A ferry worker directed cars off the ship. “Have you and Dan talked about kids?” Kins asked.
The question came out of the blue. Tracy played dumb. “Here and there. Why?”
He shrugged. “You said you wanted kids.”
“Eventually.”
“Are you trying?”
She laughed. “That’s a little personal.”
“So is busting in a new partner, which I’m not looking forward to with one good hip.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Kins—you are.”
“And my wife wasn’t quitting her job when we got married either. Things change when you have kids.”
She shook her head. She knew it was just the stress of the upcoming surgery and the downtime that would follow. “Well, you’ll have nine months’ lead time.”
“You’re not pregnant now, are you?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.” The car in front of them moved forward. “Drive. If we want to get off this ferry, I’d suggest we get going.”
“Feed the squirrels,” Kins said, making fun of the Prius’s lack of horsepower.
At first blush, Jackson Park did not appear to be a bad place to live, abutting Ostrich Bay to the east and the Kitsap Golf and Country Club to the west. Like most military bases, it seemingly included everything Navy personnel and their families could need—a day-care center, an elementary school, a hospital, a minimart attached to a gas station, and outdoor tennis and basketball courts. As they drove the labyrinth of streets, Tracy didn’t see a scrap of errant paper. The lawns were manicured, and the wood-sided buildings looked freshly painted, even in the fading light. One-and two-story structures, they had all been cast from the same mold. Signs designated parking in outdoor carports, or in stalls at the bottom of long sloped lawns, which, Tracy deduced, could make it more plausible for someone to steal a car and not be seen.
“It’s like that movie with Jim Carrey,” Kins said, looking around at the pristine world. “The one where they’re all living on a movie set.”
“The Truman Show?” Tracy asked.
“That’s the one. Creepy the way everything is so perfect.”
Creepy and deserted. Tracy figured that was likely in part due to the freezing temperature. Still, it was odd to drive through a community and not see a single living soul outside walking, driving, or taking Fido out to do his business. Maybe the Subaru could have been stolen. If it had been on a night like this, there wouldn’t have been anyone to witness it.
Laszlo Trejo lived on the ground floor of a building adjacent to a fenced-in basketball court. Kins parked in an area designated for visitors. Lights on poles illuminated a tree-lined walkway. At the building, they descended steps to the apartment’s front door. Kins knocked, and a moment later, the door opened and a Hispanic woman, perhaps late twenties, greeted them with a smile.
“You must be the police officers from Seattle,” she said with just a hint of a Mexican accent. She invited them into the hall and shut the door behind them. “Laz just got home.” She led them into a neat but sparsely furnished living room of bleached white chairs and a sofa that likely came with the apartment. “I’ll get him for you.”
Adjoining the room was a six-by-six linoleum floor with a kitchen table. Tracy stepped to the mantel over a fireplace and considered framed photographs depicting the Trejos getting married, she in a white dress, he in his spanking-white naval uniform. It was warm in the apartment and it smelled the way Tracy’s apartment used to smell when she didn’t get around to cleaning Roger’s kitty litter for a few days.
“Are you the officers from Seattle?”
Laszlo Trejo entered the room from the hallway. He was dressed in Navy blue-and-gray camouflage shirt and pants, which he’d tucked into black boots. Perhaps five foot six, he wasn’t much taller than his wife. He had a wedge of black hair and held an energy drink, which Tracy initially mistook for a beer.
“Have you found my car?” Trejo asked. His accent was thicker than his wife’s. He didn’t look or sound the least bit intimidated, or as if he had anything to hide.
“We were hoping to ask you a few questions, Mr. Trejo,” Kins said.
“I already told that police woman everything I know,” he said, not exactly hostile, but not friendly either.
“Was that a police officer from Bremerton?” Kins asked.
“Yeah.”
“Your car was found in Seattle,” Kins said.
“That’s what she said.” Trejo gestured to Tracy.
“When was the last time you saw your car?” Tracy asked, getting to the point quickly to keep Trejo from directing the conversation.
Trejo, perhaps realizing they weren’t there to hand him his car keys, sat in one of the recliners. “Monday night. I came home from work and parked in the carport.” He alternately sipped the drink and flexed the aluminum can.
Tracy and Kins sat on the couch across a coffee table. The more Trejo spoke, the more Tracy sensed he’d scripted the conversation, which accounted for his initial assertive demeanor. As the interview progressed, no longer scripted, he started to look and sound uncomfortable. He had a habit of glancing down when he spoke rather than making eye contact, and he continued to crinkle the aluminum can.
“What time did you get home from work?”
“I think it was around six.”
“Which carport did you park in?” she asked.
“It’s just up the hill,” he said, making a vague gesture.
“Can you see it from here?”
Trejo shook his head. “No.”
“And you didn’t go out again?” she asked.
“Not that night.”
“Your wife didn’t take the car out again?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“And when did you notice the car was missing?”
“The next morning when I went out to go to work and the car wasn’t there.” He shrugged. “I told this to the woman who took the report.” He was like an actor reciting his lines.
“Yeah, we haven’t read that report yet,” Kins said.
“So how was it stolen?” Tracy asked. “You had the keys, right?”
“Yeah, but I got a hide-a-key I keep along the bottom of the back bumper. They could have gotten that.”
“Who knows about that key?” Tracy asked, skeptical but trying not to show it.
“I don’t know,” Trejo said. “Maybe somebody saw it.”
“What did you do when you found out your car was missing?” Tracy asked.
“I came back here and asked my wife where it was,” he said, back on script. “She said she had no idea. So I called the police and told them it was stolen.”
“And what did they do?”
Trejo frowned. He was starting to look frustrated, which is what Tracy intended. “They sent out an officer. She asked me the same questions and said she was making out a report and said they’d be in touch. Then I had no way to get to work.”
“You just have the one car?” Tracy said.
“I told you that on the phone,” he said, setting down his drink and leaning forward, toward Kins. “Can I ask a question? Did you find my car?”
“Do you know anyone in Seattle, Mr. Trejo?” Tracy asked.
He glanced at her. “Know anyone? What does that mean?”