Ron Mayweather had busted his hump to get the warrant signed by a King County judge and have it properly served on Kitsap’s commanding officer, Peter Lopresti. The warrant had apparently then been transferred to the security officer, also located in the DSO building. He advised Mayweather that he’d made a copy of the security video for the night in question and provided it to Stanley, which Leah Battles had also confirmed. After a phone call, Tracy had a meeting.
Stanley begged off shaking Tracy’s hand. “I’m feeling a cold coming on,” she said. She had an officious demeanor emphasized by piercing brown eyes. She folded her dark hair, cut short, behind her ears, revealing gold stud earrings. The haircut framed narrow features, but Stanley was not small. In her boots she stood perhaps five foot six or five foot seven, and though it was difficult to tell from her baggy uniform, she didn’t appear petite. She sat behind a gunmetal-gray desk. Tracy took one of the two chairs across from her.
“I understand Laszlo Trejo shot himself last night at Old Mill Park,” Stanley said, subtlety apparently not part of her repertoire.
“Where did you hear that?” Tracy asked.
Stanley sat erect, hands folded on her desk pad. She maintained a serious, no-nonsense demeanor. “Word travels fast on a military base, Detective.”
“Yes, Laszlo Trejo was shot.”
Stanley’s eyebrows, well groomed, inched together. “You seem to doubt it was self-inflicted.”
“I don’t know that it was or wasn’t,” Tracy said. “That’s Bremerton’s jurisdiction, and the results of an autopsy will take time.”
“And what’s your jurisdiction?” Stanley pulled open a drawer, unwrapped a cough drop, and put it in her mouth.
“D’Andre Miller,” Tracy said. She didn’t like Stanley’s attitude. Didn’t like the way she treated Tracy like a subordinate. Tracy had never been in the military, but she knew the officers, in particular, could be rank conscious.
“Does SPD plan to pursue D’Andre Miller’s death?”
“I’m just a worker bee. That decision is well above my pay grade. I’m sure you can appreciate that,” Tracy said.
Stanley’s lip curled slightly as she worked the cough drop, but she didn’t verbally respond. She picked up the search warrant from her desk pad, the only visible piece of paper in the room, and considered it as if seeing it for the first time. Somewhere down the hall an unanswered telephone rang. Voices called out. After a minute, roughly, Stanley set the warrant down.
“You’re interested in the security video taken inside this building the night before Petty Officer Trejo’s Article 32 hearing.”
“I understand from your security officer that you asked to have the tape copied and he provided it.”
“I secured a copy the day after the hearing,” Stanley said. “I thought it prudent.”
“Why was that?” Tracy asked.
Stanley gave a small shrug. “Leah Battles works for me and the allegations being made are serious. It has been suggested that she had something to do with the cassette tape being missing. I wanted to confirm who was in the building after her departure.”
“What did you find?”
She shook her head. “Just the janitors.”
“No one else entered or exited?”
“No.” Stanley pulled open a desk drawer and removed what looked to be a multipage document. “Your warrant also asked for the list of persons who entered the building that evening and the last four digits of their Social Security numbers.” She handed the document across the desk. Tracy took it and considered the names.
Stanley said, “Between approximately eleven p.m. and six a.m. the following morning, no one entered the building . . . other than the janitors.”
Tracy would review the document in more detail later. She set it on her lap. “Do you know how the video system works?”
Stanley smiled. “I’m not very computer literate, Detective. I was a poli-sci major in college. What I can tell you is what the security officer told me when he provided the tape.”
“Please,” Tracy said.
“It’s an IP system. The video footage for the day and night feeds into a computer in the security office, and sits on the network until the tape rolls over and it gets recorded over.”
“How long is it on the system before it’s recorded over?”
“I don’t know.”
“You asked for a disc?”
“I didn’t have a choice. From what the security officer told me, the cameras are of high quality, which means the footage takes up a lot of storage space. To upload more than six hours of high-quality camera footage would require multiple gigabytes, which I’m told, in unscientific terms, is a lot—enough to crash my computer. So they burned me a disc. I asked them to burn you one as well.”
She reached again into the drawer and handed Tracy a five-by-eight manila envelope. “You’ve watched it?” Tracy asked.
Stanley nodded. “Several times. I also showed it to Lieutenant Battles. You see anything I might have missed, I’d welcome knowing. Leah is a good person and an excellent lawyer. I’d hate to lose her.”
With that, Stanley stood, their meeting over.
On the ferry crossing back to Seattle, Tracy quickly slid into a booth near the big plate-glass windows, opened her laptop, inserted the DVD disc, and waited for the computer to load the video. Rain spotted the glass as the ferry crossed into the wind, and she smelled theater popcorn and hot dogs from the cafeteria. It reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the prior evening, but she put off food for the moment.
An image popped onto the screen—a camera angle looking down on the interior of what she recognized from her earlier visit to be the DSO office lobby. She noted a date and time stamp in the lower right-hand corner and scribbled it on a legal pad.
March 18 2016 10:00 p.m.
She hit “Play.” The seconds on the time stamp ticked forward. She kept the pen and notepad close at hand.
Her cell phone vibrated and rattled on the table. Habit caused her to answer it, though she let the tape continue to play. She expected the caller to be Dan, but the 360 area code indicated the caller was from Bremerton.
“I’m assuming you’re long gone?” John Owens said.
“I am,” Tracy said, not elaborating. “What can I do for you?”
“We didn’t find the slug that killed Trejo,” he said. “However, the medical examiner indicates it was likely .40 caliber.”
“The caliber of Trejo’s weapon, which we know had been discharged.”
“Correct. I thought you should also know that Battles owns a Glock .40 and we’ve secured it.”
“And?”
“It hasn’t been fired anytime recently. We also spoke to Trejo’s wife. She confirmed Trejo was right-handed.”
“So it’s unlikely Trejo shot himself.”
“Seems that way, but here’s the problem I was having with that theory—Trejo brought the gun out there with him for a reason, right?”
“Seems logical.”
“So we can assume he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the situation, whatever it was, and likely would have been on guard. Assuming that to have been the case, I’m wondering, how would someone get ahold of his gun?”
It made sense, but Tracy heard something in the tone of Owens’s voice, a lilt indicating he had something else, another piece of information. “You have something more you can share?” she asked.
For a moment Tracy thought they’d been disconnected. Then Owens spoke. “I got a video I want you to take a look at. I found it today online. I’ll send the link to your e-mail.”
“What is it?”
“Just look at it. I don’t want to color your perception. After you do, call me back.” Owens disconnected.
Tracy stopped the video playing on her computer and went into her e-mail account. She saw Owens’s e-mail, opened it, and clicked on the link. As she watched, she leaned forward, feeling a rush of heat much like when she’d been having hot flashes.
“I’ll be damned,” she said.
A little more than an hour later, Tracy dropped her briefcase on the floor beside her cubicle closet. Del and Faz, seated at their desks, both took notice. “You got to see this,” she said.
“Got a lot to tell you,” Del said, pushing away from his desk and approaching.
“Got a lot to show you,” Tracy said. She sat at her desk without taking off her jacket, entered her password, and pulled up her e-mail.
Del and Faz stood behind her. “What is it?” Faz asked.
“Just watch.”
They hovered over her as she pulled up the link in Owens’s e-mail and skipped the advertisement. As the video played, she rolled back her chair to give Del and Faz a better view of her screen monitor. In the video, a man and a woman stood arm’s-length apart. They each wore black T-shirts, the man in shorts, the woman in sweatpants. The man held a faux yellow-colored gun at the woman’s chest, while narrating in a thick British accent. In a split second, he no longer held the gun; the woman had disarmed him, and aimed the gun at his head.
“What is this?” Del said.
“YouTube,” Tracy said. “The Bremerton detective sent it to me. The woman in the video is Leah Battles.”
“The defense attorney?” Faz asked, sounding incredulous.
“Same one.”
They watched as the instructor went back through the disarming, this time step-by-step. Battles held the gun at his chest. Moving slow and deliberately, the instructor pivoted sideways, out of the line of fire, while simultaneously gripping the wrist holding the gun with his left hand and violently snapping the barrel in the opposite direction with his free hand.
“If her finger was on the trigger,” the instructor said, “it would be broken.”
He moved to the next technique. This time Battles held the gun at his abdomen. As with the prior example, the instructor moved too quickly for Tracy to fully assess his actions, but somehow he’d again disarmed Battles and aimed the gun at her.
“Damn,” Faz said.
The instructor went back through the four-step technique that resulted in his yanking the gun free.
As the third technique started, Tracy said, “This is the one I wanted you to see.”
The instructor pointed the barrel of the gun at Leah Battles’s forehead. “The key,” he said, “is once you make the decision to move, you cannot hesitate.”
Battles ducked while raising her arms. She gripped the weapon and shoved the barrel toward the ceiling as her right knee simulated a blow to the groin. Stepping away, she bent the barrel into her assailant and snapped his wrists down, yanking free the gun.
“What is this stuff?” Del asked again.
Tracy sat back, still staring at the video. “Krav Maga,” she said.
“Krav what?” Faz said.
“It’s the way Leah Battles could have taken Laszlo Trejo’s gun and shot him.”
CHAPTER 40
After a very long night working to put together a coordinated effort between the Seattle Narcotics Unit, SWAT, and the Violent Crimes Section, Del and Faz accompanied a SWAT team to the home of Eric Tseng at just before four in the morning.
Tseng’s rental in Rainier Beach was not far from the intersection in which Trejo ran down D’Andre Miller, as well as the easement where they’d located Trejo’s Subaru. The address likely explained who came to Trejo’s rescue the night of the hit and run. If Tseng was a seasoned drug dealer, he might also have had the forethought to wipe down the interior of the car, including the air bag, to eliminate prints. It didn’t, however, explain how the convenience store videotape had gone missing.
Earlier surveillance revealed the home to be a rambler—a rectangular structure with pea-green wood siding. Instead of just the one story, which was traditional for ramblers, the house had two stories, with the two-car garage located below the front walk and the three stairs leading up to the front door. The door and ground-floor windows were protected by black security grates. Most problematic, however, were the two dogs roaming a cyclone-fenced front yard. They looked to be a mixed breed and they weren’t small. They also barked when anyone walked near the fence. Sneaking up to the house would not be an option, even armed with a “no-knock” warrant from the King County court, which allowed SWAT to raid the home without announcing themselves.
As agreed, the tactical team used two armored vehicles and multiple officers to cordon off the street and the easement behind the home. Once the officers were in place, two animal control officers went through the gate, secured the dogs, and moved them out of the yard. At the same time, to distract anyone inside the house from the dogs’ barking, a SWAT team negotiator called the cell number Tseng had provided to Evans. She shook her head.
“No answer.”
The SWAT team leader, a burly man named Glenn Ekey, asked her to call the number again. She did, with the same result.
Not wanting to wait and potentially give Tseng time to arm himself or dispose of evidence, Ekey gave the order to proceed.
At just after 4:00 a.m., Del watched SWAT members, dressed in full tactical gear, move toward the front door carrying a battering ram. The metal security door opened with a loud clatter and the wood door gave way with what sounded like a pop. The SWAT officers entered quickly and with practiced precision. Del heard their voices broadcast over the radio as they searched room to room, clearing them. Lights in the adjacent houses and across the street snapped on. Dogs barked. A few of the neighbors stepped out onto their porches in pajamas, shorts, and T-shirts.
Del and Faz waited.
Within minutes of entering, two of the SWAT officers stepped back out the front door to speak to Ekey. Ekey listened, then turned and gestured for Faz and Del to approach.
“Do you know what this guy looks like?” Ekey asked.
“Just from DMV photos,” Del said, not getting a good feeling about what the SWAT team had found inside the house and what he was about to see.
Ekey led Del and Faz inside. The upper floor was sparsely furnished. Descending stairs, Del heard music and smelled a pungent odor. The music and smell became more prominent when they followed Ekey into a daylight basement with a 72-inch television, recliner chairs, and a fully stocked bar. Someone shut off the music. Eliminating the pungent smell would not be so simple. Eric Tseng sat slumped in one of the recliners, head flopped to the side, blood splattered on the leather and pooled on the floor. Del estimated the kill was at least a couple days old, very probably the same night as Laszlo Trejo.
CHAPTER 41
Tracy arrived at the cottage in Redmond in dire need of sleep. After managing just a few fitful hours in the Bremerton hotel room, she’d worked through the day and the night, waiting to hear from Del and Faz about the raid on Eric Tseng’s home.
Del finally called at 5:00 a.m. The news was not good. He told her that they’d located a concrete room adjacent to the man cave where they’d found Tseng’s body. The room had been secured by a steel door. Inside they’d found a glistening metal table and a floor with a drain. Everything else had been cleaned out, and the room held the smell of lemon and bleach. Del said the room was built for someone to clean up quickly, and they likely had. They found no remnants of heroin, no scales or plastic bags. Detectives from CID would go over the house anyway, including pulling the trap on the drain to take samples.
A canvass of the residents in the neighborhood had also failed to reveal any of the telltale signs of a drug operation. The neighbors did not recall random cars or people showing up at all hours of the day and night. In fact, they described Tseng as friendly but private, and said he kept mostly to himself. One neighbor recalled several different women at the home, but she couldn’t identify any of them and didn’t think much of it since Tseng was single. Tseng told his neighbors he ran a software consulting business out of his house, but that fieldwork often required him to leave at odd hours of the day and night to troubleshoot client problems.
Tracy kicked off her boots
and set them outside the front door, entering in her socks so as not to wake Dan, if he were still sleeping. However, the sound of the lock disengaging, and the door rattling open—it stuck in the jamb in the winter months—awoke Rex and Sherlock, and the two dogs bolted from the bedroom, barking. Dan followed several steps behind them. Dressed in shorts, socks, and a sweatshirt, he looked to be on his way out the door for a run. “I’ll bet you’re going to be glad when your night shift is over,” he said.
She made her way to the dining room table where she discarded her briefcase, purse, and her jacket. “I don’t even know what shift I’m working anymore.” She shook her head and immediately regretted doing so. Her temples pulsed—a sleep-deprivation-induced headache.
Dan bent to kiss her.
She pulled back. “Better not. My breath must smell like moldy cheese, given what my mouth tastes like.”
“I’d ask if you wanted to go for a run, but I think I know the answer.”
“The only thing I’m running to is the bed.” She walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Then she rummaged in the cabinets for aspirin.
“Why so late?” He looked at his watch. “Or should I say early?”
“We raided the home of the guy Trejo was supposedly supplying. I wanted to wait and find out what happened.”
“And?”
She drank in large gulps. “We found him,” she said, lowering the glass. “Nothing else. No drugs, no drug paraphernalia.”
“Doesn’t sound good,” Dan said.
She exited the kitchen and walked into the bedroom. “Shot in the temple, like Trejo. Del said it was probably about the same time too.”
“Somebody cleaning up,” Dan said.
“Looks that way. They’re processing the house, but no one is optimistic.” She shimmied her jeans over her hips and sat on the bed to pull them off. “This one just gets more and more confusing.”
Tracy pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. Sherlock, seizing his chance, leapt onto the duvet cover and plopped down in the center of the mattress. Dan sat on the edge, Rex at his feet, looking up at him as if to say, I thought we were going on a run!
Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5) Page 27