments.
Faz reengaged. “So let me lay this out for you, Jack. Controlled substance homicide isn’t one of those arrests where you’re out tomorrow. The prosecutor charges you—that’s about two weeks from now, and if you can’t make bail, and I doubt you can, you’re going to be locked away until trial, which no one is going to rush. Probably take place a year from now. After you’re convicted, and you will be convicted, you’re going away for a long time.”
Jack Welch looked like he was about to say something, but Faz cut him off—and Del knew it was deliberate, in case Welch had been about to ask for a lawyer. Faz spoke patiently, like the times Del had been present when Faz spoke to his kids about some dumb thing they’d done. Vera made him soften his tone. “We want to find out what happened to Allie Marcello, Jack. We want to find out where she got the drugs. You were her friend.”
“I was her friend,” Welch quickly agreed.
“And you were with her when she overdosed,” Faz said.
“No. I wasn’t there. I left.”
“But you were with her when she shot up the heroin,” Faz said.
“I was there, but I didn’t take any.”
The lie was unraveling, one thread at a time. Del exercised discretion. “She’d been sober, hadn’t she?”
“I don’t know.”
He leaned in closer. “Yes, you do. Her family sent her away. She’d been in Eastern Washington at a rehab facility. You e-mailed her because you couldn’t text her. She didn’t have her phone.”
Faz slid several of the e-mails Del had printed across the table. Welch flipped his hair out of his eyes and looked down at them, but did not pick them up. “When she got her phone back you continued pressuring her to see you.”
“No, that isn’t true.”
Faz slid more of Allie’s text messages across the table. “She finally gave in.”
“Her mother found her in her bedroom,” Del said. “Her last text indicates you were with her that night. So don’t tell us you weren’t there because we already know you were.”
“You needed her,” Faz said. “You needed her money to make the buy.” Faz tapped the papers. “We want to know where you got the heroin.”
Welch inhaled and leaned away from the table, blowing out a breath. He started to cry. “She took too much. I told her she took too much. But she was fine when I left. I swear she was fine. She was snoring.”
Snoring was not a good sign, Del knew. Snoring was an indication that her respiratory system was struggling, that fluid was building up in her lungs.
“We want to believe you,” Faz said, calm. “But we can’t prove it unless we know where you got the heroin.”
Welch’s chest shuddered. “She bought it. She bought it from this guy. I don’t know who he is.”
Del looked at Faz, shaking his head. It was time to amp up the pressure. “We’re not going to get any straight answers out of this guy. I’m going to call the prosecutor and get him booked.” Del stood and pulled open the door, shoving the chair into the hall and stepping out. The wall rattled when he closed the door.
Del moved quickly around the corner and slipped into the room with the one-way mirror in time to hear Faz sigh as if he wasn’t sure what to do. Faz spread his hands wide, then clasped them in front of him. “Here’s the problem I’m having, Jack.” He nodded to the papers on the table. “All those e-mails and text messages, they confirm you were with Allie the night she died.”
“I was; I told you I was.”
“They also confirm that you, not her, know the guy who sold the two of you the heroin. I don’t come up with a name of that guy then I got one choice where to go. Her family is going to want accountability, Jack. They’re going to want someone held accountable for their daughter’s death.” Faz pointed across the table. “You’re that guy. My partner’s right, Jack—this is no longer just a possession charge. Controlled substance homicide is a felony. You go to prison when convicted of a felony. That’s after a trial, which will make all the newspapers and social media. Are you willing to throw away years of your life for some dope dealer?”
Welch didn’t immediately respond. Faz sat back, and Del knew Welch was letting those final words rattle around in his head. If Welch had a brain, he’d recognize that Faz was suggesting an out, an alternative to a long jail sentence.
Finally, Welch said, “What will happen to him?”
Bingo, Del thought from the other side of the glass. Now to reel him in.
“This guy a friend of yours?” Faz asked.
Jack said, “Hypothetically . . . I mean, if I knew him. What will happen to him?”
Faz shrugged. “I can’t say for certain, Jack, but I can say that, if he cooperates, the judge would look more favorably on him than he’s going to look on you if you don’t provide a name.”
“Can I call him? Can I talk to him?”
Faz shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way, Jack. You give me his name and I’ll bring him in. You don’t even have to be involved.”
“But he would
know, right? He’d know that I’m the one who told you.”
“We don’t have to use your name. We can say we found his name in Allie’s contacts. Had she bought from this person before?”
Welch nodded.
“So his name is probably in her phone contacts. We could say we found his name in her phone.”
A nice move, Del again thought. Let the kid think he could hide his involvement.
Jack gave this some additional thought. When he stared at the tabletop, Faz glanced at the one-way mirror, knowing Del stood watching and listening on the other side.
He reengaged Welch. “What are you afraid of, Jack? Has this guy threatened you in some way?”
Welch shook his head. “No.”
“So, he’s a friend of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“You know what, Jack? I don’t think he’s your friend.” Welch looked up at him. “You have to ask yourself, would this guy go to prison for you if the situation was reversed?”
Jack shook his head and wiped at his nose with the cuff of his shirt.
“So what are you so worried about?”
“He runs the band.”
“Excuse me?”
“He runs CHAOS, our band.”
Del couldn’t believe the kid’s logic, or lack thereof, but then the stupidity of teenagers had always amazed him. Jack Welch was facing years in prison, and what was foremost on his mind was whether he’d be kicked out of some garage band.
“And what, you’re afraid you’ll be out of the band?” Faz asked, again keeping his voice calm and understanding.
Welch nodded.
Faz cleared his throat. “I want you to think about this, Jack. Okay? Follow along with me here. If you protect this guy, and you go away to prison for, say, five years, do you think he’s going to hold your place in the band until you get out?”
Welch looked up when Faz said “five years.” Faz leaned forward and arched his eyebrows to drive home his point.
“No,” Jack said, soft and tentative.
Faz gave a closed-lip smile, shaking his head. “There’s not going to be any band, Jack. Not with you in it.”
CHAPTER 29
Dan called the months that Tracy worked the night shift “vampire time.” If he was busy at his law firm, as he was now, they could go days without seeing each other in daylight. This was one of those months. Tracy’s day off, midweek, she’d slid out of bed after Dan was already long gone. He’d left a note that he’d be in a deposition most of the day. Tracy ran errands, then drove across the 520 bridge to visit Kins in Seattle.
She’d received daily phone updates on his progress from Kins or his wife, Shannah. Kins had been out of bed and walking the day of his surgery, and he left Swedish Hospital and went home the following day. Though he lived in Madison Park, an expensive Seattle neighborhood, Kins called it “Kinsington Estates.” His house was accessed just over a cement bridge so narrow it could only accommodate a single car—not that traffic was a problem. Once across the bridge, there were only two homes before the start of the Seattle Arboretum—Kins’s three-story white colonial and a Spanish-style manor with an orange tile roof and leaded-glass windows. Tracy had always admired the second house, but the owners would never sell. The two couples were the same age, with children close in age, and shared the same interests. According to Kins, life couldn’t possibly get any better.
Kins’s home was classic colonial architecture with a large dining room, living room, and small kitchen on the ground floor, and a large master bedroom, one bathroom, and two small bedrooms on the second floor—not exactly functional for three boys. Kins had spent much of his free time during the early years building out the daylight basement: adding bedrooms, a large bathroom, and a rumpus room with a pool table, sofas, and a television. A back door led to the arboretum, 230 acres of lawn and exotic plants and trees almost big enough to accommodate his three boys.
Tracy parked in a cutout in front of Kins’s home and accessed the yard through a green gate. She carried a stack of magazines and several books the office had cobbled together to keep Kins occupied during his recovery. That was a tall order. Kins had a kinetic energy much like his sons. Keeping him immobile to allow his hip healing time would be a real chore for Shannah.
Shannah answered the door, but Kins called out immediately, expecting Tracy. “Crosswhite? Took you long enough. I’m dying in here and the office doesn’t even bother to comfort me.”
Shannah rolled her eyes. “He sounds like he’s dying, doesn’t he? I’m the one dying.” She looked at the stack of reading material. “Thank God. That should last him at least a day or two.”
Shannah and the boys had moved a bed into the living room so Kins wouldn’t have to immediately climb the narrow stairs up to their bedroom.
“Well, I can see you’re a good patient,” Tracy said, walking in.
“I’m going stir-crazy and I’ve been home less than forty-eight hours.”
Kins hadn’t shaved, and it reminded Tracy of when they’d first met. He’d worked undercover narcotics and had grown a wispy goatee and long hair, earning the nickname Jack Sparrow after the Johnny Depp character in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.
“I’m making lunch, Tracy. Can you stay?” Shannah asked.
“I’m not sure I want to.” She cocked a thumb at Kins. “Does he have to be here?”
“Not if you put a pillow over his head when I leave the room.”
“You know I could get this kind of love at the office from Del and Faz,” Kins said.
“Maybe, but they definitely wouldn’t share their lunch,” Tracy said.
Shannah departed for the kitchen. Tracy pulled over a chair and sat at the side of the bed. “The office put this together for you.” She placed the reading material on Kins’s bed. Soft music played from a black speaker. “So how are you doing?”
“The drugs are making me tired and loopy, but I’ve already started to wean myself off them. Just don’t like the way they make me feel.”
“And the pain?”
“Surprisingly little,” he said. “Everyone was right. I should have had the surgery two years ago. How’s work? Did they move anyone in to take my place?”
“Ron’s helping out,” she said, referring to Ron Mayweather, the A Team’s fifth wheel. “We’re doing okay.”
“What’s happening with D’Andre Miller and Trejo?”
Like most detectives, Kins didn’t like to feel out of touch and had a subconscious desire to be needed.
“How much medication are you on?”
“Why, something bothering you?”
“Something’s not right about this whole thing,” Tracy said. “Something about Trejo has been bothering me from the start.”
“Like what was he doing in Seattle in the first place?”
“That, for sure. But if he hit D’Andre Miller accidentally, why wouldn’t he own up to it?” Tracy said.
Kins called out, “Alexa, off.” The music from the black speaker tower stopped. “My latest toy from Amazon; the boys steal it when they have friends over.” He adjusted in the bed. “People do stupid things for stupid reasons all the time. I should know, with three sons. I think they get caught up in the moment and then it’s like a fly in a spider’s web. They can’t get out.”
Shannah entered the room carrying a plate with two sandwiches, iced tea, and cherry tomatoes. She set everything down on the coffee table. “Okay, I’m out. The boys have soccer practice so it will be a two-hour reprieve . . . I mean two hours of drudgery.”
“Funny,” Kins said. “You’re a regular Conan O’Brien.”
“You need anything while I’m out?” Shannah asked, bending down to kiss him.
Kins smiled. “Potato chips?”
“Nice try.” She kissed Kins, said good-bye to Tracy, and departed out the front door.
“Are you dieting too?” Tracy asked.
“I’m going to kill Del. He called the other day checking on me, and he and Sh
annah talked for half an hour. He says he’s lost fifteen pounds.”
“Might be more than that now. He looks good,” Tracy said.
“Yeah, well, so now Shannah is telling me this would be a good time to get healthy.”
“Might be.” Tracy picked up half a sandwich and started eating. After a minute she said, “Let’s assume Trejo isn’t stupid. Let’s assume he couldn’t stop.”
“You mean his brakes were out, something like that?”
“I mean what if he was doing something illegal, something that could have got him in bigger trouble if he’d been caught.”
“Bigger trouble than running a kid down?” Kins popped a tomato into his mouth.
“What if he’d been drunk or high when he hit the kid?”
Kins gave it some thought. “It would explain why he abandoned the car.”
“But not necessarily how he knew the lot was there. The easement looks like a driveway.”
“You’d drive right past it unless you knew about it,” Kins agreed.
“And he said he was from San Diego and didn’t get over to Seattle often.”
“So he either already knew about it . . . somehow, or someone let him know about it,” Kins said.
Tracy took another bite of her sandwich. “He also had to know we would figure out his car wasn’t stolen.” CSI had not found any marks on the ignition switch and nothing untoward with regard to the wires underneath the dash to indicate a theft. “Which is why he concocted that story about keeping a hide-a-key under the back bumper.”
“No real way to disprove it,” Kins said.
“No, there isn’t. But again, doesn’t it indicate someone thought this through? It seems a bit more sophisticated than I’d give Trejo credit for,” she said.
“Like the interior of the car being wiped down, including the air bag,” Kins said. “It sounds like a lawyer, Tracy.”
Tracy sipped her iced tea. “Someone who knows about liability and evidence for sure,” she agreed.
“Battles?”
“Maybe. But I keep thinking, what does she get out of it?” She finished her half of the sandwich and wiped her hands with a napkin. “I could make an argument why she might take the videotape, but that doesn’t get us to who helped Trejo hide the car and get home that night.”
Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5) Page 21