Hope became something to cling to when there was nothing else but despair.
On a wooden crate beside Welch’s bed, an alarm clock and pack of cigarettes sat amid the drug paraphernalia—a burnt spoon, several syringes, lighters, and a plastic bag containing a powdery substance that, upon initial review, closely resembled in color and consistency the substance Del had found in Allie’s room. The fact that the anonymous caller, likely another junkie, had not taken the bag might have been most significant. The ramifications of its contents were right there—two dead bodies.
Funk noted Del’s and Faz’s presence and stepped away from the bed to speak to them. He kept his voice soft. “How’d you hear?”
“He went to school with Allie,” Del said. “The mother called. We came out to talk to her the other night. He was with Allie when they bought the product that killed her.”
Funk grimaced and readjusted his glasses. “Then that’s a problem. This is not black tar. I don’t know what it is, going to have to wait until the toxicology lab tests it, but I’d venture to guess from the lack of any smell that it’s China white, or something close to it, highly potent, or cut with something like fentanyl.”
“What do you mean the lack of any smell?” Faz asked.
“Most street heroin has a smell, like vinegar, because the producers don’t care about getting it beyond ninety percent pure. The other ten percent is usually some kind of un-reacted acetic acid. Really pure heroin doesn’t have that smell.”
“Do we know who the woman is?” Faz asked.
“We found her purse on the counter. Her name is Talia Crenshaw.”
“TC,” Del said.
“What’s that?” Faz asked.
“She was in a picture with Welch. Allie called her TC. Welch was dating her when Allie went into rehab.”
“Can we tell if it’s the same stuff that Allie used or any of the other overdoses?” Faz asked.
“All I can tell you at this time is it’s definitely not black tar,” Funk repeated. “But I’d say it’s likely we’re talking about the same product. We’re going through all the proper channels to warn people on the street. We don’t have a choice, not with people dying.”
Del and Faz asked additional questions, requested that they be kept posted on any toxicology results, then let Funk do his work. Outside they gathered their umbrellas and went back down the stairs.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” Del said, making his way toward the house and a conversation with Jeanine Welch. When last they’d spoke, Welch said she’d been resigned to Jack’s death, but Del knew from experience there was a big difference between speculation and reality. Looking into your child’s eyes, knowing you would never again see in them the glint of life, was the harshest kind of reality, and there wasn’t a faith in the world that could ease that pain.
Tracy chose the trail that proceeded more or less straight, though in the darkness and blanket of rain, she was walking blind. Swaying trees and thick brush lined the path, and the winds carried the briny smell of wetlands. Though she was just a stone’s throw from civilization, she could not hear anything over the howling wind and rain, and the pounding of waves on the shore. Puddles had begun to overwhelm the path and to penetrate her leather boots, saturating her socks.
She continued until she neared the end of the stand of trees, about twenty feet from the beach. She saw the iridescent glow of the surging white foam crashing onto the rocks and sand, and scattered bleached logs, strewn like the discarded bones of a whale. She did not see Trejo or anyone else. To her right was a V-shaped Best Western hotel. She quickly dismissed the possibility Trejo had gone there. If he had, why wouldn’t he have parked under cover, protected from the rain? It was more likely Trejo had taken the other path.
She’d chosen incorrectly.
She walked along the beach toward where the other trail ended, mindful of her footing on the beach logs and scraps of wood. The rain intensified and she lowered the bill of her hat to deflect it, struggling to see. She slipped but managed to remain upright. Water seeped through crevices and she felt her shirt sticking to her back.
As she neared where the second footpath intersected with the beach, she heard a muffled pop and saw a blue-white light flash in the trees. Gunshot. She dropped to a knee and removed her Glock. She watched and listened for nearly a minute, then dismissed the thought that anyone had been shooting at her. If someone wanted her dead, they could have easily stepped from the brush and put a bullet in the back of her head.
She stood and hurried away from the water into the stand of trees where she had seen the muzzle flash. The saturated ground clung to the soles of her boots, making a sucking sound with each step. The trees, at least, provided some relief from the rain and allowed her to push back the hood of her raincoat and to raise the bill of her hat. As she made her way through the trees, she again stopped to consider her surroundings. She saw no one and heard only the gusting wind and beating rain. She followed the trail for another twenty yards, until she saw that someone sat at one of two picnic tables in an open field and again dropped to a knee. The figure, slumped over the table, wasn’t moving. Tracy waited a full minute before proceeding forward, gun drawn.
As she approached, she stepped to her right to get a better angle in case the figure suddenly sprang to life. It didn’t.
She recognized the jacket.
A step closer and she saw the face—Laszlo Trejo. On the other side of his body, a handgun rested on the table near his left hand.
Del had called the King County Jail on the drive back from Jeanine Welch’s home, after spending time with her, knowing what she was going through. He asked that Nicholas Evans be escorted through the underground tunnel to the interrogation room. He didn’t care what time of night it would be when they arrived. He and Evans had things to discuss. If Evans continued to choose not to talk, then he could listen.
Evans turned his head to look at Del and Faz as they entered the interrogation room. This time neither carried a chair. Behind the one-way glass, members of the narcotics unit sat observing Evans, eager to hear what he had to say, if he said anything at all.