“Do you think Jack gave it to her?”
“We just want to find out what he knows,” Faz said. “Do you have access to Jack’s room above the garage?”
“I did, but he put a lock on the outside. I asked him to remove it, but . . . I don’t know the combination.”
Del leaned forward. “Has your son ever overdosed?”
“Twice,” she said without hesitation.
“Recently?” Del asked.
“The last time was about a month ago. His friends . . . They brought him to the hospital and they treated him and let him go. They said they couldn’t keep him.”
Faz said, “Does your son have a cell phone?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding somewhat confused by the question.
“Is it his phone or did you purchase it for him? Is it your plan?”
“It’s a family plan.” She chuckled. “Jack doesn’t have the money to afford to buy lunch at school.”
The comment further confirmed Del’s conclusion that Jack had used Allie for her money. “So the phone bill is in your name.”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“We’d like access to Jack’s text messages and Snapchats,” Faz said. “We’d like to find out who he’s been talking to—who his supplier is.”
“What can you do about it?”
“Shut him down,” Faz said. “They’ve had multiple overdoses recently and we’re trying to keep that number from increasing.”
“My God,” she said softly.
“We’re concerned that more people could die unless we can find out the source of the drug. Can you get access to Jack’s phone?”
“I suppose so,” she said. “I’ve never done it before though.”
Del rattled off a ten-digit number.
“That’s Jack’s number,” she said.
Del pulled out a folded sheet of paper authorizing the phone company to release Jack’s cell phone records and handed it to her. She looked at it a moment. “I don’t—”
Del handed her a pen. “It just allows us access to Jack’s cell phone, to determine who he is communicating with.”
She took the pen, considered the document briefly, and scribbled her name. Then she handed both back to Del. He gave Faz a subtle nod. They had what they needed. Faz handed Jeanine Welch a business card. “We’d like to talk to your son. It’s not our intent to embarrass him, or you, by picking him up at school. If he comes home, that’s my number.”
The woman leaned forward and took the card. “Can you lock him up?”
“What’s that?” Faz asked.
“Can you arrest him? Put him in jail? Maybe he can get some help. I don’t know, maybe it will scare him enough to get help. I don’t know what else to do.” She sounded very much like Maggie. “Every time the phone rings or there’s a knock on the door . . . I expect it to be someone coming to tell me my son is dead.”
CHAPTER 27
Tracy pulled to a stop outside a brick apartment building on King Street near the train station in Pioneer Square. According to a DMV search, Leah Battles lived in one of the units. At six stories, the building was one of the tallest in the area. Most were one and two stories, with an assortment of shops and restaurants on the street level. Bars, music venues, and art shops attracted many of Seattle’s young, along with a number of its homeless and mentally ill. Early evening, music filtered from one of the stores and people walked the streets, some on their way home from work, others looking like they were getting a jump on the upcoming weekend.
Earlier that afternoon, Tracy had met with Rick Cerrabone, Sandy Clarridge, and Kevin Dunleavy. They’d expressed concern over the news about the missing videotape. Dunleavy explained that the Navy’s senior trial counsel had called to advise that they had been unable to locate the video, and that they were proceeding with an ethics inquiry against Battles. He explained that, depending on the outcome of that inquiry, a court-martial for dereliction of duty could be imposed. He also said Battles no longer represented Trejo, and that they were awaiting the preliminary hearing officer’s determination on probable cause to continue holding him. Dunleavy explained what everyone in the room understood. If the PHO punted and King County reasserted jurisdiction, they faced similar problems bringing an action against Trejo. In a superior court, the standard to convict was beyond a reasonable doubt, a much more stringent threshold than probable cause. Without the videotape, their case had become significantly weaker. Tracy got the sense from the discussion that it was unlikely the powers that be would take back jurisdiction, though no one in the meeting said that out loud. She understood their reasoning. Why put your head in the lion’s cage if you knew it was going to be bitten off?
Tracy pushed out of her car and approached the apartment building’s overhang. The night air had a bite to it, though not nearly as cold as earlier that month. Antique streetlamps lit the dampened sidewalk, and the air had a musty smell of impending rain. She located the name Leah Battles on the apartment registry and pushed the buzzer. No one answered. She tried again with the same result.
“You looking for a restaurant recommendation?” Battles climbed off a bicycle in attire similar to what she’d worn to the jail the night Trejo had been booked. She pointed. “Good idea to wear that gun, though this neighborhood isn’t too bad.” Battles sounded out of breath. She removed her bike helmet. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her cheeks flushed.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Tracy said.
“Why would we do that?” Battles sounded more curious than adversarial.
“Because I think we both want the same thing.”
“You want to win the lottery and move to a yacht in the Mediterranean?”
“That would be nice,” Tracy said. “Though the grass isn’t always greener.”
“You see any grass around here?” Battles looked at the pavement. “What do we both want?”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Battles gave her an inquisitive stare. “A cop springing for a cup of coffee? Okay, I’m interested. Let me get my bike indoors. I lock it up out here and I’ll be lucky if they leave a spoke.”
Minutes after she went inside, Battles emerged without the bike, the helmet, or her shoes. She clutched Kleenex and wiped at her nose. She wore Birkenstock sandals with white socks. “I like to make a fashion statement when I go out,” she said. “The guys dig it.” She looked around the street. “So where do you want to go?”
“Your neighborhood,” Tracy said. “Pick a place and I’ll follow.”
“Okay.” Battles gave it some thought before leading Tracy around the block to Zeitgeist Coffee on Jackson Street. Battles ordered an iced coffee. Tracy ordered a decaf; she had enough trouble sleeping without caffeine in her system. “You want a bite to eat?” she asked.
Battles smiled. “This is beginning to feel like a date.”
Crosswhite held up a hand. “Married.”