“I don’t know,” Trejo said.
“They haven’t said?” Kins asked.
Trejo shook his head and continued fidgeting in his chair, perhaps beginning to realize that coming over had been a mistake.
Tracy asked, “Are you curious about what the police impound found?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah,” Trejo said. “I mean, did they find any fingerprints?”
“They did,” Tracy said. “We’re running them down now. The DNA will take longer to get back.”
“DNA?”
“The air bag deployed. They can get DNA off of the bag. So we should know who was driving at the time of impact.”
Trejo did not respond.
“They also found blood on the driver’s seat.” She let her eyes drift to the cut on Trejo’s forehead.
“I told you I got some in the car when I cut my head.”
“Did you? I don’t recall you saying that.” She looked to Kins. “Did he say that?”
Kins shrugged. Trejo hadn’t. It didn’t fit with the timeline he’d provided them.
“How’d you cut your head again?” Tracy asked. She wanted to pin him to his story.
“I told you I was in the kitchen and I stood up too quick. I hit one of the cabinet doors.”
“When was that?” she asked.
“I don’t remember,” he said quickly. “Is my car ready?”
Kins said, “That hurts like hell. I did the same thing in the garage once, nearly knocked myself out. The head bleeds like a son of a bitch, too, doesn’t it?”
Trejo shrugged.
“Looks like you tried to clean it up,” Tracy said. “The car seat I mean. What did you use?”
“I don’t know, just a napkin or something.”
Tracy nodded as if understanding. Then she said, “Lab says someone used an antiseptic wipe.”
Trejo did not respond.
“When’s the last time you’ve been over on this side?” Kins asked.
Trejo again looked at his phone. “Do you know how much longer it’s going to be?”
“I’m sure they’re close,” Kins said. “What time is it?” He turned his body and swiveled his chair to consider the clock on the wall. “You have plans, you and your wife?”
Trejo looked confused by the question. “What?”
“I thought maybe you were trying to get home because you and your wife have plans.”
“No. Just, you know, I want to catch the ferry.”
“No kids, right?” Kins said.
“No.”
“I have three boys,” Kins said. “Two in high school. I’ll be taking my oldest off to college soon. He’s at that age, you know, where he does stupid things—I shouldn’t say stupid.” Kins pinched his lower lip. Tracy had heard and seen this act before. She’d even used it. “He’ll make a mistake, you know? Then he tries to hide it. I keep telling him to just be honest. I tell him that he might get in trouble for what he did, but it won’t be as bad as if he tries to hide it and gets caught.”
Kins never took his gaze from Trejo. He lowered his voice. “Nobody wants to believe they were lied to.”
Trejo pushed back his chair and stood. He spoke to Tracy. “Could you call about my car? I’d like to get going.”
Kins said, “Why don’t you tell us what happened that night, Mr. Trejo?”
Trejo’s eyes darted between the two of them. He gave a nervous laugh. “What is this? Where’s my car?”
“We know about the convenience store in Renton, Mr. Trejo,” Tracy said.
Trejo looked like a busted teenager. He licked his lips. Unprepared, all he could say was, “What?”
“You left a store receipt in your car that night,” she said. “The receipt is dated and timed.”
“That’s bullshit. I told you I was working. Then I went home.” Getting a burst of inspiration, Trejo said, “It was probably whoever stole my car.”
“You bought two cans of Red Bull,” Tracy said. “The same energy drink you were drinking the night we drove out to speak with you.”
“I told you I was at home,” he said, now more adamant. “My wife will tell you I was at home. It was the person who stole my car.”
“The store has video cameras,” Tracy said.
Trejo paused and glanced at the television, perhaps realizing now why it was there. Beads of sweat had formed above his upper lip.
Tracy pressed a button and the video showed Trejo entering the store and moving to the refrigerator. When he reached the counter, it was pretty clear it was him, even wearing the hat.
“The video is dated and timed, Mr. Trejo,” Tracy said. “This is roughly half an hour before D’Andre Miller was hit by your car. So why don’t you tell us what you were doing in Seattle.”
Trejo chewed his bottom lip. The bandage on his head had become a darker shade of red. “That isn’t me. I don’t know who that is.”
“How tall are you, Mr. Trejo?” Tracy asked. He didn’t respond. “This goes to a prosecutor and he’s going to charge you with a felony. The penalties are governed by sentencing guidelines—if it gets that far. That means the judge has no choice in the matter. A hit and run involving a death, you’re looking at a Class B felony punishable by ten years in prison.”
“D’Andre Miller’s family will demand accountability, Mr. Trejo,” Kins said, which was part of his spiel. “The public will demand accountability. They’ll demand that we hold someone responsible for D’Andre’s death. Lying isn’t going to help you.”
Trejo’s eyes no longer focused on anything in particular, as if he were seeing into the future, seeing a jail cell that would be his home for many years.
CHAPTER 13
Leah Battles dropped her head beneath the barrel of the handgun, reached up and grasped the weapon with both hands, and drove her knee into her attacker’s groin. She stepped back quickly while violently rolling the man’s wrists into his body, yanked free the gun, and aimed the barrel at his forehead.
“Nice,” her instructor said, his British accent distinct. “But you hesitated.”
Battles bit her tongue. Seemed there was always a “but” with this guy.
“One thing you can be sure of,” he said, talking now to the entire class, “when you move to attack, your attacker will fire his weapon. So if you hesitate, if you fail to immediately drop below the barrel of the weapon, you’re dead.” He clapped for emphasis. “So move like you mean it. You understand me, Lee?” he asked, using her nickname.