“Yep.”
“Okay. Again, Nick, look at it from my perspective. A judge, or a defense attorney, will say that I took the word of a drug dealer looking to make a deal about another drug dealer. Do you see the problem? The story of the young boy killed in the hit and run has been in the newspaper and on the evening news. He’ll say you could have just read about it and made the whole thing up. And that’s just not going to get me very far.”
Evans pointed to Faz, seemingly alarmed that his big news might not be his ticket out of trouble. “What if I tell him? Then he can find out if it’s true or not, right?”
“Maybe,” Cerrabone said. “What did your supplier tell you?”
Evans licked his lips. “He asked if I’d read about the Navy guy who’d got busted for hit and run. I said I hadn’t heard anything about it. That’s when he told me.”
They were going in circles. Cerrabone, after a breath, said, “Told you what, exactly?”
Evans squinted as if looking into a bright light. “Do I have a deal?”
“I don’t know. You really haven’t told me anything yet.”
“So this guy that sells, he asked me whether I knew about the Navy guy, and I said no. Then he said that the Navy guy was delivering over a pound of heroin when he hit that kid.”
“Delivering?” Cerrabone said.
“That’s right.”
“From where?”
Evans shrugged. “I don’t know, but he was definitely this guy’s supplier.”
CHAPTER 35
Tracy sat in a room at the Bremerton Police Department on Burwell Street, just after midnight. She’d been to the Bremerton station on one prior occasion, seeking support for the execution of a search warrant in a homicide case. The red brick-and-metal building took up half a city block, including a fenced-in area for police vehicles—part of a weird zoning mix of residential homes, apartment buildings, and parking lots. She looked and felt like a sodden cat, her clothes still damp. She’d called in Laszlo Trejo’s body, then waited several hours while the coroner and detectives completed their work.
A secure door opened, and a man, perhaps five nine, midfifties, his hair slicked back and graying at the temples, entered. Despite the hour, he looked fresh in a button-down, the cuffs neatly folded up his forearms, revealing a silver watch, silver-and-turquoise band, and wedding ring. He had not been one of the detectives at the site. Tracy figured him to be a sergeant.
“You must be Crosswhite?” The detective offered a hand and a confident smile. “No one else would be out this time of night or in this weather. John Owens,” he said. “Come on back.” Tracy followed him through the door. “It’s a late night for me, but it has to be a very early morning for you,” Owens said.
“I’m working the night shift,” she said, though she no longer knew what shift she was working.
“On Bremerton?” Owens glanced back over his shoulder as he worked his way down a hall. Police could be territorial, and Tracy knew that foremost on Owens’s mind was the reason for SPD’s presence at a crime scene in his jurisdiction, and why he hadn’t received any notice. He stepped into a small office with a cluttered desk and pointed to a round table. “Make yourself comfortable.” He held up a mug and a pot of coffee. “Coffee? Just made it.”
“Sure,” Tracy said. She accepted the coffee, the mug warm in her hands, and sat at the table. Above her she heard the low hum of the air conditioner and felt a brush of cold air from a vent. She noted several framed certificates on the wall, one bordered in navy-blue and gold, an honorable discharge from the United States Navy.
“You served,” she said.
Owens glanced over his shoulder as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I did. Thought about making a career out of it but decided I’d rather be a cop. Ironic that I would end up here where the naval base dominates.”
Tracy adjusted her chair so the vent was not blowing on her.
Owens joined her at the table. “You said you guys were interested in Trejo in a hit and run in Seattle?” He’d talked to his detectives.
“That’s right. A twelve-year-old boy.”
“I recall that case, but I thought the Navy took jurisdiction?” Again, the question was pointed.
“They did,” Tracy said. “And it appeared to be open-and-shut until a key piece of evidence disappeared at the Article 32 hearing.”
Owens sipped his coffee. Then he said, “Trejo’s Article 32 hearing was also prominent in the local newspaper. I guess what I’m more confused about is why an SPD homicide detective is here, now, if SPD didn’t have jurisdiction. Trejo’s death is our jurisdiction.”
“The powers that be wanted us to keep a hand in this case since it looked like it could come back.”
“Okay. So why are you here now, this time of night . . .” He checked his watch. “Morning?”
“We were told Trejo was going to be released from the brig this afternoon. The DA in Seattle decided to issue a statement to the effect that we intended to pursue charges.”
Owens squinted, as if trying to understand. “Do you?”
“That isn’t for me to decide,” Tracy said, not about to throw anyone under the bus. “We were hoping that by issuing a statement, Trejo might react.”
“Well, you got that wish.” Owens sipped his coffee and set down the mug. “What were you hoping he’d do?”
She shrugged and explained her hypothesis that someone had helped Trejo ditch his car and get back to Bremerton.
“So, what, you thought he might run to someone?”
“He couldn’t while he was in the brig, so, yeah, I thought it possible he would meet that person as soon as he was out.”
“You have any other evidence to support that theory?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Owens’s eyes narrowed. “My detectives said you don’t believe it was a suicide.”
“Like I said, given everything else that has transpired, it seems doubtful.”
“It was his gun.”
“But you didn’t recover a bullet, did you?”
“That isn’t unusual, given the location of death. It could be lodged in a tree somewhere.” Owens sat back.
“But without the bullet you can’t definitively say he was shot with his gun.”
“Look, Crosswhite, this is all very interesting, but in my experience, things are often exactly what they look like. He ran over a twelve-year-old boy, the guilt and shame built, and he shot himself. That could get to anyone.”
“Maybe. But the security tape did go missing.”
Owens paused. “Tell me again what you saw tonight.”
Tracy went through her surveillance on Trejo, how she’d picked the wrong trail, the shot she’d heard, and the blue-white flash of the gun that drew her, ultimately, to the body.
“But you didn’t see a person who might have shot him.”
“No. But I’d ask his wife whether Trejo was left-or right-handed.” Trejo had drunk the Red Bull from a can in his right hand. “The gun was on the table near his left hand.”