“Same reason you’re involved. The brass is worried about the public’s perception.”
Del sighed. “Well, I appreciate your help on this matter,” he said, feeling guilty for having called Cerrabone for a favor, given how busy the prosecutor was.
Again, Cerrabone dismissed it. “It’s not a problem, but I did ask an associate to run down the research and handle this while I’m in trial.” Cerrabone sifted through the stacks of papers on his desk, found the memorandum he was looking for, and handed it to Del. “Are you all right with that?”
“Yeah, fine,” Del said.
Cerrabone picked up his desk phone, hit a button, and said, “Can you come in?”
A minute later, an attractive black woman opened the door as she knocked. “Come on in.” Cerrabone introduced them. “Celia McDaniel. Del Castigliano. Del’s the person I asked you to do that overdose research for.”
McDaniel closed the door and crossed to Del, who’d stood to greet her. “The detective,” she said, her arm extended.
Del shook her hand, a firm grip. He’d never met Celia McDaniel and estimated her to be between thirty-five and forty. She adjusted a navy-blue jacket over a cream blouse. A clip held long light-brown braids in place. He detected little, if any, makeup.
“You’re new,” Del said.
She sat in the chair beside him. “Hardly.” She smiled. “I’m new here.”
“Celia worked drug cases in Georgia,” Cerrabone said. “She moved here just about six months ago and has been with us for two months.”
“Long way to come,” Del said.
“I was looking for a change of scenery.”
“I think you got it. Wet and wetter.”
“I like the rain,” she said.
Cerrabone said, “I thought it might be faster to have you tell Del your findings, in case he has questions.”
“Sure.” McDaniel angled to face Del, crossing her legs. “First, I’m sorry about your niece.”
“Thanks,” Del said. One thousand and one.
“As I understand the facts, she . . . or a boyfriend, purchased heroin in the evening and she was dead the following morning.”
“That’s what we believe. My sister hasn’t been in any shape to be of much help, but from what I do know, Allie suffocated on her vomit.” The final words caught in Del’s throat. He cleared it.
“So we can most likely prove that the heroin she used that night is the heroin that killed her?” McDaniel asked gently.
“Absolutely. She’d been clean for more than two months,” Del said, recovering. “We sent her to a rehab facility in Yakima.”
“That’s not unusual,” McDaniel said, almost to herself. “If we can identify the person and prove he supplied the heroin that led to your niece’s death, we can charge him . . . or whoever the dealer is, with a controlled substance homicide under RCW 69.50.401.”
“Homicide?” Del glanced at Cerrabone.
“That’s correct,” McDaniel said.
“What if he only delivered the heroin? What if he didn’t manufacture it?” Del asked.
“The statute is relatively new and broad in its reach. It makes it unlawful for any person to manufacture, deliver, or possess with intent to manufacture or deliver a controlled substance.”
Del wasn’t familiar with the statute, but liked what he was hearing. “What’s the punishment?”
“It’s a Class B felony. If convicted, a person can get up to ten years, a maximum fine of twenty-five thousand dollars, or some combination of the two, if the crime involved less than two kilograms, which I’m assuming to be the case.”
Ten years. Del was skeptical. “When’s the last time somebody was convicted under that statute?”
“The penalty is being used more often with the recent proliferation of heroin and meth,” Cerrabone said, viewing Del over the top of bifocals, a legal pleading in his hands.
“But I’ve only found a few instances in which the person was charged,” McDaniel added. “None went to trial. They all pled.”
“What kind of sentences did they get?”
“Two to four years and three to five thousand dollars.”
“That’s not very much for taking a life.”
“I agree, but it’s better than what it was, and there are other factors at play here.”
“Such as?” Del asked.
Cerrabone’s desk phone rang and he reached to answer it. After listening for a bit he said, “What kind of motion? That’s ridiculous. Yeah, tell the judge I’m on my way down.” He hung up, stood, and unrolled his shirtsleeves to button his cuffs. “I have to go argue a disqualification motion of one of the jurors. Feel free to stay here and use my office.”
“Do you drink coffee?” McDaniel said to Del as Cerrabone grabbed his jacket.
“Too much,” Del said.
Tracy stepped into the conference room on the seventh floor of the Police Headquarters building after just a few hours of sleep. Kins and Faz already sat at the table, talking about NBA games.
“Where’s Del?” she asked Faz.
Faz sipped from a large mug of coffee embossed on one side with “Italians Make the Best Lovers” . . . and on the other side with . . . “Of Food!” The bittersweet aroma made Tracy’s mouth water, though she knew she’d be in for a day of heartburn if she drank a cup on an empty stomach. “He had a meeting this morning and said to start without him.”
“How’s he doing, really?” Tracy pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat. Outside the tall, thin windows, rain fell on the concrete patio.
“He’s all right.” Faz shrugged. “He’s pissed, you know? He wants somebody’s ass.”
“Enough to do something stupid?” Tracy asked.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Faz said, the New Jersey accent thickening. “He’ll be all right.”
“He shouldn’t be working his niece’s case,” Tracy said.
Faz shrugged. “Everyone in the department is up to their eyeballs, and Del’s trying to do right by his sister, you know? The husband hasn’t been around in years. Don’t worry, I’ll watch him.”
Kins turned to Tracy. “Is Joe coming in?”
“He called and said he was up late and early and is working to get something for us by this morning.”
“Weren’t we all.” Faz flexed his shoulders and popped his neck. The long night and early morning showed in his bloodshot eyes.
Tracy felt like somebody had punched her in the back of the head. She hadn’t slept much. “Anything turn up when you and Del canvassed the buildings?”
Faz shook his head. “Nobody saw or heard nothing. I’ll get something written up for the file.”
“It confirms what Jensen said,” Kins offered, “that the driver of the car didn’t brake.”
Their captain, Johnny Nolasco, stepped into the room. Tracy had not been expecting him. They coexisted as well as a stick building and a tornado. “Heard you had a hit and run last night?”
“Twelve-year-old kid,” Faz said.
“Fatality?”
“Unfortunately,” Tracy said.
Nolasco said, “I’m going to push to have TCI handle it.”
“It’s a homicide,” she said. “Billy says the brass is pushing for us to handle it, or to at least work with TCI.”