“How did you get past the drug tests and the mandatory medical exams?” Battles asked.
“Finding urine isn’t difficult, especially for money, and I inject in places that aren’t readily obvious.”
“So here’s how this is going to go,” Owens said. “We went to the security office after Detective Crosswhite here learned that the tape you provided had been edited. I’ll testify that the actual tape showed Leah Battles entering and leaving the DSO that night. Since the original will be destroyed, there won’t be anything to refute what I say. The ethics decision is fortuitous. After the ethics committee issued their decision to go forward with her court-martial, Lieutenant Battles knew you possessed a copy of the security tape and asked to meet with you outside the office for a drink,” he said to Stanley. “When you agreed, she forced you at gunpoint to come to your apartment to get that tape, which she believed to be in your briefcase.”
He addressed Battles. “Detective Crosswhite and I, upon reviewing the original tape, learned that the two of you left together in Captain Stanley’s car. Using deductive reasoning I won’t bore you with, we found you here. You had Captain Stanley’s gun, which won’t be difficult for anyone to believe once they review the Krav Maga video I sent to Detective Crosswhite earlier this week. Detective Crosswhite entered the apartment first and you managed to shoot her, but I managed to shoot you.”
Tracy looked at Stanley and her mind went white, completely and totally blank. It was as if someone had wiped it clean, removed all the clutter, then started it again, allowing her to see things as she might not have, in a manner she hadn’t even considered until that very moment. She’d read somewhere of a phenomenon referred to as “the eureka effect”—when a person suddenly understands a previously incomprehensible problem or concept.
“He’s going to kill you,” Tracy said to Stanley.
Battles and Stanley shifted their gaze, uncertain to whom Tracy was speaking. Tracy looked directly at Stanley. “He’s going to kill you.”
Stanley looked perplexed but tried to laugh off the comment.
“He has to. You had the copy of the tape and provided it to me—that copy has been edited. But the original still exists. And you’re on it.”
“The original will be destroyed,” Owens said, his voice calm.
“Think about it,” Tracy said. “How is he going to explain that tape in my office that came from you? How’s he going to explain who edited it?”
“I’ll say it was Battles,” Owens said.
“But I never asked for the tape,” Battles said, seeing Tracy’s logic.
“You’d be questioned, at the very least,” Tracy said to Stanley. “He can’t take that chance any more than he could take the chance that Trejo might have talked. Or that his dealer in Seattle might have talked. So now he’s going to get you to shoot me. Then he’s going to kill you.”
“Shut up,” Owens said. Tracy turned to him. She knew he couldn’t shoot her, not with his own gun, which was a different caliber than Stanley’s weapon, a .38. He needed Stanley to use her gun for everything to work.
“Think about it,” Tracy said to Stanley. “That gun, your gun, has your fingerprints all over it. He’s going to say you shot me and he shot the two of you.”
Stanley glanced at Owens, perhaps beginning to comprehend her situation.
“She’s trying to confuse you,” he said.
“You pull that trigger and he’s going to shoot you. It’s common logic. It’s the only way he walks out of this.”
“We’re going to walk out of this together,” Owens said.
“He’s lying,” Tracy said. “Did he let Trejo walk out of it?”
“We’ll get out of it and after things die down we’ll both walk away, just like we discussed.”
“He’s lying,” Tracy repeated. “He never meant anything he said. He sees you as nothing but a junkie and he’s been playing you, just like he played me. He’s a con man and he’s conning you.”
“Shut up,” Owens said with greater force. Then to Stanley he said, “Shoot her.”
Stanley pointed the gun at Tracy.
“You pull that trigger and you’re dead,” Tracy said again. “Just think it through.”
“Shoot her, Goddamn it!”
She spoke over him. “He can’t tie all the pieces together with you still alive.”
“Shoot her!”
“He has to blame someone for the edited security tape. How’s he going to do that with you still alive?”
“She’s lying. I’ll say it was Battles. Shoot her.”
“But the tape came from you,” Tracy said. “You requested it. And they’re not going to destroy the original. I told them to hold it as police evidence. You’re on that tape. He knows it.”
Owens redirected his aim at Stanley. “Shoot her, dammit. Or I’ll shoot you.”
“That’s the evidence he needs, irrefutable. You’re on that tape, a junkie. You were working with Battles and Trejo to get the heroin because you’re a junkie. That’s the story he’s going to tell. It’s the only story that makes sense.”
Stanley’s hand quivered. Her eyes became two black spheres of doubt. She was figuring out that Tracy was telling the truth.
Tracy flinched on purpose, as if going for her gun. Owens redirected his aim at her but didn’t pull the trigger. “You see, he can’t shoot me. It’s the wrong caliber gun. He needs you to do it.”
“Shoot her,” Owens urged.
Tracy spoke louder, her voice rising over Owens’s voice and the increasing noise from the storm outside. “Don’t do it. It’s the only way you might walk out of here alive.”
“Idiot,” Owens said and he shifted the gun to Stanley. She too readjusted her aim. The guns exploded in the small apartment, three reverberating blasts, two from Owens’s gun and one from Stanley’s. The shots propelled Stanley backward as if she were a puppet tied to a jerked string. She crashed hard into the wall, slumping to the floor.
Owens had turned his upper body sideways, reducing the size of the target. Stanley’s bullet exploded in the Sheetrock behind him, leaving a large pucker wound.
Tracy didn’t deduce this as it all happened. She hadn’t deduced any of it in real time. She’d dropped at the first movement, as she’d been trained, knowing escape was impossible, knowing that her gun remained on the floor and was her only hope. She hit the ground, grabbed her gun, and rolled onto her side, taking aim at Owens.
About to pull the trigger, Tracy froze. Leah Battles struck in a series of lightning-fast movements. Battles had Owens’s gun and arms raised over his head and delivered a debilitating knee to his groin, dropping him as she wrenched free his weapon and stepped back, out of Owens’s reach. She spoke over her shoulder to Tracy, though her focus, and her aim, remained on Owens. “Do you play chess, Detective?”
“Like I said, not very often and not very well.”
“Too bad. I got a hunch that, with some practice, you’d be a badass chess player too.”
CHAPTER 46
A neighbor who’d heard the shots called the Bremerton Police Department and police descended on The Crow’s Nest. They first encountered Tracy, who’d stepped outside of the building holding up her badge. She spoke calmly, deliberately explaining what had happened, and told them that the weapons had been secured. Inside the apartment, the police found Detective John Owens seated on the carpet, hands cuffed behind his back. After another half hour of explanation, Owens was removed from the apartment, and Tracy and Battles were allowed to leave the apartment and go outside while forensics did its work. They were each told not to go far.
The sky remained a frothing mix of clouds, but, for the moment at least, the rain had stopped. The parking lot had filled with Bremerton and Kitsap County police vehicles and enough officers to take down the army of a small country. Fire trucks, ambulances, and the Kitsap County coroner’s van had also arrived. There was no rush. Rebecca Stanley had died from the two gunshot wounds to her chest. Along the
street, behind a police line, several news vehicles and apartment residents stood waiting and watching.
Battles talked on her cell phone. Tracy had requested that she call the security officer, David Bakhtiari. Tracy wanted to be certain nobody destroyed the DSO security tape for March 18.
Battles disconnected and stepped toward Tracy. “He’d already tagged the tape before he left for the day. It wasn’t going to get destroyed anytime soon. I also spoke to our CO. He’s sending out NCIS.”
“When they get here, tell them to take a number.”
Tracy and Battles stood silent, watching the officers. In time they both would have to give statements.
“What will you do?” Tracy asked Battles.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean in the future, when this is resolved; what are you going to do?”
Battles shook her head. “I don’t know, Detective. That all seems a long way off right now. And things are going to be pretty screwed up around the base for a while. I imagine they’ll undertake a full-blown investigation of Trejo, whether he had assistance and for how long. It could take some time. I doubt they’ll get anything out of Owens except a request for a lawyer.”
Tracy nodded. Battles was likely right. After a beat, she asked, “How much longer are you enlisted?”
“How long is my commission? Four years on active duty followed by four years inactive status. I’ll be done with my active duty in less than a year.”
“Then what?”
Battles shrugged. “I don’t know. At the moment I’m just trying to process what went on here and how the hell I got in the middle of it.”
“You defended Trejo,” she said. “You rode your bike down to the jail and asked to see him.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Battles said.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just some good motherly advice.”
“You think you’ll stay here?”
“Bremerton?” She shook her head. “No.”
“Seattle?” Tracy said.
Battles shrugged again. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on the job opportunities, and the men.”
“My husband’s a lawyer.”
Tracy liked Battles. She was a strong personality, but so was Tracy. Maybe the two of them would be too much for Dan to handle, but it sounded as if Battles had plenty of experience and could hit the ground running.
Battles raised an eyebrow. “I assume you’re happily married, so . . . what type of law?”
“Mostly plaintiffs’ personal injury, but also some criminal defense work.”
“Is he any good?”
“He’s had to turn down cases because he doesn’t have the time to work them. He’s thinking about slowing down and taking on help.”
“Slowing down? What are you, forty?”
Tracy smiled. “He’s done pretty well.”
“He must have.” Battles seemed to ponder the idea for a moment. “I like the sound of that,” she said.
“Plaintiffs’ work?”
“Retiring at forty.”
Tracy smiled. “Slowing down, not retiring; I don’t want him around the house that much.”
“Lieutenant?” A detective approached Battles. “We’d like to take a statement.”
Battles nodded and stepped toward him. She stopped and looked back at Tracy. “Tell your husband I’m interested. But also tell him I don’t come cheap.”
CHAPTER 47
The following morning, Tracy knocked on the door in Rainier Beach. She was under orders from Clarridge to speak to the family in person, though she hadn’t needed an order to do so. This was a conversation she wanted to have. She took a deep breath and the door pulled open. Shaniqua Miller’s mother gave Tracy an inquisitive glare.
“Good morning,” Tracy said. “Is Shaniqua home?”
The mother grimaced. Tracy thought she might close the door. “Hang on a moment, please.”
Tracy heard voices inside the house. She also smelled coffee and perhaps something baking in the oven.
Moments later, Shaniqua Miller appeared in the doorway and gave Tracy the same inquisitive glare as her mother. Behind her, down the hall, her two young boys stood watching, dressed in their pajamas.
“Good morning,” Tracy said.
“It’s awful early for a house call, Detective.”
“I apologize, but it got too late last night to bring you the news, and I didn’t want to tell you over the phone or have you find out from the news media.”
Shaniqua Miller’s brow furrowed. She turned back to the interior. “Mom, can you take the boys into the kitchen, please?” After the mother had ushered the boys from the hallway, Shaniqua said to Tracy, “What kind of news?”
“We know what happened to your son and we know why. And the people responsible are going to be tried. I know you’ve heard this before, but I’m confident this time they’ll go to jail.”
Shaniqua Miller pressed her lips tight but did not cry. Her mother, who had reappeared at the door, reached for and gripped her daughter’s hand. “Are you sure?” Shaniqua said, her voice rough with emotion.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re sure.”
The two women turned and hugged, crying without reservation. The two little boys, ignoring their grandmother’s instructions, came down the hall and buried their faces in their mother’s clothes. Tracy didn’t try to interrupt them. She didn’t try to say anything. She just let them cry.
After several minutes, Shaniqua recovered her composure and wiped at her tears, taking deep breaths. “Thank you,” she said.
Tracy nodded. “I can tell you more later, when it’s a little better time. I just wanted you to know that we never forgot about your son.” She handed Shaniqua a business card. “Call me when you get a chance and we’ll set up a time to talk.” She started down the steps to the concrete path.
“Detective?”
Tracy stopped and turned at the foot of the steps.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But he was my boy and . . .”
“You don’t need to apologize, Mrs. Miller. I know exactly what you mean. And I would have been just as frustrated and disillusioned. But I’m not going to let this one go. I’ll stay involved until the people responsible are behind bars. Some of them are dead, but the person most responsible will have a first hearing very soon and he’ll be arraigned on multiple charges.”
Shaniqua stepped down to Tracy and motioned back to the front door. “Please,” she said. “My mother just made coffee and I’m baking scones. We have homemade jam.”
Tracy nodded. “I’d like that,” she said.
EPILOGUE
Leah Battles reinserted her identification back beneath her riding clothes and coasted to the bottom of the hill, to the DSO building. It had been two weeks since the events at Rebecca Stanley’s apartment, and things were still weird, but slowly getting back to normal. She’d met with Dan O’Leary about a job, and he’d called her two days later and offered her a position as an associate in his law firm. She told him she’d think about it and get back to him, but she’d already made up her mind to stay in Seattle after her commission expired. She’d even put in a request to senior trial counsel to finish her commission at Kitsap, and there was at least a decent chance her request would be granted.
She locked her bike in one of the racks out front and unsnapped her helmet as she went inside.
“What’s up, ma’am?” Darcy asked from behind the reception desk, smiling.
Battles returned the smile. “Sun and sky, Darcy. I’ll let you know when they’re not.”
She went into her office and closed the door, proceeding to the closet behind her desk where she set her helmet and exchanged her clothes for her blueberries. After lacing and tying her boots, she turned on her computer and opened her file drawer, fingering through her dozen active files. She looked up at a knock on her door.
Brian Cho opened it and stepped in. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Battles shook her head. Cho shut the door behind him. He looked at the newest painting on her wall, a view of downtown Seattle and the Puget Sound from Battles’s apartment window. “This is new,” he said.
“I painted it when I had all that free time,” Battles said.
Cho turned to her. “Yeah, about that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I would have accused you too, if the situation had been reversed.”
Cho smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “I think.”
“And I will beat you,” she said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“Well, I guess that’s why they actually run the races,” Cho said, smiling. He opened the door but didn’t immediately exit. “But if anyone is going to beat me? I’d be okay if it was you,” he said.
Del parked the Impala in the street and shut off the engine. He made no move to get out of the car. It wasn’t because of the weather. March had finally passed, and he was glad to see it go. He loved the four seasons in Seattle. He didn’t even mind the rain, usually—but he’d had enough of it. April, at least, looked like it was going to be a whole lot drier and a whole lot better month all the way around. The persistent veil of darkness that seemed to descend in the winter had lifted, if only temporarily, and the days were getting longer and seemingly filled with more sunshine. He needed some brightness. His sister needed some brightness.
“She’s a little high-strung,” he said to Celia McDaniel, seated in the passenger seat of his Impala.
He felt nervous. Del never felt nervous, not even at work, not when he’d been out on patrol, and not in all his years as a detective. He loved every aspect of his job—not that he liked seeing dead bodies; everyone could do without that. He just never got nervous, figured what was, was, and what was to be, would be.
Celia smiled. “Stop worrying about it, Del. She has a right to be high-strung.”
In the interim two weeks, with Del back on the more hospitable day shift, he and Celia had seen each other almost every night. Celia had monitored the legal case against Nicholas Evans and was putting together the complaint against Detective John Owens. It would include a number of charges, including the murders of Rebecca Stanley, Eric Tseng, and Laszlo Trejo, and drug trafficking that had led to the deaths of more than ten Seattle residents. For now, that number did not look like it would increase. They’d spread the word about a potentially dangerous heroin, which seemed like an oxymoron, but they’d had no deaths in the past two weeks. Funk had called and said the lab’s analyses confirmed that the heroin found on Allie’s dresser and in Jack Welch’s garage apartment had been cut with fentanyl.
Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5) Page 32