The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(4)
“So why’s he out here?”
“He said he didn’t know. Personally, I think he’s playing dumb.”
“Why?”
Pryor nodded to the aluminum boat. “That’s a pretty good rig right there. Guy with that kind of rig would more than likely know the rules; the fines can be steep. I think he was sneaking out early to get a jump on the season and poach a few crabs from the tribes. Some local restaurants pay good money. Not a bad way for an enterprising high school kid to make some cash.”
“Except it’s illegal.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” Pryor said.
“Introduce me,” Tracy said. “Then I’d appreciate it if you could take some pictures for me with your cell. Everything and anything.”
They approached Kurt Schill together. Tracy allowed Pryor to make the introduction. Then Pryor walked off to take pictures. Schill extended his hand and gave a surprisingly strong handshake. He didn’t look like he was old enough to shave yet. Acne pocked his forehead.
“Are you doing all right?” Tracy asked.
Schill nodded. “Yeah.”
“You want to sit down?” She motioned to one of the beach logs.
“No. I’m okay.”
“I understand you’ve been talking to Officer Pryor about what happened this morning; would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
“No.” Schill closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry. I mean sure.”
“Okay, just take it slow,” Tracy said. “When did you set your crab pot?”
Schill’s brow furrowed. “Um. I guess it was . . . I’m not exactly sure.”
“Mr. Schill.” Tracy waited until Schill made eye contact. “I’m not Fish and Game, okay? I don’t care about any of that. I just need you to be honest and tell me exactly what you did so I can find out whether you saw anything.”
“Whether I saw anything?”
“Let’s back up. Start with when you set your pot.”
“Last night. Around ten thirty.”
“Okay, so I’m assuming it was dark.”
Schill nodded. “Pretty dark, yeah.”
In June, in Seattle, the sun didn’t set until after nine o’clock, and twilight could linger another forty-five minutes.
“Did you see anyone else out on the water? Any other boats?”
“Maybe one or two.”
“Crabbing?”
“No. Just . . . out there. I think one might have been trolling.”
“Fishing?”
“For salmon.”
“In the same area where you set your pot?” Tracy asked.
“No. I just saw them, you know.”
“Nothing unusual then?”
“Unusual? Like what?”
“Was there anything that caught your attention, gave you pause, made you look twice. Anything at all?”
“Oh. No. Nothing really.”
“What time did you return this morning?”
“Around four.”
“Why set the pots so late and retrieve them so early?” Tracy asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.
Schill frowned. “To get the pot before anyone saw me.”
“You do this often?”
Another sheepish grimace. “A couple times this week.”
“And again, did you see any other boats or anything that gave you pause or second thoughts?”
Schill took a moment before answering. Then he shook his head. “Not really, no.”
“Can you take me to the spot where you pulled up the pot?”
“Now?” Schill asked, sounding alarmed.
“No, in a little while. We’re going to have some divers come out, and I’d like you to take us back to where you found the pot.”
“Okay,” Schill said, sounding reluctant.
“Is that a problem?” Tracy asked.
“I have an SAT prep class this morning.”
“I think you’re going to miss it today,” Tracy said.
“Oh.”
“Your parents are on their way?”
“My dad’s coming.”
“Okay, you just hold tight for a bit,” Tracy said. She started to walk to where Pryor was taking pictures.
Schill called out. “Detective?”
Tracy turned back. “Yes?”
“I don’t think she’s been down there too long.”
Tracy stepped back toward him. “You think it’s a woman?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know for certain, but the hand . . . the fingernails—they still had polish on them.”
She considered the information. “Okay. Anything else?”
“No.”
Katie Pryor called Tracy’s name and pointed to the road.
A KRIX Channel 8 news van with a satellite dish protruding from the roof had parked on the street, and the Violent Crimes Section’s favorite muckraker, Maria Vanpelt, was stepping out the passenger door. Vanpelt had been a rising star in the local news media, a good-looking blonde who seemed to have a nose for the sensational, but she’d got her hand slapped for mishandling coverage of the Cowboy. Tracy had not seen her for several months, and absence had not made the heart grow fonder. At the Violent Crimes Section, the detectives referred to Vanpelt as “Manpelt” and speculated that one of the men she clung to was none other than their captain, Johnny Nolasco.