“That’s correct. I’m also an attorney.” She smiled again, though this time with a little more purpose.
“Well, Lieutenant, if he’s still being processed, you’re still going to have to wait until he’s finished before you can talk to him.” His smile broadened. “And, as an FYI, the salmon run is way up this year. I caught a couple kings this week.”
Battles hoped that wasn’t his best pickup line. “No kidding? I can’t eat salmon. It makes me sick.”
“That’s got to suck living here.”
“It does. Every social function I attend they put a big piece of fish on my plate. I end up giving it to my dates.”
“Your dates must appreciate the extra piece.” The officer grinned.
“They do,” she said. “Until they realize it’s the only piece they’ll be getting that night.”
Checkmate. Game over.
“So I’d appreciate it if you’d pick up that phone, call upstairs, and find out where my client is.”
The officer sat back, no longer grinning. He gestured to some seats. “Take a seat, Lieutenant. It could be a long night.”
Battles answered e-mails on her cell phone while she waited. After a few minutes, she heard the ping of an elevator door. A woman stepped around the corner, glanced at Battles, then looked at the uniform behind the desk, clearly confused. Perhaps she’d been expecting a man in a three-piece suit and tie rather than a bike messenger. The uniform nodded to Battles to dispel any doubt, and the officer stepped out from behind a security gate.
The Navy generously listed Battles at five foot six. This woman was a head taller, most of it legs. She had the blonde hair and blue eyes of one of those beach volleyball players in the Olympics with the ill-fitting shorts. Nobody had ever described Battles as having long legs, or guessed that she spent her days on a beach. She had her father’s dark hair and dark complexion, especially when she tanned in the summers. She’d grown up on the East Coast.
This woman had “cop” written all over her—okay, the badge clipped to her belt near the gun was a giveaway, as was the fact that Battles was at Police Headquarters, but that wasn’t what first struck her about the woman. What struck her was the woman’s self-assured walk and demeanor.
“I’m guessing you’re not Laszlo Trejo,” Battles said.
“I’m Detective Tracy Crosswhite. Can I help you?”
“You can if you can conjure up Petty Officer Trejo and give me a room in which to talk to him.”
Crosswhite looked only semi-amused. “And you are?”
“Leah Battles. I’m an attorney, a judge advocate from Naval Base Kitsap in Bremerton. Sorry, but I didn’t get a chance to throw on my dress blues before I came down here. It would have avoided the confusion.”
“Do you have some identification?” Crosswhite sounded skeptical.
Battles glanced at the uniform behind the desk, but he just smiled. Annoyed, she fumbled in her backpack and again produced her identification. “Do you get a lot of people pretending to be judge advocates asking to speak to clients?”
“No,” Crosswhite said, taking the credentials. “Because we don’t ordinarily let people see suspects. Neither does the jail, not after visiting hours.”
Nice move. Battles liked her. She bet Crosswhite could play a mean game of chess. “But as an attorney, I can see a client whenever I wish.”
Crosswhite didn’t comment. She studied the identification. “This says Virginia. Are you licensed in the state of Washington?”
“I’m licensed in the United States Navy, which is sort of a global law firm, though I’m currently stationed at Naval Base Kitsap, in Bremerton, which is where Laszlo Trejo is stationed, which is why he called me, which is why I’m here, which is why I’d like to speak with him.”
Crosswhite remained calm. “Is the Navy asserting jurisdiction?”
“I wouldn’t know. What I know is that Mr. Trejo called the command duty officer, me. He advised that he’d been arrested, and asked for a lawyer. I’m that lawyer.”
“You got here fast from Bremerton.”
“I’m a fast swimmer.”
Crosswhite smiled and handed back the identification. “You should have taken your time. You won’t see Mr. Trejo until after he’s booked.”
“And miss out on all this fun we’re having? I’m curious, Detective, what was Mr. Trejo doing over here at Police Headquarters?” Trejo had told Battles that he’d come over expecting to pick up his car from the police impound and that he had come over to Seattle to get it.
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“You didn’t by chance bring him over under false pretenses, did you? Just to get him off base so you could arrest him?”
“Mr. Trejo doesn’t live on base,” Crosswhite said. “So I wouldn’t need any false pretenses to arrest him. But again, you can ask him when you talk to him.” She turned and started back for the security door.
“He asked to speak to an attorney,” Battles said to Crosswhite’s back. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let your brethren know that one detail.”
Crosswhite didn’t respond. She didn’t turn. The security door buzzed and she stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her. The uniform leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile.
Battles smiled too. She didn’t mind a spirited opponent. She welcomed it. Competition brought out the best in her, and the interchange with Crosswhite just made her want the case more.
And she’d already wanted this case very much.
Tracy dropped her keys into the wood bowl on the antique farm table that she and Dan had purchased at an estate sale near the Canadian border. Beside the bowl, she’d positioned their wedding picture, framed and perched on a stand. Behind the table, two large windows offered plenty of light, though not at this early hour of the morning. The windows faced east, toward the horse pasture and tree-lined rolling hills, eliminating the need for curtains—unless your occupation was homicide detective and you spent much of your time hunting down the sick and depraved. She’d wanted window coverings. Dan didn’t. They’d compromised. Dan put up outdoor floodlights with motion sensors. It seemed a fair solution, until the lights were repeatedly triggered by the many animals that ventured onto their property—squirrels, raccoons, deer, Rex and Sherlock, even Tracy’s cat, Roger, who for the first time was allowed to go outside.
“Tracy?”
Dan came out of the bedroom wearing long pajama pants and a T-shirt from Boston University, his alma mater. Rex and Sherlock also padded out to greet her, tails wagging. She heard the television from the bedroom, which every marriage advice article said was a no-no, but there was no other place in the house to put it. Dan held a toothbrush and spoke through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“I didn’t . . . ,” he mumbled. “Hang on.” He disappeared back into the bathroom. Tracy heard the water in their sink. Dan reappeared without the toothbrush. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
She rubbed the heads of both dogs. “We made an arrest in the hit-and-run case tonight and had to get him booked for the probable cause hearing tomorrow afternoon.” She kissed Dan and stepped past him into the kitchen.