Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (5 page)

Tracy knocked hard on the front door of Nash’s house, sending dogs inside into a barking frenzy. The shirtless man who answered had a serious scowl and some even more serious bedhead. He wore baggy pajama pants. A silver ring pierced his left nipple on an impressive chest above a washboard stomach. A purple-and-gold tiger adorned his right pectoral muscle. He looked like a frat boy roused after a night of partying.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked.

Already tired and not in the mood for crap, Tracy flashed her shield and ID. “Yes, we do. And I’m guessing it’s a lot earlier for us than you.” She noticed a woman standing in the entryway. Two young girls in nightgowns clutched her legs. Tracy softened her tone. “We’re sorry to disturb you,” she said. “Are you Darrell Nash?”

“Yes.” Nash winced each time the dogs barked, as if he was nursing a hangover. He yelled over his shoulder, “Can you please go shut them up? And bring me a shirt.” He looked back to Tracy. “What’s this about?”

“One of your employees,” Kins said.

“Which one?”

“One of your dancers.”

“I don’t employ any dancers,” he said. “They’re independent contractors, and I have more than ninety. If one of them has done anything illegal, I can’t be held liable. I’ve talked to my lawyer about it.”

Tracy sensed Kins’s gaze shift to her. She kept her focus on Nash. “May we come in?”

“Do we need to do this now?” Nash asked. He instinctively looked at his wrist, though he wasn’t wearing a watch.

“Yes, we do,” Tracy said.

Nash led Kins and Tracy to the back of the house, into what he called his “office,” though Tracy didn’t notice a scrap of paper anywhere in the room. They stood on a purple-and-gold throw rug with a tiger that matched Nash’s tattoo. Subtle lighting in glass cases illuminated signed footballs, trophies, and photographs, some of Nash wearing a Louisiana State University uniform.

“Linebacker?” Kins asked, considering a photograph of Nash in football pads.

“Safety,” Nash said. “I wasn’t fast, but I hit like a truck. I hurt my hammy my senior year or I would have gone pro.”

Kins nodded. He almost never spoke about his own abbreviated NFL career, which had ended after a year with a hip injury.

Nash stepped to the door and yelled down the hall, “I’m freezing my tits off here.”

Nash’s wife—
and what a treat that job must be,
Tracy thought—handed Nash what Tracy referred to as a “meathead sweatshirt,” sleeves cut off at the biceps. Nash picked up a football from an expansive desk and sat in a high-back leather chair.

Tracy and Kins stood across the desk from him. “You own the Pink Palace?” Tracy asked.

“A limited liability company owns all three. Which one are you talking about?”

“The one just off Aurora.”

“That’s the flagship club.”

“The flagship club?”

“First one.”

“You’re the president of the company?”

“That’s right.”

“You employ a dancer named Angela Schreiber?”

“Independent contractor,” Nash said.

“Did you know her?”

“I don’t get involved with the dancers.”

“I didn’t ask if you got involved with them. I asked if you knew her.”

Nash put the ball in his lap. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

Tracy placed Angela Schreiber’s dance card—the Seattle Municipal Code required erotic dancers to be licensed—now sealed inside a plastic evidence bag, on the desk. Nash leaned forward to consider it. “That’s Angel.”

“Angel?”

“Her stage name. The dancers all have stage names. Look, Detectives, I’m running legitimate gentlemen’s clubs. We don’t condone any extracurricular stuff in the club. I have no control over what the girls do after they leave, so if she was giving some guy a blow job in the parking lot, it’s not my problem.”

“Did you see Angela Schreiber giving someone a blow job in the parking lot last night?” Tracy asked.

“No, I was just . . . Look, I don’t remember even seeing her last night.”

“But you were at the club?”

“Yeah, I was there. My club.”

“And you don’t recall seeing Angela Schreiber all night?”

Nash shook his head. “I’m mostly up front working the booth or in my office in back. Like I said, I don’t pay much attention to the dancers.”

“Independent contractors,” Tracy said.

“What?”

“Did you see
anyone
paying attention to Angela Schreiber last night?”

Nash shrugged. “No. But it wouldn’t be unusual. I mean, that is how they make their money. They get a guy interested, ask if he wants a lap dance or a private show. Making men pay attention is what they do.”

“Who else pays attention to the dancers and customers?”

“Floor manager.”

“What’s his name?”

“Why do you need that? What did Angel do?”

“She died,” Kins said.

Nash looked to Tracy, then to Kins. “Do I need my lawyer here?”

“Why don’t we start with the name of your floor manager,” Kins said.

“Nabil.”

“That a first or last name?” Kins took out a small spiral notebook and scribbled the name.

“First. Last name is Kotar.” Nash spelled both names. “I think he’s Egyptian or something. How did she die?”

“Someone killed her,” Tracy said.

“You have an address or phone number for Nabil?” Kins asked.

“I’ll have to ask my director of human resources,” Nash said. He looked to Tracy. “Killed how?”

“We’re going to need the name of every employee and independent contractor working last night.” Kins held out a business card.

Nash hesitated, took the card, and set it on the desk. “So how did she die?”

“That’s still under investigation,” Tracy said.

“When can you get us that information?” Kins said.

“But she was murdered, right? I mean that’s why you’re here.”

“What about security cameras at the club?” Kins asked.

“Yeah. One mounted in the front office and two covering the exterior of the building and parking lot.”

“What about the dance floor?” Tracy said.

Nash shook his head.

“You don’t have a camera on the dance floor?”

“No. We want our customers to feel comfortable.”

“Having sex with the independent contractors?” Tracy asked.

“I told you that’s not allowed.”

“But it does happen—that’s why you asked if Angel was giving some guy a blow job in the parking lot.”

“I said
a
parking lot. I didn’t mean our parking lot. Look, I’m not at every club twenty-four–seven. All I can say is it isn’t supposed to happen. We find anyone engaging in that sort of activity, we kick them out and fire the dancer.”

“Independent contractor,” Tracy said.

“Look, Detective, you get a few peep-show freaks, but they learn pretty quick that isn’t the kind of club we’re running.”

Tracy was enjoying getting under Nash’s skin. “What kind
are
you running?”

“I told you that already. It’s a gentlemen’s club. They’re big in the South. Guys can relax, have a drink, and watch some beautiful women dance.”

“Do you have regulars?”

“Of course. We get some of the athletes coming through—mostly the baseball guys in for a series. But our bread and butter is the business suits downtown. You’d be surprised who shows up.”

“I doubt it,” Tracy said. “We’ll need the names of regulars.”

“I don’t keep a list of our customers.”

“You have an e-mail list, newsletter, anything like that?” she asked.

“Nah, word of mouth is our best advertising.”

“What about a website?”

“Sure.”

“What’s the website for?”

“Advertising. And the men can go online and reserve a lap dance with their favorite dancer.”

“We’ll need that list,” Kins said.

“I’m going to have to talk to my attorney. Don’t you need a warrant?”

Tracy handed Nash a card. “I can get a search warrant by the time we’re finished talking, or you can agree to cooperate in a murder investigation. What time did you close last night?”

Nash looked like his headache was back. He considered Tracy’s card for a moment. Then he said, “Two. It’s a city ordinance.”

“Do the dancers leave right away?”

“No reason for them to stick around.”

“Did you see Angela Schreiber leave?”

“No.”

“How about you?” Kins asked. “What time did you leave the club?”

“I counted the registers and prepared the deposits. I’d say I got out of there around two thirty, two forty-five.”

“Where’d you go?” Tracy asked.

“Why are you asking me that?”

Tracy didn’t answer. Neither did Kins. Silence could be unnerving.

“I came home and went to bed.”

“Anyone that can verify that?”

“My wife.”

Tracy gave Kins a look to continue without her and stepped to the glass trophy cases.

“Are the cameras on a loop?” Kins asked.

Nash kept an eye on Tracy. “I think it’s twenty-four hours,” he said.

“We’re going to need the tapes from last night. Make a call and make sure they’re not erased. You said the cameras cover the parking lot. Do the dancers park in the lot?”

“At that club they do, yeah.”

Tracy considered a framed photograph. The shrine wasn’t just about football. Nash sat atop a horse, a mustang from the look of it. He wore a felt cowboy hat pushed back off his forehead, a collared denim shirt, and blue jeans over cowboy boots. A stalk of hay protruded from between his front teeth. His hands rested atop a saddle horn, from which hung a coil of rope.

Tracy turned. “Do you ride?”

Nash, who had started tossing the football again, caught it and said, “Yeah. My dad owned a cattle ranch outside Laredo. My brothers and I worked it growing up. We sold it after he died.”

Which explained the likely source of the funds Nash used to bankroll an expensive house with a shrine devoted to himself, and a string of strip clubs. “You and your brothers ever do any competitive roping?”

“Some.”

“You any good?”

“I could hold my own.”

“Three-strand?”

“What’s that?”

“You prefer three-strand or five?”

Nash tossed the football again. “Whatever. I didn’t pay much attention to that.”

“We’ll send someone by the club later today,” Kins said, “to get the surveillance tapes and the names of the people working last night.”

“I’m going to have to consult my lawyer,” Nash said. “This is a disruption to my business.”

If she’d been carrying a Taser, Tracy might have used it. She and Kins started for the door. Kins turned back and held up his hands. Nash threw him a tight spiral. “Maybe you should have played quarterback,” Kins said, returning the toss.

“Nah,” Nash said. “Quarterbacks take a beating. I like hitting people.”

CHAPTER 8

T
racy sat back from her computer when Kins handed her a fresh cup of coffee.

“That the interview?” Kins asked.

Tracy looked at the screen. “Is ‘shithead’ one word or two?”

“In his case I don’t think spelling matters. Did you make a note of which hand he used to throw the football?”

“Could it be that easy?”

Darrell Nash had tossed Kins the football with his left hand. An expert in the Hansen case said the rope was three-strand polypropylene with a Z, or a “right” twist, and that the knot had been tied by someone left-handed. Polypropylene stretched less than natural fiber and slid more freely through the knot to tighten a noose. Unfortunately, it was also generic and could be bought at any hardware, marine, or big-box store.

“The rope on the saddle horn in the photograph was a five-strand,” Tracy said.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning it’s only used by experienced ropers. Nash could be smarter than he looks and could have played dumb when I asked him about it, but I don’t think he knew the difference. I don’t think he’s a cowboy.”

“Maybe not,” Kins said, “but he’s still at the top of the shithead list.”

CHAPTER 9

T
racy and Kins spent much of the rest of the day looking into Hansen’s and Schreiber’s backgrounds to determine what, if anything, the two women had in common, other than the obvious. When CSI e-mailed its initial fingerprint report of Schreiber’s motel room, it was as bad as Tracy and Kins had predicted. They had processed more than three dozen prints and had to call in examiners from SPD’s Latent Print Unit to help individually compare each print with possible matches generated by the King County Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Referred to as “AFIS,” the system stored hundreds of thousands of fingerprints, from people charged and convicted of crimes, people seeking gun permits, federal workers, military personnel, and certain professionals who worked with children.

Vic Fazzio and Delmo Castigliano—the self-proclaimed “Italian Dynamic Duo” of the Violent Crimes Section’s five-detective A Team—walked into the bull pen looking spent. As the “next up” homicide team, they had been responsible for canvassing the crime scene—gathering witness statements from the motel owner, guests, and the businesses across the street.

“Nothing, Professor. Nobody saw nobody.” Faz topped 250 pounds and favored slacks and loose-fitting bowling shirts that somehow seemed to accentuate his New Jersey accent. Del was bigger, with a face he was fond of saying was one “only a mother could love.”

Tracy handed Faz half of the list generated by the Latent Print Unit. “Sorry to do this to you.”

“The wife made meatballs,” Faz said, sounding seriously disappointed.

“So you have a meatball sandwich to look forward to tomorrow,” Del said, taking their half of the list.