One Last Kill (Tracy Crosswhite), page 7
Nolasco again sipped his coffee, and Faz saw a tremor before Nolasco set the cup down. “Nobody noticed she didn’t come back from her jog?” Nolasco asked.
“Husband took the kids to school after the wife left the house and before she got home. Wife usually, but not always, relieves the nanny after work. Nanny doesn’t understand or speak English too well but seemed to confirm this.”
“Wife’s car in the driveway?”
“She parked on the street.”
“Wasn’t that a giveaway something was wrong?”
“She didn’t drive to work. She’s an environmentalist, apparently. Caught the bus on Twenty-Third Avenue downtown every morning.”
“Twenty-Fourth Avenue,” Keith Ellis corrected. “It becomes Twenty-Third Avenue.”
Nolasco shot him a look like who cares?
Moss shrugged.
“The jogger check out?” Nolasco asked.
“He does,” Moss said. “He jogs the same route every other morning. The off mornings he lifts weights in his basement. His wife confirmed he was home in the basement the prior morning, the day Harris went missing, and witnesses confirm he went to work in the SoDo district. He’s an attorney. All kinds of alibis at a law firm.”
“No pun intended,” Ellis said.
Nolasco shot him another look. To Moss, he said, “You confirmed the angel’s wings?”
“As I said, unmistakable. Carved in the same location as the others, just above the shoulder blade. As you can imagine, a crowd assembled in the Arboretum. We put up a screen and had uniforms get the names and contact information of every spectator, in case the killer had come back to watch.”
“That pretty much cleared out the spectators,” Ellis said.
“Any connection between Regina Harris and . . .” Nolasco sighed. “The tenth victim?”
“Mary Ellen Schmid,” Hattie said.
“Any connection?” Nolasco asked.
“Maybe,” Moss said.
Nolasco’s head picked up, though his eyes remained flat. They’d all become distrusting of the evidence and reluctant to hope. They never thought the killings would get this far or reach the mainstream. Undercover female police officers had walked the Aurora track, and the task force believed it was just a matter of time before they caught the killer. They had a handful of suspects. Two, Dwight McDonnel and Levi Bishop, had each been picked up for solicitation, but the task force got no further. The killings had stopped. At least for a short while. When they resumed, the killer had changed his choice of victims. Had the killer reasoned the task force sting operation along the strip made killing another prostitute too risky? Or did the killer just want to up the ante and cause panic in the middle-class neighborhoods and feed his ego?
Whatever the reason, Mary Ellen Schmid’s murder had thrown the task force’s profile of the killer out the window.
“Different neighborhoods. Different grammar schools and high schools. Both attended UW,” Moss said of Schmid and Harris. “What they also have in common is the City of Seattle. Schmid worked in the attorney general’s civil division, Harris in the office of city contracts.”
Nolasco took an extended inhale, then audibly exhaled. “Any ideas?” He looked around the table. When no one said anything, he snapped, “No one has any ideas?” His gaze found each task force member, including Faz. “Let me make this clear. If I get transferred out of homicide, this entire task force will go with me. This isn’t the Navy. I don’t intend to go down with the ship out of some sense of duty or loyalty. So, somebody get an idea and throw it out for us to consider.”
“Current or former city employee who worked in either department,” Ellis said.
“Disgruntled businessman denied a city contract and has a beef with the bidding system and how the contractors are chosen,” Faz said.
“Someone who doesn’t like lawyers. A litigant who lost a house or some piece of property in some city-initiated action. Eminent domain or something,” Moss said.
“How then do the first nine victims fit?” Nolasco said. No one answered.
Faz said what was on all their minds. “If we focus only on the tenth and eleventh victims, it will cause a shitstorm. The media will kick us in the balls, say we’re discounting the other nine victims, and that’s the reason the killer has made it this far.”
“That’s why nothing leaves this room. What’s said in this room stays in this room.” Nolasco tapped his index finger on the table. “No one is to speak to the press except me or Floyd. Faz, I want you to interview the families of Schmid and Harris. See if you can find any other connecting thread. Maybe they knew one another. Then get your ass out to the Arboretum before the sun comes up tomorrow morning.”
“Should be easy enough for a vampire,” Gunderson said.
“Knock that shit off, Moss. I’m in no mood for bullshit,” Nolasco said, his voice sharp. “Faz, talk to anyone and everyone—joggers, landscapers, gardeners, dog walkers, mothers with baby strollers. Anyone and everyone. You got that?”
“I got it.”
“Ask if anyone recalls seeing Harris jogging the other day . . . or any day for that matter. Ask if they recall seeing anyone who didn’t look like he belonged, who they had never seen before. If anyone does recall someone, get a sketch artist out there.
“Moss, you and Ellis talk to everyone at each victim’s place of work. Find out if they know of any disgruntled employees who either woman might have rejected or had a feud with. Find out if any businessmen lost a license, or a bid, or made any threatening statements.” Nolasco directed other detectives to explore the possible UW link.
Nolasco turned to Augustus Cesare. “Anything new on the tip line?”
“It’s blowing up,” Cesare said. The young patrol officer was in his twenties and good with computers. He had prepared a spreadsheet to track the tips and look for connecting threads between the victims. Given the last name, Faz had pegged Cesare as a fellow paisan, but his name was spelled differently and apparently of Spanish origin.
“Mostly the crazies and those seeking attention,” Moss said.
Cesare had developed a system. Red tips were the most promising and went to Moss for follow-up. Yellow tips were to be run down by task force and homicide detectives, and green tips were pursued by available detectives from Property Crimes, Narcotics, or Fraud. Every significant finding was reported back to Cesare to be input, and then Moss decided if the tip required further review. All written reports were preserved in the murder book. Cesare would sort the spreadsheet to find commonalities in themes, dates, suspect descriptions, and crazies.
But the tips often missed the victimology and focused on the suspects. That was about to change given the nature of the more recent victims.
“Every tip is being run down,” Moss said. “If the tip is deemed credible, I’ll take over the questioning and put anything I learn in the murder book for internal distribution.”
“The mayor wants the FBI to look at the files and run the victims through VICAP, see if they might find any connection with other cases,” Nolasco said. “Make it happen. Get them what they need.”
Moss looked to Cesare. Moss wasn’t just a blowhard; he was lazy. Seemed to Faz that Cesare did all the real work.
“What about a profiler?” Moss said. “I’m told the FBI has one on staff here in Seattle. Might help.”
“Maybe. If we get any solid suspects. I don’t want to go down the hocus-pocus and voodoo trails and waste more time,” Nolasco said. “A profiler will tell us the killer had a poor childhood and abusive parents, skinned cats in his teens, and gets off on the violence, that he killed prostitutes because he doesn’t value human life any more than the pets he slaughtered. Blah blah blah. Tell us something we don’t know.”
“He might be able to tell us why this guy switched from prostitutes to middle-class women,” Gunderson said.
Nolasco slapped the table and raised his voice. “He’s raising the damn stakes is why. He’s baiting us. He’s emboldened by our inability to catch him. He thinks we’re all dumbshits and, at present, so do the mayor, the chief, and the captain. I’d like to prove them wrong, preferably before this asshole kills again. I don’t want us wasting time going down rabbit holes. I want solid police work. And I want leads. If we don’t start getting something solid to run with, I’ve been assured by Clarridge, who was assured by the mayor, that if the mayor goes down for this, he will take the chief with him, and the chief will take all of us. So if you prefer not to find yourself transferred back to patrol, I’d suggest we all get to work and make this happen.”
CHAPTER 9
Thursday, July 9, Present Day
Seattle, Washington
Tracy and Nolasco departed the FBI office back onto Seattle streets and resumed their game of silence, like two schoolyard kids mad at one another. Tracy didn’t care. She was focused on what Santos had just said, that the killer could use Tracy’s reputation to deliver his message. That more young women might die, not because of SPD reopening the investigation, but because of her involvement.
Nolasco took out a pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket of his blazer, shook out a cigarette, and lit up.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Tracy said.
“Neither did I,” Nolasco said without elaboration.
“Santos thinks we should focus on the victims, rather than the killer.”
“Santos doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, as I predicted.”
Tracy wasn’t surprised by his comment, but it remained frustrating. “She’s reviewed the files. She’s given us an angle to explore that the task force didn’t have back then.”
Nolasco stopped. His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think we considered the victims? This must be a real joy for you, Crosswhite, having Santos rip apart my task force.”
“She didn’t rip apart your task force.”
“We considered the victims. We looked for connecting threads. All we found was the first nine were prostitutes who worked the strip. The latter four worked for or had worked with the City of Seattle. Nothing beyond that.”
“So let’s go through the files again—”
“Because the great Tracy Crosswhite is going to find something experienced detectives working 24-7 couldn’t?”
“Weber wants a fresh pair of eyes, that’s all.”
“You really get off on the publicity; don’t you? The medals. Standing before the media. But be careful what you wish for. Celebrity isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”
“Do you think I take any joy in the possibility some sick son of a bitch might kill again because of my reputation? I didn’t ask to reopen these cases. I was ordered to do so by Weber.”
“The same person who comes down to your office for closed-door meetings.”
Tracy shook her head. “I’m done with this conversation.” She started up the hill.
“I’m still your superior officer, Crosswhite.”
Tracy turned back and saluted. “You’re my captain. You’re far from my superior.” She spun on her heels and left. She’d pursue the investigation, with or without Nolasco and his fragile ego. She was tired of walking that tightrope—be a good enough detective so others would forget her gender but not so good as to show up her male superiors? Screw them.
She walked up Seneca, turned right on Fifth Avenue, and walked past the Seattle Public Library. She had her head down and nearly walked into someone coming from the opposite direction.
“Whoa. Where are you going in such a hurry?” Faz said. Del stood beside him.
“Back to the office.” She checked the time on her phone. “Where are you going?”
“Bartell’s for my blood-pressure medication.”
“He’s lying,” Del said. “He’s buying hemorrhoid cream.”
Faz shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. Everything okay?”
“You have high blood pressure?”
“In this job? Are you joking?”
“Have you studied the man’s diet?” Del asked. He used to weigh more than Faz, who now tipped the scales at 250 pounds, but Del lost the excess weight when he started dating a King County prosecutor and had kept it off.
“What’s eating you?” Faz asked Tracy.
“Nolasco. What else?”
“I heard you two were working the Route 99 investigation together. I don’t envy you, Tracy.”
“Nor do I,” Del said.
“I don’t envy me either. Weber’s setting me up so if the killer takes the reopening of these files as a challenge and kills again, I’ll be there to blame.”
“Saw the press conference. It was like 1995 all over again.”
“What do you mean?”
Faz checked his watch. “You had lunch?”
“No.”
“We’re going to get a bite to eat at Tulio after I get my meds.”
Faz and Del had what Tracy called an Italian sixth sense, capable of flushing out Italian food from almost anywhere. In this instance, Tulio was just across the street. “What about reservations?”
“Ouch,” Del said.
“Your lack of faith hurts me,” Faz said. “Let me get my meds first. Come on. Walk with us.”
Faz picked up his prescription at the Bartell Drugs on Fourth, then they made their way back to Tulio. The maître d’ greeted Faz and Del like relatives. “How you doing, Marco? Can you squeeze us in?” Faz asked.
“You’re kidding, right? For a paisan?”
Faz gave Tracy an I told you so look. “Someplace outside?” Faz said. “Hate to waste this beautiful weather.”
Marco grabbed three menus and led them to a table on the patio behind the wrought-iron railing.
“Glass of red wine or maybe a bottle?”
“Can’t,” Del said. “We’re working.”
Marco handed them menus, then departed. Faz left his menu on his plate.
“You want to talk first or look over the menu?” Tracy said.
“Nothing to look over. Linguini and clams,” he said.
“He’s only getting the clams because Antonio said they help regulate blood pressure,” Del said, referencing Faz’s son, who owned an Italian restaurant, Fazzio’s, in Fremont.
Tracy set aside her menu. “You said watching the press conference this morning was like 1995 all over again. Why?”
Faz sipped his water and set the glass down. “We were all on edge, Tracy, especially Nolasco. The politicians and brass were really busting our balls. You have to remember this was in the middle of Ridgway’s spree, so all these young women were going missing on Aurora and on the south end on the Pacific Coast Highway. The politicians were taking a lot of heat from the media, the advocacy groups, and the victims’ families. They accused us of being dismissive because the women weren’t exactly Mary Poppins.”
“When’s the last time a politician accepted blame for anything?” Del said.
“Never,” Faz agreed. The waiter came by with bread, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. Faz shook salt and pepper over the bowl before dipping his bread.
“When’s the last time you had a physical?” Tracy said.
“Every year on my birthday, why?”
“Doctor say anything about salt and high blood pressure?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason.”
Del shook his head.
“You were saying about the politicians?” Tracy said.
“They were taking heat. Then the victims change and become middle-class housewives living in middle-class neighborhoods.”
“And the shit really hits the fan,” Del interjected.
“The politicians turned up the heat on the brass,” Faz said. “Clarridge’s nose looked like Rudolph’s half the time. And he let our task force know he wasn’t happy. Anyway, you know about how shit—”
“Runs downhill,” Tracy said, repeating another Fazism, as the A Team called them.
“Nolasco was at the bottom of the hill holding a pail that would never catch all that shit. The guy was a lot like you.”
Tracy felt like she’d been slapped. “Nolasco and me alike?”
“Now you stepped in it,” Del said to Faz.
“Don’t give me that look. Let me explain,” Faz said.
“I think you better,” Del said. “She might have to revoke your godfather status for insanity.”
“Hang on. Hang on. Don’t take my head off until I finish. I meant, Nolasco was a rising star, like you. He was solving cases, receiving medals, and moving up the chain of command more quickly than his age warranted. I think he took this task force position because he thought it would add a big feather in his cap and advance his career.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t intend captain to be his final stop, Tracy. He was thinking politics. Chief of police. Moving up. This task force pretty much tanked those dreams.”
“That and his home life was blowing up because he was never home. Wife left him for a personal trainer,” Del said. “Nolasco started smoking like a chimney, losing weight, and losing hair. The guy was a mess.”
“He had bags under his eyes so big you could have filled them with clothes for a two-week vacation,” Faz said.
Tracy thought of the cigarette Nolasco lit up outside the FBI offices. “Have you known Nolasco to smoke? I don’t mean back then. I mean recently.”
“No. He gave it up years ago, why?”
“He’s smoking again.”
Faz and Del both shook their heads. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s like PTSD, you know? He’s picking up the bad habits he had back then.”
“What exactly are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you it was a bad time around the police department. We didn’t catch the Green River Killer until years later, and we never caught the Route 99 Killer,” Faz said.
“Between the two, some seventy-five women, maybe more, were murdered, and their families never got closure,” Del said.
