Faz gave her a look intended to convey that he’d talk to her more about it later. “He gave his blessing so long as I’m the lead.”
She wondered if Nolasco’s capitulation, rather than assigning a different team, had to do with the extraordinary rash of recent murders. Every homicide detective on every team was struggling just trying to keep up.
“Does your sister have any leads?” Kins asked Del.
“She’s not ready to go there yet,” Del said. “We’re going to give her a few more days. I’m guessing my niece used her cell phone to make the buys and there’s a boyfriend involved. If he is . . . he’ll give up his dealer.”
Tracy glanced again to Faz, who gave her a gentle nod that things were under control. “She just needs some time,” he said.
Del considered Tracy. “I keep thinking about that saying, you know? I keep thinking about you.”
“Me?” Tracy said.
“You know that saying, ‘No parent should ever have to bury their child’? I don’t think I fully appreciated what that meant. I’m sorry about your sister. I’m really sorry for your parents. I can see now what it did to them, what it did to your father.”
Two years after Sarah disappeared, Tracy’s father, overcome with grief, depression, and likely prescription drugs, took his own life.
The thought of a child made her think again of her attempts to get pregnant. As much as she wanted a son or a daughter, she couldn’t imagine the grief and the agony of losing a child. Her sister’s kidnapping and disappearance had devastated her, but it was nothing compared to the havoc it had wreaked on her parents.
A cell phone rattled on the table. Both Tracy and Kins picked up their phones. Tracy’s phone lit up. “Dispatch,” she said, shaking her head.
Kins groaned. “That homicide number just keeps inching higher, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER 3
A basketball rested motionless in the gutter near a white sheet draped over a body. Tracy and Kins had speculated on the drive about the reason for the A Team’s presence at a traffic fatality, which was ordinarily handled by the Traffic Collision Investigation Unit. For homicide to be called out was unusual.
Kins parked along the curb on South Henderson Street. Del and Faz pulled their car in behind Kins and Tracy. The call to Tracy’s cell had been from Billy Williams, the A Team’s sergeant. Williams had received a call from the TCI sergeant, Joe Jensen.
“Billy say what we’re doing here?” Kins asked.
Tracy shook her head. “TCI thinks it’s a hit and run. That’s all I know.”
They stepped out into the cold, waiting on the sidewalk for Del and Faz. Blue and red lights painted the stucco walls and barred windows and doors of the local businesses. Multiple patrol units had been parked at angles, blocking off Renton Avenue South. Uniformed officers dressed in gloves and thick jackets redirected approaching traffic. A fire truck and ambulance were also part of the ensemble though the firefighters and paramedics stood still, looking frozen.
Tracy said, “What do you think about Nolasco allowing Del to work his niece’s death?”
Kins glanced at her, then continued to survey the scene. “Faz will keep Del in check.”
“He shouldn’t be working it.”
Kins gave her a look. “You going to tell him that?”
“That’s not my job. That’s Nolasco’s job.”
“You think you might be letting your personal feelings influence you?” Tracy and Nolasco had a long and rocky relationship that went back to the police academy.
“Nothing to do with my personal feelings. It’s section policy.”
“Faz said he’s got it under control. I’d say you and I should let it be.” Kins turned and looked up the street toward the white sheet. “How far do you think the body is from the intersection?”
Tracy knew he was changing the subject, but she let it go and gave his question some thought. “Maybe twenty-five feet.”
“This is not going to be pretty,” he said.
Del and Faz joined them, and they started toward Williams.
A heavy cloud layer that gave every indication of snow had dampened all sound. Williams stood speaking to two men wearing fluorescent yellow jackets with gray reflective tape, the words “Seattle Police” across their backs. Williams, a dead ringer for Samuel L. Jackson, looked fashionable in a red-and-black-checked driving cap and matching scarf, which he’d wrapped around his neck and tucked beneath his coat.
“Wouldn’t have guessed you were Scottish,” Faz said to Williams. “Sean Connery give you that hat and scarf?”
Williams responded with a sardonic smile. “According to Ancestry.com, I’m a lot of things you never would have guessed. I have your people to thank for that.”
Faz said, “I’m a hundred percent Italian; you can thank me for good food and The Godfather.”
Tracy spoke to Joe Jensen, the bigger of the two men, who wore a black ski cap pulled low on his head. “You call us in on this one, Joe?”
Jensen had served in the TCI unit for nearly three decades. When Tracy had worked patrol, and a promotion to homicide seemed a pipe dream, she’d looked into TCI as a way to expand her base of knowledge and experience. The unit’s requirements included a boatload of math and physics, and theories such as linear momentum. She’d always been good in chemistry, which she’d taught for three years at the high school level. However, after her sister’s disappearance and Tracy’s decision to become a cop, she’d left math behind for good.
“When are you coming over to Violent Crimes?” Kins asked Jensen.
“After I retire,” Jensen said, his standard refrain. He’d been asked to move to homicide often. He told Tracy the cases were too generic, that “This week’s suspect is next week’s victim.” Besides, he was a proud math geek. Jensen adjusted the ski cap. “This one’s tragic.” He looked down Renton Avenue to the white sheet. “It’s a twelve-year-old boy.”
“No,” Tracy and Kins said in unison.
Del stepped away.
“African American kid on his way home from playing basketball,” Jensen said.
“Some of the brass are concerned, given the current climate, that this be handled with some sensitivity,” Williams said.
“‘Black Lives Matter’?” Faz asked. Like the rest of the United States, the movement had hit Seattle hard, and no one had to tell them they were standing in a predominantly African American community.
Williams nodded. “The brass wanted a homicide team.” He looked to Jensen. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“It’s politics,” Williams said. “We’ll work with TCI.”
“That okay with you?” Tracy asked Jensen.
“Not my call, but as far as I’m concerned, the more the merrier, though nothing merry about this one.”
“What happened?” Tracy asked.
“Car knocked him out of his flip-flops. His basketball shoes are another ten feet down the road.”
“I’m assuming no ID?” Tracy asked.
Jensen gestured with his chin to a group of men and women standing on the street corner. “No, but one of the witnesses said the victim’s name is D’Andre Miller.”
“Did he witness the actual accident?” Tracy asked.