Kins’s home was classic colonial architecture with a large dining room, living room, and small kitchen on the ground floor, and a large master bedroom, one bathroom, and two small bedrooms on the second floor—not exactly functional for three boys. Kins had spent much of his free time during the early years building out the daylight basement: adding bedrooms, a large bathroom, and a rumpus room with a pool table, sofas, and a television. A back door led to the arboretum, 230 acres of lawn and exotic plants and trees almost big enough to accommodate his three boys.
Tracy parked in a cutout in front of Kins’s home and accessed the yard through a green gate. She carried a stack of magazines and several books the office had cobbled together to keep Kins occupied during his recovery. That was a tall order. Kins had a kinetic energy much like his sons. Keeping him immobile to allow his hip healing time would be a real chore for Shannah.
Shannah answered the door, but Kins called out immediately, expecting Tracy. “Crosswhite? Took you long enough. I’m dying in here and the office doesn’t even bother to comfort me.”
Shannah rolled her eyes. “He sounds like he’s dying, doesn’t he? I’m the one dying.” She looked at the stack of reading material. “Thank God. That should last him at least a day or two.”
Shannah and the boys had moved a bed into the living room so Kins wouldn’t have to immediately climb the narrow stairs up to their bedroom.
“Well, I can see you’re a good patient,” Tracy said, walking in.
“I’m going stir-crazy and I’ve been home less than forty-eight hours.”
Kins hadn’t shaved, and it reminded Tracy of when they’d first met. He’d worked undercover narcotics and had grown a wispy goatee and long hair, earning the nickname Jack Sparrow after the Johnny Depp character in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.
“I’m making lunch, Tracy. Can you stay?” Shannah asked.
“I’m not sure I want to.” She cocked a thumb at Kins. “Does he have to be here?”
“Not if you put a pillow over his head when I leave the room.”
“You know I could get this kind of love at the office from Del and Faz,” Kins said.
“Maybe, but they definitely wouldn’t share their lunch,” Tracy said.
Shannah departed for the kitchen. Tracy pulled over a chair and sat at the side of the bed. “The office put this together for you.” She placed the reading material on Kins’s bed. Soft music played from a black speaker. “So how are you doing?”
“The drugs are making me tired and loopy, but I’ve already started to wean myself off them. Just don’t like the way they make me feel.”
“And the pain?”
“Surprisingly little,” he said. “Everyone was right. I should have had the surgery two years ago. How’s work? Did they move anyone in to take my place?”
“Ron’s helping out,” she said, referring to Ron Mayweather, the A Team’s fifth wheel. “We’re doing okay.”
“What’s happening with D’Andre Miller and Trejo?”
Like most detectives, Kins didn’t like to feel out of touch and had a subconscious desire to be needed.
“How much medication are you on?”
“Why, something bothering you?”
“Something’s not right about this whole thing,” Tracy said. “Something about Trejo has been bothering me from the start.”
“Like what was he doing in Seattle in the first place?”
“That, for sure. But if he hit D’Andre Miller accidentally, why wouldn’t he own up to it?” Tracy said.
Kins called out, “Alexa, off.” The music from the black speaker tower stopped. “My latest toy from Amazon; the boys steal it when they have friends over.” He adjusted in the bed. “People do stupid things for stupid reasons all the time. I should know, with three sons. I think they get caught up in the moment and then it’s like a fly in a spider’s web. They can’t get out.”
Shannah entered the room carrying a plate with two sandwiches, iced tea, and cherry tomatoes. She set everything down on the coffee table. “Okay, I’m out. The boys have soccer practice so it will be a two-hour reprieve . . . I mean two hours of drudgery.”
“Funny,” Kins said. “You’re a regular Conan O’Brien.”
“You need anything while I’m out?” Shannah asked, bending down to kiss him.
Kins smiled. “Potato chips?”
“Nice try.” She kissed Kins, said good-bye to Tracy, and departed out the front door.
“Are you dieting too?” Tracy asked.
“I’m going to kill Del. He called the other day checking on me, and he and Shannah talked for half an hour. He says he’s lost fifteen pounds.”
“Might be more than that now. He looks good,” Tracy said.
“Yeah, well, so now Shannah is telling me this would be a good time to get healthy.”
“Might be.” Tracy picked up half a sandwich and started eating. After a minute she said, “Let’s assume Trejo isn’t stupid. Let’s assume he couldn’t stop.”
“You mean his brakes were out, something like that?”
“I mean what if he was doing something illegal, something that could have got him in bigger trouble if he’d been caught.”
“Bigger trouble than running a kid down?” Kins popped a tomato into his mouth.
“What if he’d been drunk or high when he hit the kid?”
Kins gave it some thought. “It would explain why he abandoned the car.”
“But not necessarily how he knew the lot was there. The easement looks like a driveway.”
“You’d drive right past it unless you knew about it,” Kins agreed.
“And he said he was from San Diego and didn’t get over to Seattle often.”
“So he either already knew about it . . . somehow, or someone let him know about it,” Kins said.
Tracy took another bite of her sandwich. “He also had to know we would figure out his car wasn’t stolen.” CSI had not found any marks on the ignition switch and nothing untoward with regard to the wires underneath the dash to indicate a theft. “Which is why he concocted that story about keeping a hide-a-key under the back bumper.”
“No real way to disprove it,” Kins said.
“No, there isn’t. But again, doesn’t it indicate someone thought this through? It seems a bit more sophisticated than I’d give Trejo credit for,” she said.
“Like the interior of the car being wiped down, including the air bag,” Kins said. “It sounds like a lawyer, Tracy.”
Tracy sipped her iced tea. “Someone who knows about liability and evidence for sure,” she agreed.
“Battles?”
“Maybe. But I keep thinking, what does she get out of it?” She finished her half of the sandwich and wiped her hands with a napkin. “I could make an argument why she might take the videotape, but that doesn’t get us to who helped Trejo hide the car and get home that night.”
“She lives in Seattle,” Kins said.
“I know, but I just don’t see her putting her career at risk for Trejo.”
“Maybe he has something on her, something to blackmail her.”
“Maybe.”
“Or it could be more than one person,” Kins said.
“Could be.” She set down her glass, thinking. “Something else, something I noticed when all the crap was flying around the courtroom about the tape being missing—Trejo never flinched.”
Kins reached for another half sandwich. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he just sat there, staring straight ahead, like he didn’t understand what was happening.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“He had to understand. Everyone else in the courtroom understood. Cho said it right there—they couldn’t find the tape.”
“But he showed no reaction?” Kins said.