Evans’s eyes followed them. He looked uncertain and uncomfortable but fought to maintain the tough-guy persona. Del knew tough guys. He’d grown up with some tough guys in Wisconsin, and he’d arrested more than a few in his day. This guy was no tough guy.
Evans sat back as far as the long chain that extended from his handcuffs to the eyebolt ring in the floor would allow. Portions of the tattoos on his chest and arms peeked out from his red jail scrubs—a cross on his right forearm, several tombstones—each with a name—on his left. Del wondered if they were the names of friends who’d died. Evans would need room for at least two more. The upper half of the word CHAOS extended across the base of his neck from collarbone to collarbone, like a necklace. He’d pulled his shoulder-length, curly blond hair into a bun that made his already thin, feminine features more prominent. Time in prison would be a bitch for this guy, and he’d be the bitch.
“I’m not speaking to either of you.” Evans dropped his chin and refused to meet their stares.
“Then you can listen,” Del said, voice calm and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. “We just came from Jack Welch’s home.”
Evans peeked but kept his head turned to the side.
Del said, “CHAOS is going to need a new guitar player.”
Evans turned toward them, concern in his face.
“Let me paint you a picture,” Del said, resting his palms on the table and leaning down into Evans’s personal space. “Jack was lying on his back on his mattress. His eyes were open and he was staring up through skylights. Beside him lay a young woman with her head over the side of the bed, foam spewing from her mouth onto the floor. On the dresser we found used syringes, a blackened spoon, some BIC lighters, and a small bag of heroin.” Del waited, letting the uncomfortable moment grow. Evans stared at the tabletop, his gaze unfocused. “You’re selling death,” Del said. “More than ten people we know of have died from the shit you’re selling.” Del didn’t know, not for certain, but then neither did Evans.
Del pushed back from the table. “So let me tell you how this is going to go. The prosecutor will charge you with a controlled substance homicide and try you separately for each death. The penalty is a ten-year sentence, each to run consecutively. That’s ninety to one hundred years, Nick. You’ll never get out. And a guy like you . . .” Del shrugged. “So you go ahead and be a tough guy, and you tell us you’re not going to talk to us. You go right ahead. But we aren’t coming back again.”
Evans sat back. His right leg bounced, making the chain between his legs rattle like he had loose change in his pocket. His head bobbed to a different beat—out of sync with his leg, and he looked to be having trouble catching his breath, breathing in deeply as if trying to ward off hyperventilating. “I need a lawyer,” he said, voice cracking.
“Okay.” Del looked to Faz, who shrugged. “Let’s go.”
Evans quickly stopped them. “No! I mean . . . I need a lawyer to structure a deal.”
“A deal?” Del said. “Why would we make a deal with you?”
“Because I know some things.” Evans stumbled over his words, speaking in a rush. “I know . . . I know where the drugs are coming from.”
“The drugs are coming from you,” Del said. “We have text messages and e-mails confirming . . .”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “What I mean is, I know where they’re coming from . . . I could tell you where I’m getting them. You’d want to know that, right?”
Bingo, Del thought. “Okay, be my guest. Tell us. Where are they coming from?”
Evans shook his head. “That’s why I need a deal. That’s why I need a lawyer.”
Del nodded to Faz to proceed.
“We have families to think about here,” Faz said. “They’re going to want to see someone punished for their child’s death. What are we supposed to tell them?”
Evans didn’t have an answer. His legs continued the jig, the left leg now accompanying the right.
“You see the problem?” Faz said. “So if you want a deal, you’ve got to give us something to take to the prosecutor, because I can tell you he’s not going to be inclined to make any kind of a deal with someone who’s selling death.”
“I didn’t know it was killing anyone,” Evans said. “I didn’t know that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Del said. “It’s one of the hazards of selling heroin.”
They sat in silence for almost a minute, Evans looking uncertain, chewing on his bottom lip. Finally, he said, “What if I told you that I know something about that guy, the one you arrested a couple weeks ago?”
Del frowned. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, Nick.”
“The guy who was involved in that hit and run, the guy who killed that black kid in Rainier Beach.”
CHAPTER 34
Nicholas Evans looked up at Faz, who now sat beside Rick Cerrabone in the interrogation room. Del was in the adjacent room behind the one-way glass, listening and watching with Celia McDaniel and the narcotics detectives.
Upon Nicholas Evans’s revelation, Del and Faz had called Cerrabone and Celia at home and told them, “We got a drug dealer in the interrogation room. You’re going to want to hear what this guy is telling us.” Del also tried to call Tracy, but she did not answer her cell.
Faz made the introductions. Cerrabone, in a striped button-down shirt that he’d likely worn to work that day, looked tired, but he always looked tired, the bags under his eyes like spent tea bags. Balding, he combed his hair straight back from his forehead. They said sixty was the new forty, but for Cerrabone and a lot of trial lawyers, forty looked to be sixty.
“I’m told you might have information on a hit and run in Rainier Beach,” Cerrabone said.
Evans nodded. “But I want a deal. I won’t testify or put anything in writing unless I have a deal.”
“I understand,” Cerrabone said, calm and matter-of-fact. Making no promises. “But I need to know a little more about what you told Detective Fazzio before I can consider anything.”
Evans gave this some thought. He sat forward, as if imparting a secret. “You guys arrested a guy in Rainier Beach for a hit and run. He was in the Navy, right?”
“That’s right,” Cerrabone said.
“Well, I know what he was doing in Seattle that night.”
Cerrabone didn’t react. Neither did Faz. When Evans didn’t continue, Cerrabone said, “How do you know what he was doing?”
“Someone told me.”
“Someone?”
Evans sat back, smug. “Yep.”
“Who?”
“A guy who would know.”
Cerrabone frowned. He glanced at Faz. This was all part of an act. He shrugged. “‘A guy who would know’ really doesn’t tell me anything, Detective.” He spoke to Evans. “If you don’t have personal knowledge it’s called hearsay, and hearsay evidence isn’t any good to me because a judge won’t allow it in court. It isn’t considered reliable.” He spread his hands as if to say, What am I going to do?
Evans hesitated again, thinking. Then he said, “It’s the guy who supplies me the heroin.”
“He’s your source?”