What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(18)

Lisa Childress had filed Freedom of Information Act requests to obtain any and all police records, including records from the Harbor Patrol, with information on a boat named the Egregious. She was advised that no such responsive documents existed. Tracy figured Childress believed the Egregious had been the boat from which Navarro and Ibarra had fallen, a drug-smuggling boat perhaps, but nothing in her file, or in Del’s file, supported that deduction.

Tracy turned more pages and came to a xeroxed copy of handwritten notes in what looked like a reporter’s six-by-nine-inch notebook. Written at the top of the page and underlined twice were the words “The Last Line.”

Tracy struggled to decipher further scribblings and eventually came up with:

Diamond Marina

Egregious/Canadian

HM D. S.

That boat name again. The name of the marina. She had no idea what “The Last Line” or “HM D. S.” meant, but she made a note to find out. She shifted her attention and her fingers to her keyboard and typed “Seattle” and “The Last Line” in a search engine, then scrolled through hits for online jewelry, a literary journal, and a book of that name. She gave the search some thought and added “1990s.” She scrolled again until she found an article from the Post-Intelligencer, though not written by Lisa Childress.

The article detailed how, as the flow of drugs into Puget Sound increased with the surge in cocaine and marijuana use, the State of Washington had put together twenty-four task forces, covering 75

percent of the state. One of those task forces, created by Seattle PD, had been known as “the Last Line.” According to the article, except for the task force’s sergeant, Rick Tombs, the members were anonymous and wore face coverings during raids to protect their identities. An unnamed source said the Last Line was a reference to the public’s last line of defense. Tombs was quoted as saying the task force members ranged in experience from new recruits to SWAT

team veterans. Some officers were generational cops and veterans of the Gulf War. Each had been seriously vetted.

Sergeant Rick Tombs, a fteen-year veteran narcotics officer, described how undercover narcotics agents could take weeks to set up a buy. When the buy goes down, Last Line officers go in fast and heavily armed.

The money seized is locked in a safe at the Public Safety Building until a forfeiture crew can do a speci c count.

The drugs are registered and locked in the evidence room to be later weighed.

Tombs said the officers wear masks to conceal their identity. “We don’t want anyone to offer a bribe or possibly to threaten that officer and his family.”

Tracy finished the article and went back to the other Google hits, pulling up and reading an article written in April 2002 about the Last Line being absorbed into the narcotics division during a reorganization. When done, Tracy looked at notes she’d jotted down while going through the file.

Two dead bodies at a marina.

Both men undocumented.

A boat name but no record of that boat.

A Seat le drug task force.

Tracy set the file aside and stretched her arms over her head.

She picked up her “World’s Best Mom” coffee mug, but the coffee had gone cold. The afternoon malaise began to cloud her thinking.

She could use another cup before she moved on to the next file.

She made her way to the kitchen. Faz and Del leaned against the sink counter, talking. They each had rolled up the cuffs of their long-sleeve shirts and lowered their ties.

“Look what the cat drug in,” Faz said. “The überfamous Tracy Crosswhite.”

“Bite me, Faz. Just the two of you slouching in here? Where’s Kins?”

“That murder up north went to trial. He’s sitting next to the prosecutor at counsel table for the next five weeks, and he isn’t happy about it,” Faz said. “Heard Rosa identified more bodies in that canyon.”

“And I heard the chief is genuflecting when she comes down to your office,” Del said, putting up his hands and bowing.

“You can bite me too, Del.”

“Of course the chief comes to Tracy,” Faz said, laughing. “She might justify the entire police budget by herself.” He, too, bowed.

“Again, bite me.”

“Sleeping over all those dead bodies,” Faz said, referring to the house in North Seattle where the forensic medical examiner had found the seven buried bodies. “Man, that’s creepy. Gives me the willies just thinking about it.”

“That’s why they call them psychopaths, Faz. They don’t get the willies,” Del said.

“How’s my goddaughter?” Faz asked, changing subjects.

Tracy took a moment to brag, telling them of Daniella’s vocabulary and other tricks. She knew they weren’t that interested, but they were always polite. She curbed her enthusiasm and turned the conversation to Faz. “How’s Antonio’s restaurant doing?” Faz’s only son, a chef, had opened an Italian restaurant to rave reviews and heavy foot traffic.

“He’s doing well,” Faz said. He reached back and knocked on the cabinets. “His take-out business has exploded, especially on the weekends.”

“You’re looking at the delivery driver.” Del threw a thumb in the direction of his partner. “Faz the Uber driver.”

“I’m just helping him out nights is all. Might as well, with Vera not home.”