Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  “I kind of like the quiet Tracy,” Dan had said.

  “Don’t get used to it.”

  Being laid up and having Dan take care of her had given her time to think again about a return to Cedar Grove, and the thought no longer brought up the anxiety she’d felt when she’d gone back to identify Sarah’s remains. She could imagine herself living here, getting to know everyone again. She thought of returning to Cedar Grove High, warming to the idea of challenging young minds and making a difference in their lives. She’d have to renew her teaching license and get up to speed, but she could do it. At this point she felt as though she could handle just about anything. And while Cedar Grove might never again be the home she’d known as a young girl, she was developing a sense that it could be home again, with Dan and Rex and Sherlock, and Roger, of course. Maybe it could even be a place to raise a family. She was only forty-two. She knew women who’d had children later in life. There were disadvantages to being older, but also advantages. She was more patient and had a better sense of her priorities, and she’d have more time to devote to raising children. Still, she thought it best to wait to broach that subject with Dan. She sensed that all of this was happening fast for him also.

  The following Monday she returned to the Justice Center. Kins, Faz, and Del—and Mayweather, who’d taken her spot as Kins’s partner—made a fuss over her, but she was still on administrative leave, assigned to a desk at the back of the floor with the administrative staff. Now, however, she didn’t mind. Tucked in her cubbyhole, she was away from the questions and the looks. She’d managed to avoid the OPA investigation while she was out, but her attorney had called bright and early that morning to tell her that Detective Sergeant Rawley was eager to reschedule her hearing. She told him she was on painkillers and would need at least another week.

  In addition to OPA, the City Budget Office had called. They’d started an investigation into Tracy’s unauthorized inquiry into the Wayne Gerhardt case and the possible misuse of public funds. She had no doubt Nolasco had instigated that investigation. It seemed as if Chief Clarridge would also be hard pressed to retain his job. Pressure was building on him to resign. Articles in the Seattle Times were critical of him and his administration. Editorials opined that he’d lost institutional control of the department and the respect of his officers.

  Nolasco, on the other hand, had come out smelling like a rose. He was saluted and honored for bringing the Cowboy to justice. He’d been interviewed on local and national news shows, and word was he’d be featured in a law enforcement magazine. One rumor circulating was that the mayor would capitalize on Nolasco’s notoriety and appoint him interim police chief while a search committee interviewed other candidates. Faz said Nolasco was so puffed up and full of himself he wondered how he fit his head in the elevator every morning. That was the only thing truly bothering her now, the knowledge that Nolasco had gotten what he’d wanted. It had taken him twenty years, but she’d finally be gone. She wanted to hate the man, but she saw him as small and petty and sad.

  Maria Vanpelt ran an hour-long special report about the Cowboy investigation on KRIX Undercover. Tracy didn’t watch, but according to Faz, Vanpelt said the investigation had taken a turn for the better when Nolasco took charge. She also hadn’t missed an opportunity to promote herself: Faz had counted no less than nine times during the hour-long program that Vanpelt made a direct reference to herself as ‘the reporter who broke the story’ and ‘the reporter at the scene’ when the Cowboy’s home was searched and the incriminating evidence discovered.

  In the aftermath, everyone seemed to want to focus on the positive. Little discussion was given to the fact that Nolasco had screwed up, big-time, by not making sure David Bankston was in custody before moving on his home, or that his mistake had nearly cost Tracy her life.

  Kins had remained in Seattle until OPA cleared him for the use of his firearm in David Bankston’s death. Then, fed up and frustrated, he’d taken Shannah on a much-needed vacation to Mexico, where he hoped they could rekindle their relationship.

  “Send me a postcard with palm trees, white sand beaches, and brilliant sunshine and I’ll pull your eyebrows out next time I see you,” Tracy said.

  Friday of her first week back, Tracy was thinking she’d dodged a bullet, having not run into her boss all week, when his assistant called to tell her that Nolasco wanted to see her in his office. As she made her way through the Violent Crimes Section, she heard the familiar sounds of phones ringing, animated conversations, and Faz’s inimitable voice. “Who took my mug? It’s got my face on it for a reason, people!”

  It brought the first genuine smile to her face in days. She’d miss being a part of it.

  Nolasco’s door was open. He sat at his desk, considering paperwork. He glanced up, then motioned her in with no show of emotion. “Take a seat.”

  Tracy sat. Her arm remained in a sling. She cradled it in her lap.

  Nolasco seemed in no hurry, continuing to read. After a long minute, he set down the document. “OPA says you’re dodging them.”

  “I’m on painkillers. My doctor advises against attending a hearing until I’m off them. Have them talk to my attorney.”

  Nolasco sat back. “Someone needs to put the Cowboy file to bed and shut it down. And the Bundy Room needs to be cleaned out, boxed up, and shipped to storage. I figured you had the time.”

  The task added insult to injury, but if it meant getting out of the Justice Center for a few days, Tracy didn’t mind. “Not a problem,” she said.

  “Good. Get on it right away, will you.”

  She stood and headed for the door. Just being near Nolasco made her feel like she needed to take a shower.

  “You had to know it wouldn’t end well,” he said.

  There it was. She knew he couldn’t resist. His ego was just too big, almost as if he were genetically predisposed to be an ass. When she turned around, Nolasco remained seated, leaning back in his chair. He was pathetic, a bully, maybe even a sociopath. Tracy almost felt sorry for him. But at that moment, what she felt most prominently was that twinge of doubt, the one she’d felt occasionally while recuperating at home, the twinge that something wasn’t quite right.

  She managed a smile. “I’ll let you know when it does,” she said.

  She spent the weekend relaxing with Dan in Cedar Grove. They made gourmet dinners, watched movies on the couch, eating popcorn and candy, and slept in late. Monday morning, when she got up early to make the drive back to Seattle, she felt sad to be leaving. Going to work no longer excited her the way it used to. She felt ready to move on, to leave SPD and return to Cedar Grove full-time. She contemplated telling Dan, but decided instead to wait, to make the moment special.

  She spent Monday and Tuesday in the Cowboy Room boxing up tip sheets, notebooks, and calendars, and clearing out desks. It wasn’t easy work with only one good arm, but she also wasn’t in a rush to get it done. As the second day came to an end, she’d filled a dozen boxes, labeled them, and left them to be picked up and taken to storage. Fitting the final lid on the last box, she took a moment to consider the room. The walls were once again stripped bare, though now with a few more holes where thumbtacks had held photos and charts. The desks were vacant. The phones and computers would be disconnected again soon. Despite the grim history of the room, she recalled fondly Vera Fazzio’s Italian dinner and Faz’s toast, promising they’d pull together as a task force. She couldn’t help but think she’d let them down. They’d all wanted nothing more than to prove Nolasco wrong and catch the Cowboy.

  Tracy turned out the lights, about to shut the door, when her desk phone rang. She almost ignored it, figuring it had to be Nolasco, since no one else knew she was there, but she decided she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking she was dodging him. She turned on the lights and stepped back in, answering.

  “Detective Crosswhite,” she said. There was no immediate response. “Hello?”

  The voice, a man’s, stumbled over his word
s. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you to answer the phone.” It wasn’t Nolasco or Faz.

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  “I’d prefer to not say.”

  “Okay. Then what’s this about?”

  “It’s about the Cowboy.”

  “If this is about the reward—”

  “It’s not about the reward.”

  “What is it about?”

  “I think you might have killed the wrong guy.”

  Tracy sat on the edge of the desk. She’d taken enough of these calls during the investigation from people claiming to know the identity of the killer to remain guarded. This could be just another one of the crazies, the people who thought they’d solved the crime, the psychics who called to say they’d been in communication with the dead. But there was something about the calm tone of the voice on the other end of the line that made her think otherwise. That, and the call had come from a phone inside SPD. “Okay. Tell me why.”

  “I don’t want to talk over the phone.”

  “Tell me how you got this number?”

  “Isn’t this the number for the task force?”

  It was, though it was not the tip line that had been broadcast by the news media. Only someone within SPD would have access to her desk number, or know how to get it. “Tell me where and when.”

  “You choose,” he said.

  “You know a bar on First Avenue called Hooverville?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  They arranged a time for that evening. “How will I know you?” she asked.

  “I know you,” he said.

  Hooverville was already crowded with Mariners fans. There was a home game, and the bar was located just down the street from the baseball stadium, where, early in the season, hope still sprung eternal. It seemed a little odd for people to be watching the game on TV, given the proximity of the stadium just half a mile away.

  Tracy looked around the room for the tipster. Two men worked the pinball machines. The barstools were full, as were most of the tables. When no one waved or acknowledged her, she settled into a booth facing the door and ordered a Diet Coke while continuing to survey faces, looking for someone distracted, disinterested, fidgeting.

  After several minutes a lean man with a buzz cut looked in her direction, swiveled from his barstool at the end of the bar, and walked over. Tracy guessed him to be early thirties. He had the build of a rock climber or avid biker, and intense narrow-set eyes, indicating the unrelenting demeanor needed to compete in those sports. She noted a wedding ring on his left hand and a college ring on his right, which held a half-empty pint of beer. “Detective Crosswhite. Thanks for meeting with me.”

  Tracy gestured for him to take a seat. Beneath the table, her right hand rested on her Glock.

  “Interesting place,” he said.

  “A friend introduced me to it. It’s far enough from the city that only the cool kids know about it.”

  “Maybe a few years ago I would have too,” he said.

  “Yeah? Not anymore?”

  “I have two kids. Those days are behind me.” He sat back, then sat forward, seemingly unable to get comfortable. He glanced at the television, at the bar, back to her. He tapped the edge of the table with the fingers of his right hand. “Sorry about the clandestine meeting.”

  “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

  “Izak Casterline.”

  “How long you been a cop, Izak Casterline?”

  He let out a puff of air, not quite a chuckle. “You’re good.”

  “Not that good. You called an inside number. Only SPD has it.”

  “Eighteen months. I work out of the North Precinct.”

  The North Precinct patrolled the Aurora strip. “Relax,” Tracy said. “I’m just here to listen.”

  Casterline sipped his beer. “My wife is pregnant.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Another half smile. “Thanks. She’s a preschool teacher. She was. She stopped. It was cheaper to stay home than pay for day care.”

  “Money’s tight. I get it.”

  “Very,” Casterline said.

  “So talk to me. Why do you think they got the wrong guy?”

  Casterline took another sip of beer. “I was working graveyard the night they found the third dancer, Veronica Watson.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m doing my normal patrol, driving Aurora, right at Eighty-Fifth Street. That’s the corner of the motel where you found the third body.”

  “Right.”

  “I make the turn, and there’s a car in front of me. Its back light is out.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Between two thirty and three. Right around the time the ME says that dancer was killed. I looked up the report online.”

  “Did you pull the driver over?”

  Casterline nodded. “I asked him what he’s doing out so late. He said it was actually early for him—that he was heading to work after a morning workout. He was perspiring heavily and had a bag in the back, you know, like a gym bag. Big guy. Anyway, he said he was also on cat patrol.”

  “Cat patrol?”

  “He said his daughter’s cat had gone missing and she was heartbroken over it, so he was putting up fliers. He handed me one.” Casterline reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it across the table.

  Tracy looked at it. There was a black-and-white picture of the cat in the center of the flier. “Angus,” she said.

  “Like I said, I have two daughters. They’d be heartbroken if they lost their cat. So I asked for one of the fliers and said I’d keep my eyes open.” Casterline pointed to the address below the picture. “Two days ago I realized I was driving in that neighborhood. I still had the flier with me. I have a neighbor whose cat just had kittens, so I figured I’d stop and find out if they ever found Angus, you know, and if not, maybe they’d like one of the kittens. I thought maybe it might look good to my sergeant, you know, if they called and told him.”

  “What happened when you stopped, Izak?”

  “The guy comes to the door, and I show him the flier. He’s a little surprised, but he tells me they never found their cat. He was appreciative that I would make the effort and asked for my friend’s number so they could go take a look at the kittens.” Casterline took another sip of beer. “It wasn’t him, Detective. It was the right address, but the guy who came to the door wasn’t the guy I pulled over that night. And that’s when I started putting the pieces together.”

  “The guy you pulled over could have been leaving a prostitute, a drug dealer,” Tracy surmised.

  “I don’t think so. This guy was smooth and clearly prepared. How many meth-heads and johns have you ever come across who had the foresight to have a flier ready to hand out. I think he did it to distract me, throw me off my routine.”

  “Good point.”

  “This guy had taken the flier from somewhere and gone and made copies. And he was calm. I remember that about him. If he’d had drugs in the car, he wouldn’t have been so calm, would he?”

  “Did you get a license plate?”

  Casterline pursed his lips and shook his head. “I didn’t run it. Look, I know I should have. But I figured I’d give the guy a break, you know? I just told him to get the light fixed.” Casterline started fidgeting. “I should have run it. I know I should have called it in and run it, and, man, I’m sick, because if I’m right . . .”

  “Take it easy,” she said. “A lot of cops wouldn’t have run the plate under those circumstances. What do you remember about the car?”

  “It was a hybrid, but not a cheap one, a Lexus.”

  “What color?”

  “Dark blue or black.”

  Tracy thought about the car in the video as it drove down the street parallel to the Pink Palace. “Can you describe the driver?”

  “That’s the other thing. This guy didn’t look like a meth-head. Big guy. Well built. Dark hair. Spiked in the f
ront.”

  Tracy’s pulse quickened. “If you saw him again, could you pick him out?”

  “You mean like out of a lineup?”

  “I mean, could you identify him if you saw him?”

  “Yeah, I could identify him. Absolutely.” Casterline’s eyes narrowed. “You think he could be the guy?”

  “Who else have you told about this?”

  “No one.”

  “Don’t. Do you understand?”

  “Absolutely. I can’t lose my job, Detective. I don’t know what I’d do . . . you know?”

  “You’re not going to lose your job.”

  “But if you got the wrong guy . . . it means he’s still out there. The Cowboy. And then he killed that other girl . . .” Casterline choked on the words. His eyes watered, and he took another sip of beer.

  “That wasn’t your fault, okay? Casterline, look at me.” Casterline looked up. “That wasn’t your fault. If you’re right, if this is the guy, he kills because he wants to and he was going to kill again. Running his plate likely wouldn’t have turned up anything of interest, and you would have let him go anyway. All right?”

  Casterline nodded.

  “Now I’m going to need a number to reach you. I need to get a few things put in place, make some calls. I’ll protect you to whatever extent I can, Casterline, but you’ve got to work with me on this.”

  “I will,” he said.

  Tracy handed him a napkin and a pen from her purse. Casterline wrote his phone number on the napkin and slid it across the table to her. “What should I do?”

  “Go home to your family. Wait until I call.”

  Tracy drove immediately back to her house in West Seattle and hurried to where Dan had left the box of documents from Dirty Ernie’s that he’d found in the storage shed. Her heart was pounding, her palms moist. Her mind was swimming with questions. This is what members of the Ridgway task force had told her about how these guys were often caught. Sometimes it was a tip from the most unexpected of places, something little, a small mistake, and you realize the killer has been under your nose the whole time. Because that’s what these guys did. They blended in.