“What the hell is going on with the woman in the trap?” Nolasco said. “The media is calling, saying she’s the same woman presumed dead on Mount Rainier last month. Is it true?”
“Appears to be,” Tracy said, upset that the media had the information, which meant it was likely the husband had it as well.
“Did you tell them?”
She scoffed. “Of course not. Why would I tell them?”
“Well, somebody did.”
“Well, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Kins. I can tell you that.”
“Wasn’t me what?” Kins reentered the bull pen with a Diet Coke.
“The media knows about Andrea Strickland,” Tracy said.
“How?”
“It aired all over the six o’clock news,” Nolasco said.
“Manpelt?” Kins said.
“Among others,” Nolasco said. “Phones are ringing off the hook, the brass is calling, and I don’t know shit.”
“We learned about it last night and took a drive out to Rainier and Tacoma,” Kins said. “Just getting back now.”
Nolasco looked at Tracy, disbelieving. “You have no idea how the media found out?”
Ordinarily, Nolasco would have been Tracy’s first choice as the leak. The department was a sieve, the brass often giving up information to cull favors with the media. She couldn’t tell if Nolasco was being sincere or just looking to redirect blame. “None,” she said. “We were hoping to talk to the husband before the story broke.”
“You can forget about that. He was prominently featured.”
“What did he have to say?” Tracy said.
“Exactly what you’d expect him to say. He was both profoundly shocked and saddened and had no idea what would have compelled his wife to fake her own death or who would have wanted to kill her.”
“Sounds scripted and well rehearsed,” Tracy said.
“Of course it was,” Kins said.
Nolasco eyed Tracy. “You didn’t say anything, to anyone?”
Tracy suspected Nolasco was setting her up. “Why would I?”
“That’s a good question. Here’s another one—why would a woman in Renton who manages a motel tell a reporter that the victim lived at the motel for almost a month and that two homicide detectives had been there asking questions?”
“That’s true,” Kins said. “We were there and we did ask questions, but we didn’t say anything about the victim.”
Nolasco looked between the two of them. “I want a written statement before you leave tonight that I can take to the brass. They want Lee to put something out,” he said, referring to Bennett Lee, the department’s public information officer.
“We don’t have any DNA. It’s premature,” Tracy said.
“Not when motel owners have figured it out, it isn’t,” Nolasco said.
“Fine, Lee can tell them she wasn’t a prostitute, a druggie, or homeless,” Tracy said.
Nolasco glared at her. “Anything useful?”
Kins stepped in. “We spoke to the ranger on Mount Rainier and got a copy of his report and we talked to the Pierce County detective. We’ll put something together but couch everything to be part of an ongoing investigation.”
“I want to be kept fully apprised going forward,” Nolasco said, directing his comment and lingering glare at Tracy. “Is that understood?”
“Absolutely,” Tracy said.
Nolasco walked from the cubicle, but stopped and came back to Tracy. “And you can tell your boyfriend’s friend who works for the Angels he doesn’t know shit. Trout hit a home run and drove in four runs the other night.”
Tracy struggled not to break into a grin. “Wow. Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
Nolasco left. Kins stared at her.
“Mike Trout? The baseball player?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Heard he had a bad hamstring.”
“You don’t even like baseball.”
“I also don’t like it when Nolasco ignores me.”
Kins shook his head. “You just can’t help sticking your hands in the lion’s cage, can you?”
“It worked, didn’t it? Piss him off enough and he usually leaves.”
They ate their Salumi sandwiches while discussing what to put in the statement to the brass and media that would sound like they were providing information but not actually doing so.
“Let’s watch the news,” Kins suggested. They taped the broadcasts. “We can find out what’s already been reported and just regurgitate it.” He crumpled his butcher paper into a ball, and spun and shot it at the Nerf basketball hoop hanging off the back of Del’s cubicle. It went through the net and landed in the garbage can.
“That’s it,” Kins said. “I’m buying a lottery ticket on the drive home. Are we still taking the drive to Portland tomorrow?”
She nodded. “The husband’s always a suspect.”
CHAPTER 12