“He’s an attorney. She worked at an insurance company in downtown Portland.”
That caused Kins to glance over at her. “Insurance?”
“I’ve got it on the list of questions to ask him about.”
“So neither of them was stupid.”
“Definitely not stupid,” Tracy agreed. She adjusted the vents on the dash so the cool air hit her neck and chest, and she fanned her shirt.
They drove through Tacoma’s mostly deserted surface streets, residents seeking refuge in air-conditioned offices and retail establishments.
“How far did Pierce County get in their investigation of the husband?” Kins asked.
“According to the detective, and the articles I’ve found, the DA named him as a person of interest but not a suspect,” Tracy said.
“So he was the suspect,” Kins said.
“Clearly.”
“But not charged?”
“Without the body they probably didn’t think they had sufficient evidence,” Tracy said. “Only two people know what happened on that mountain, and one was presumed dead. So everything’s circumstantial.”
“Hopefully, this guy Fields can shed some light on it.”
Stan Fields had suggested they meet at a restaurant on Pacific Avenue called Viola. The last time Tracy had visited Tacoma, a decade earlier, Pacific Avenue had been a haven for prostitutes and drug dealers, the buildings graffiti-tagged with gang symbols and the streets littered with trash. Downtown Tacoma had been undergoing a massive renovation by community activists and business leaders tired of the city being known as the blue-collar stepchild to Seattle—more for a blend of industrial stink referred to as “the aroma of Tacoma.” Pacific Avenue was clearly a part of that renovation. The two-and three-story stucco and brick industrial buildings had been renovated and freshly painted. Storefront advertising revealed professional businesses, retail stores, boutique shops, and restaurants.
Kins found a parking spot at a meter half a block from the restaurant. As they approached, Tracy noticed a man standing outside the restaurant, smoking in a patch of shade. He made eye contact, nodded, and blew out smoke. “You Crosswhite?” he said.
Stan Fields looked like a holdover from the seventies, with slate-gray hair pulled back in a short ponytail. A bushy mustache drooped below the corners of his mouth as if weighted by the heat. Fields wore a dark-blue polo shirt that bore the department’s emblem—the words “Pierce County Sheriff” stitched in gold over snow-covered Mount Rainier.
Tracy introduced herself and Kins. “I got a table inside,” Fields said. He raised the cigarette to his lips for the final extended drag of a chain-smoker about to go cold turkey for at least half an hour, then blew a stream of smoke into the sky and flicked the burning cigarette into the gutter.
Viola had glass doors pulled back on runners to allow for outdoor seating, though today no one sat at the sun-drenched wrought-iron tables and chairs. The open doors allowed the heat, sticky as syrup, to seep inside, and the overhead ceiling paddles looked sluggish in their effort to offer relief. Tracy removed her sunglasses. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. Fields led them to a booth near the kitchen, the brick walls adorned with colorful Impressionist paintings.
Tracy and Kins slid across the booth from Fields onto a leather bench seat. Sweat trickled down Tracy’s back from the short walk and caused her shirt to stick to her skin.
Fields nodded to two glasses on their side of the table. “I ordered you water—figured you’d be thirsty after the drive.”
Tracy and Kins thanked him. Each took long drinks. What Tracy wanted was to run the cool glass over her forehead and down her neck but decided it would be unprofessional.
“I moved here to escape the heat,” Fields said, sounding perturbed. Most Northwest transplants complained about the rain and overcast gray skies. It rang odd to hear someone complain about the heat—though Seattleites were quick to blame their changing weather patterns on global warming, or what Faz unapologetically called “global whining.”
“Where’re you from?” Tracy asked.
Rich smells of garlic and butter and sage wafted from the kitchen.
“Phoenix,” Fields said, “but I moved around a lot as a kid; my dad was in the army.”
“The hottest summer I ever spent was a winter in Phoenix,” Kins said.
“Tell me about it.” Fields had a habit of twitching his mouth, which made his mustache move like the whiskers of a mouse, likely a tic. “I started out running the borders down there with INS, then moved to narcotics, mostly undercover. Spent more time than I cared to in the desert tracking drug runners.”
Fields had the weathered face of someone whom the sun had baked for a few years. With the ponytail and gravelly voice of a smoker, he fit the part of an undercover narcotics agent, and Tracy was picking up the cocky demeanor those officers needed to be convincing.
“Tough gig,” Kins said. “Wears you out after a few years.”
“Yeah, you do it?” Fields asked.