What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(83)

“Don’t be silly. You got paying customers and I know my way.

Take care of them.”

Antonio stepped between tables and returned to the kitchen.

Tracy took the same narrow hall to the curtained room. When she stepped in, Del and Faz were huddled at the end of the table, leaning forward in their chairs, talking.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said.

Both men stood.

“You’re standing for me now? Sit down. I might confuse you two for polite.”

“Del was just filling me in on what happened,” Faz said. “You’re going to fight it, right?”

“I’m going to do better than fight it. I’m going to find justice for Lisa Childress, David Slocum, and the two crewmen whose bodies

floated up in Lake Union.”

Faz held out his hand to Del, who reached into his pocket and gave him twenty dollars. Faz smiled. “I told Del you wouldn’t take this shit.”

Tracy laughed. “What about you, Del? What I want to do could cause you some problems.”

“I’m tired of taking punches. When I was boxing in the Golden Gloves, my old man trained me, and he used to tell me, ‘Take the fight to your opponent, Del. That way, even if you get beat, at least you got in your licks, and that feels a hell of a lot better than just covering up and absorbing punches.’”

Tracy pulled out a chair. “Pour me a glass. We have work to do.”

The following day, Tracy met Rick Cerrabone for an early lunch.

Cerrabone had free time after the plea deal, but not a lot. He usually packed a sandwich and ate at his desk, working through lunch so he could get home at a reasonable hour. It helped free him from his chains when Tracy mentioned she’d treat him to Little Neon Taco on Boren Avenue, one of Cerrabone’s favorite restaurants.

That was one reason Tracy chose it. The restaurant was also far enough away from the courthouse and the police department that it was unlikely they’d be seen together by anyone from either of those institutions.

They entered the restaurant to the smell of homemade tortillas, peppers, and spices. Cerrabone ordered carnitas and chorizo tacos and a pink lemonade. Tracy got veggie and chicken mole and also a pink lemonade. A table in one of the window cubbies at the front of the restaurant provided a view of people passing on the sidewalk as Tracy and Cerrabone ate chips, salsa, and guacamole. Cerrabone, who never met a plate of Mexican food he couldn’t make better with added spice, ordered a hot sauce that was simply labeled “Hot Hot Sauce.” He dipped a chip in the dip, then added a drop of the sauce.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you’ll burn your taste buds?”

“Actually, she told me the spice would kill tapeworms.”

“Have you ever had tapeworms?”

“Not eating this hot sauce.”

“Sounds like circular reasoning.”

“Best kind of argument. I always win. Tell me, Tracy, are you treating me to one of my favorite lunches just because of all the favors I’ve done for you over the years, because I’m an extremely witty lunch date, or are you looking for some free legal advice?”

“I’m insulted,” Tracy said.

“That’s what I thought. Free legal advice.”

“Why would I need free legal advice?”

“Because Chief Weber suspended you.”

“It didn’t take long for that news to get around the courthouse, did it?”

“Never does when a thrice-decorated detective tells the chief to stick it.”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

“Not that politely. So, it’s true?”

Tracy filled Cerrabone in on the details, and as she did, their food and drinks arrived.

“So then, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Cerrabone asked in between bites of a taco.

“I need to ask you about some cold cases I’m working on.”

“You’re not supposed to be working on any cold cases.”

“I’m an overachiever.”

Cerrabone chuckled. “Tell me about it.”

Tracy spent the next forty-five minutes eating and telling Cerrabone everything she had learned about the raid on the Diamond Marina, the two drowned men, harbormaster David Slocum’s supposed suicide, and Lisa Childress’s link to that crime site.

“You think she was investigating a possible story on crime within this drug task force . . . What did you call it?”

“The Last Line. And yes, I think that’s exactly what she was doing.”

“Do you know what happened or if she really does have amnesia?”

“Her amnesia is legitimate, according to an expert at the University of Washington. What happened to her that night, I don’t yet know. What I can tell you is she definitely had a head injury. She had a can of bear spray, and she discharged that can.”

“Presumably in the face of her attacker, which is why she didn’t die that night.”

“Presumably. I don’t really know.”

“You said this boat captain, Jack . . .”

“Flynt.”

“Jack Flynt . . . told you there was some type of agreement in place?”

“He and his lawyer confirmed an agreement after his arrest in 2002. His sentence was reduced from twelve to five years.”