“Do you have any friends or family who live in Seattle?”
“No.” He sipped his drink. Again, Tracy thought that act was deliberate, to disengage from her and the question.
“Where’s home for you?” she asked.
“Here.”
“I mean where did you grow up?”
“I grew up in the San Diego area. What does that—”
“You’ve been enlisted for five years?”
“Almost six.”
“Never lived in Seattle?”
“I just told you I didn’t.”
“What do you do at Bremerton?”
“I’m a logistics specialist for FLC.”
“What’s FLC?”
“Fleet Logistics Center.”
“What do you do? What’s your job?”
“When I’m on ship, I work in the storeroom. When we’re in dock, I work in the warehouse. What does that have to do with my car?”
“You order parts, maintain inventory, that sort of thing,” she persisted.
“That’s right.”
“Have you been overseas?”
He nodded. “I worked in Kuwait and Iraq.”
“In supply stores?”
“Correct. Oh, and Afghanistan. I’ve been over there too.”
“What ship?”
“The USS Stennis.”
“Which is what kind of ship?”
“An aircraft carrier. A nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.”
“When were you in Afghanistan?”
“Last time? In 2013. How does this have anything to do with my car?”
Tracy persisted, hoping to continue to rock Trejo from script. “And the Middle East, when was the last time you were there?”
“Last time was 2012.”
“How long have you been on base here in Bremerton?”
“Four months.”
“And before that where was the ship?”
“Thailand.” He looked to Kins. “Did you find my car? Can I pick it up?”
“We found your car in Seattle, Mr. Trejo,” Kins said.
“I figured that much,” he said, sarcasm seeping in. “Can I go get it?”
“You have no idea how it got to Seattle?” Tracy pushed.
“I told you, somebody had to steal it.”
“Have there been any reports of cars being stolen from this complex?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask the police. When can I get my car back?”
“It’s going to be a while.”
“Why?” he said, now clearly aggravated. “I need that car to go to work.”
“Your car was involved in a hit-and-run accident, Mr. Trejo.” She watched for any signs Trejo already knew this information, but his face remained impassive.
“It hit another car? Oh man. How bad is the damage?”
“It hit a pedestrian. A twelve-year-old boy. It killed him.”
Trejo’s line of sight focused on the carpet. For a moment he didn’t speak. Tracy thought it was a legitimate reaction. “That’s terrible, man.” He sipped his drink.
“One more question, Mr. Trejo,” Tracy said.
Trejo lowered the can. Tracy waited until he looked at her.
“How did you cut your forehead?”
CHAPTER 8
From the outside, the modest, single-story brick home in Seattle’s Loyal Heights looked very much like the other houses in the neighborhood. The sloped lawn, dormant during winter, showed no signs that spring was around the corner, nor did the flower beds. To Del, it was bleak, as if the house too were mourning Allie’s death.
A car gave a polite horn tap. Del looked in his rearview mirror and waved an apology. With vehicles parked along both curbs—many of the homes did not have driveways or garages—the road was barely wide enough for one car. He squeezed his hunter-green 1965 Impala into a spot at the curb. He’d managed to keep it in the divorce, though his ex-wife, Norma, had made him pay a steep price. The car had belonged to Del’s father. He’d handed Del the keys after the DMV refused him a license following a third stroke. Del had driven the Impala to work every day since, amassing some 289,000 miles. The original engine still purred, and the paint gleamed beneath the streetlamps. He changed the oil and filter regularly, did the spark plugs and brakes when needed, and flushed the fluids once a year. He told people he took better care of his car than his body. He wasn’t joking. When his nephews were in Little League and pleaded with him, he’d driven the car in parades. The boys loved it.
He looked again at his sister’s house, framed between the branches of two mature plum trees sprouting from dirt squares in the sidewalk. The light above the front door cast a sickened glow, as if to mark the house with some biblical plague. Night came early and stayed late during Seattle winters, but the darkness enveloping this home had nothing to do with the time of year or time of night.
He’d helped his sister, Maggie, purchase the home with what savings he’d had, which hadn’t been much. Neither was the home, just 1,600 square feet with two bedrooms on the main floor. Del had converted the daylight basement for the two boys, identical twins. He doubted either would be moving upstairs to Allie’s bedroom; Maggie hadn’t touched it since the morning she’d found Allie.
He grabbed the brown paper bag from the seat and trudged up the concrete walk. Frost covered the lawn and the leaves of the rhododendrons. A shade shrouded the front window, but it leaked blue-gray light from the gaps along its edges. The television would shut off quickly if Del knocked, but that was never necessary. The only time his sister locked the front door was when she went to bed, and lately, she hadn’t been locking it at all, despite Del’s admonitions.
Del pushed open the door. His two nephews, slumped on the couch, scurried like frightened squirrels. One fumbled for the remote. Too late. He’d caught them in the middle of a Seinfeld rerun. Del’s fault. He’d hooked them on Jerry, George, Elaine, and Kramer the week he’d stayed with them when his sister traveled to a friend’s wedding.
“You get all your homework done?” Del asked, stepping in.
“We were just taking a break,” Stevie said, looking and sounding flustered.
The mail lay scattered on the floor where the mailman had inserted it through the door slot near an assortment of socks and shoes. Unopened newspapers cluttered the coffee table amid bowls and cups. Del had been swinging by before working the night shift, but given the number of murders they’d already had this year, it was becoming more difficult to do so.
“Uh-huh.” Del eyed an empty bag of chips and a jar of salsa amid the newspapers and magazines on the coffee table. “Did you eat dinner?”
“No,” Mark said. “Mom’s sleeping. I think.”
Del looked toward the darkened hallway. “Did you talk to your dad today?”
“No,” they each said.
It wasn’t surprising. Their father worked in a Los Angeles insurance firm, which was where he’d met his new, young wife. He’d come up for Allie’s funeral, blamed Maggie for Allie’s death, and left the next day. If he hadn’t, Del would have escorted him back to Los Angeles with a size-fourteen loafer shoved in a very uncomfortable place.
Del bent and grabbed the letters and magazines. “You boys can’t pick up the mail?”