“I’m well aware of that, but that multiple homicide last week is heating up and they need help with the interviews. This is a hit and run with a fatality,” Nolasco said, “which is what TCI does.”
“What if it was a homicide?”
“Then we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”
Jensen stepped to the doorway. Nolasco gave him a glance, turned, and departed down the hall. Jensen peeled off the strap of a computer bag slung over his shoulder and set the bag on a chair. “Sorry I’m late, but I was running down something I think you’ll find useful.”
Jensen looked decidedly different without the knit ski cap and bulky jacket. He had a full head of red hair and a stocky build. This morning he wore jeans, low-cut hiking shoes, polo shirt, and down jacket, which he quickly discarded over an empty chair.
“You get any sleep?” Kins asked.
Jensen removed the laptop from his bag and flipped it open, waiting for it to power up. “Yeah, I’m good. Adrenaline is pumping.”
“Put some of that in my coffee,” Faz said.
Jensen pulled out several sheets of paper and handed them to Tracy, then looked at his watch. “We might make morning roll call.”
“Should we call the sergeant?” Tracy asked.
“Take a peek.”
She read the paper. “Subaru Outback?” She looked to Jensen. “You got the make and model of the car? Already? Was there a video?”
“There’s a video, but too far away to be definitive.”
“So how do we know it’s a Subaru?” Kins asked.
“I took that car part found in the street to the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab first thing this morning. They provided me with a serial number and determined it had come off a Subaru. My buddy owns Walker’s Renton Subaru,” Jensen said. “So I drove the part over to him and, based on the number, he says it came off a headlamp on the passenger side of a 2003 Subaru Outback. Black.”
Tracy quickly looked at her wristwatch, then looked across the table. “Faz—”
“I’m on it.” Faz pushed back his chair, the sheet of paper in one hand and his coffee mug in the other. If they could get the information to the sergeant on the morning roll call, they could get the word out to the patrol officers on First Watch to keep their eyes open for the car. Faz would then get the information distributed through all the other law enforcement agencies throughout the state, including the highway patrol, as well as distributing it to car repair companies.
“You said something about video?” Tracy asked Jensen as Faz departed.
“There’s a traffic camera down the street. It isn’t great, but knowing the type of car and approximate time of the accident, we were able to fast-forward through the tape looking for it.” He tapped the laptop keyboard and spoke to Kins. “You might want to come around to this side of the table.”
Kins joined them, peering over Jensen’s shoulder.
“There’s a traffic camera for the bus line on top of the light pole on South Henderson, about a hundred yards west of the intersection. It’s a good camera, but the distance and the lighting . . . The video isn’t the best. And the car was traveling south to north so there’s no chance to get a license plate.” Jensen tapped the keys. In seconds they were watching a grainy, slightly yellowed, black-and-white video. “The lights distort the coloring,” he said. He tapped a few more keys, speeding up the film while checking notes on a sheet of paper. He pointed with his finger. “Right here, if you look closely, you’ll see someone coming up the sidewalk on the left-hand side of the street.”
Tracy could barely make out a slightly lighter image. “Hard to tell.”
“It’s consistent with the time the witness said D’Andre Miller left the community center. And he appears to be running. Now watch, right here.” Jensen tapped keys to slow the video. “The car enters the frame here, at the top of the slope in the street. The image gets a little better as it approaches the intersection.”
Tracy watched a dark-colored car drive down the hill and blow through the intersection without slowing. “The stucco building on the corner blocks the view of the kid stepping from the curb.”
“Like I said, it’s not great, but the timing, the car, and the image of the kid coming up the street all confirm what the car part tells us—that the kid was hit by a dark-colored Subaru.”
“Can you enhance the image any more?” Tracy asked.
“Not without making it grainier. You’re not going to get a license plate unless we can find other cameras down the line that picked the car up.”
Tracy straightened. “You have someone working on that? Maybe we get lucky and get a plate, or at least a partial.”
“We’re on it,” Jensen said. He smiled at Tracy. “I told you this was more interesting than your run-of-the-mill homicides.”
CHAPTER 5
Leaving the King County Courthouse, Celia McDaniel had been a woman on a mission. Del just tried to keep up. She’d walked past a Starbucks and a Seattle’s Best Coffee, continuing without hesitation until she came to Top Pot Doughnuts on Fifth Avenue, a couple blocks north of the courthouse. As she opened the door, she told Del, “I don’t do coffee unless donuts are along for the ride.”
Inside, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and fresh-baked donuts was both intoxicating and torturous. The last thing Del needed was a donut; he’d had his annual physical the day before and his blood pressure was up—no surprise, given the last few weeks, but his doctor had also been riding him about his weight.
Del purchased a coffee, black, and refrained from a donut. McDaniel ordered a latte and two donuts, an old-fashioned and a glazed. They sat at a table away from others, McDaniel on the bench seat, Del in a chair across the table. She cradled the coffee cup between her hands like it was a fire in a snowstorm. “I hate the cold,” she said. “Thankfully, at least, you all don’t get snow here.”
“We might this year,” Del said. “Usually it’s December and January. I don’t remember a March this cold.”
“I was trying to be optimistic.” McDaniel smiled, which seemed to come easily to her. She had a positive energy about her that he surmised was good with juries. Del envied her. He hadn’t really smiled since the morning his sister called to tell him Allie was dead. “You sure you don’t want a donut?” she asked.
“My doctor already thinks I’m a few donuts over my playing weight.” Del had removed his raincoat and draped it across the back of an adjacent chair.
“No cream or sugar either,” McDaniel said, nodding at Del’s coffee. “You’re a man without vices.”
“My bathroom scale would tend to disagree with you.”
“Well, you’re looking at one of mine. I can’t survive without my donuts. It’s the only way I can drink coffee.”
“Why don’t you give up coffee?”
“And forego my donuts?”
“Sounds like circular reasoning.”
“It’s called rationalizing.”
“You eat like this every morning?”
“God, no.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “A couple times a week.”
“How do you maintain your . . . ?” Del stopped and sipped his coffee.
“My figure?”
“I didn’t say it,” Del said, raising a hand. “OPA is in my cubicle enough as it is.”