What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite), page 10
The manager introduced himself as Pete Welsh. “What is it I can help you with, Detective?”
“How long have you been here?”
“About six years.”
“I’m looking into a cold case that took place well before your time, November 1995 and 1996, but I have some general marina-type questions I’m hoping you can help with.”
Welsh seemed to relax. “I can try.”
Tracy pulled out a xeroxed copy of Lisa Childress’s handwritten notes mentioning the Diamond Marina. “Specifically, I’m hoping you can help decipher these notes from a reporter.”
Welsh slipped on a pair of reading glasses that dangled from a Croakie around his neck. He took the sheet of paper from Lisa Childress’s file and studied it, then looked up at Tracy.
“The name ‘Diamond Marina’ obviously refers to this marina,” Tracy said. “And I’m fairly certain the word ‘Egregious’ is the name of a boat. I’m uncertain what the word ‘Canadian’ beside it means, but I’m assuming it was a Canadian vessel?”
“You said these were a reporter’s notes?” Welsh asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Not a harbormaster’s?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m assuming that’s what HM/D. S. means. With D. S. being the harbormaster’s initials.”
“What’s a harbormaster?”
“How technical do you want me to get?”
Tracy smiled. “I’ll let you know when you’re losing me.”
“A harbormaster is responsible for enforcing the regulations of a particular harbor or port, as well as for the security of the harbor.”
“That sounds official. How about unofficial?”
“They can be more like glorified parking attendants. They collect moorage fees, tell boats where to moor, which slip, and provide the marina rules.”
“How long can a person rent a slip?”
“Some rent monthly, some six months. Some only want a night’s moorage on their way east to Lake Washington or west to the locks leading to Elliott Bay and Puget Sound, maybe all the way out into the Pacific Ocean, or the Inside Passage north into Canada.”
“So the word ‘Canadian’ next to Egregious could mean the ship was headed to Canada?”
“It could,” Welsh said. “It might also mean it was a Canadian ship, registered in Canada. We get those as well.”
“How would I know that, whether it was a ship registered in Canada?”
Welsh turned to his computer and started tapping the keyboard. “You’d go to Transport Canada.” He turned his screen so Tracy could read it. “That’s the Canadian agency responsible for the registration of vessels. It provides title to boats, the way the DMV provides title to cars. Do you know the type of boat?”
“No.”
“That makes it more difficult, since more than one boat can have the same name, and the case is so old the boat could have sold.”
“And changed names?”
“Possible but doubtful. There’s a lot of superstition regarding changing the name of a boat.”
“I’m assuming the Canadian registrar would have a paper trail of some kind if the boat changed owners?”
“They could, but again, not every boat has to be registered. They have regulations and exemptions that set that all out and, again, there can be more than one boat with that name.”
“How might I find the boat, if it did come down from Canada and it was registered?”
Welsh gave her question some thought. “First, you’re not likely talking about a speedboat, especially not in November. Probably not a sailboat either.”
“Why not?”
“The wind can howl through the Inside Passage, and the waters can get rough,” he said, referring to the passage that boats took from Seattle northwest along Canada’s coast to Skagway, Alaska, to avoid the Pacific Ocean. “Especially that time of year. The boat would have to be big enough to handle the waves and the currents and to store enough gas to get from one marina to the next. I’d look for a commercial boat—a crab or salmon boat, something seventy to seventy-five feet or more.”
“When a ship goes though the Ballard Locks, is there a paper trail documenting it?” she said, referring to the locks ships passed through to get from the saltwater Pacific Ocean to the freshwater Lake Union and Lake Washington. “Does someone at the locks document each boat coming and going?”
“Not to my knowledge, not now, anyway. I don’t know about back then specifically, but if they don’t keep a record now, it seems unlikely they did in either 1995 or 1996—but I don’t know for certain; I’m just surmising. Think of the locks like a stop sign before people pass through east or west.”
“Who would I ask at the Ballard Locks?”
“Ask the lockmaster. That’s the person who raises and lowers the water to allow boats to pass.”
“What about when a boat arrives here at the marina and wants to moor? Do you keep records?”
Welsh made a face. “We have computer records now, certainly, for tax reasons. Back then? I don’t know for certain but again, for tax purposes, I would think that was standard procedure.” He paused.
“But?” Tracy asked.
“But I can also tell you that boats looking for moorage for only a night often pay in cash, and there’s no guarantee the harbormaster would have recorded each boat if it didn’t plan to stay more than a night. You like to believe people are honest, but money does funny things.”
Tracy knew this too well. She pointed to the initials on the note beneath “Diamond Marina.”
“Would you have records here that indicate who was the harbormaster at that time?”
“Not here. I can call the marina owner’s office and ask the accountant to go through her records, if she has them from that long ago, and see if she can come up with a name starting with those initials.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Tracy said. “I’d also appreciate it if she could find any moorage records for the Egregious for a particular day and night.”
Welsh had a pen in hand and was taking notes. “Again, I can try. What days?”
The two bodies had floated up to the marina the morning of November 20, 1995. “Say for November 18 and 19, 1995.” She gave it additional thought. “Actually, if the accountant has records, I’d be interested in any dates in 1995 that the Egregious moored here at the marina.”
Welsh made a face. “I can’t, for the life of me, think of a reason the marina would have kept records going back that far—the IRS only requires five years—but I can find out. If the records exist, that could take some man-hours to go through them.”
“I’ll take what I can get. Let me ask you this: Are you aware of any boat currently in the marina that was here back then?”
Welsh shook his head. “I’d have to ask around, Detective, see if anyone knows more than I do. Can I ask what this is about?”
“November 20, 1995, two bodies were found floating in the water at the marina. Two men drowned. I’m trying to determine how they might have ended up in Lake Union. Any ideas?”
Welsh again gave this some thought. “They could have fallen overboard. That would seem to be the most likely. But if they could swim . . . the lake isn’t that big, but people do drown here. You said it was November?”
“Yes.”
“Water can get down to thirty-seven, thirty-five degrees in the winter. It doesn’t take long for someone to drown when the water is that cold, especially if they can’t swim. Even if they can, if the wind is howling and creating waves . . . hypothermia only takes about fifteen minutes. Or if the men were impaired in any way . . . I’d check the weather records for back then.”
Tracy removed a business card from her briefcase and handed it across the desk to Welsh. “I’m most interested in finding D. S. If your accountant can find records of the Egregious mooring back in 1995, those would also be helpful.”
Welsh placed the card on the desk. “I’ll call her right now.”
Tracy left the marina and drove to the Ballard Locks, which were close. She met the lockmaster, Kevin Lohman, who told her the locks were the busiest in the United States with more than 645,000 boats passing through each year and as many as 250 each day. With so many boats, there was no time to document each boat’s passing.
Another dead end.
After leaving the locks, Tracy called Mike Greenhold, who she had determined was alive and living on Mercer Island.
Tracy made the decision not to surprise Greenhold at his home. After twenty-four years, she figured he’d be surprised enough just to answer questions about Lisa Childress, and he sounded that way on the phone. She also made the decision not to lie to him. She told him she was looking into the Childress cold case.
Greenhold paused several seconds before responding with the common refrain. “Has something come up?”
“No,” Tracy said. “Nothing specific.” Though each time a person asked her that question, she wondered what the person might be hiding.
“I’ve answered questions before, Detective. I’m sure those answers were recorded somewhere in the file.”
“They are,” Tracy said, though Moss’s summary had been minimal and not helpful. “Can we talk?”
“I’m retired,” Greenhold said. “And I’ve talked about it enough already. Too many times, in fact. I really don’t have anything more to say. Besides, I’m watching my grandkids this week, and that’s precious time for me and my wife.”
Tracy tried but failed to convince Greenhold, and with no real means to compel him to speak to her, or to bring him into Police Headquarters, it was, at least at present, another dead end.
Tracy disconnected the call and immediately received another. No caller ID displayed, and she didn’t recognize the number.
“Detective Crosswhite?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Pete Welsh at the Diamond Marina.” Tracy hadn’t expected to hear from Welsh this soon. “We’re still looking for those records, but I think I found out who D. S. was, and a little more information about that boat, the Egregious.”
“Let me pull over so I can write,” she said.
“Actually, are you around tomorrow? I have someone I think you’re going to want to speak with.”
Tracy’s pulse quickened with anticipation, but at the same time she thought, Saturday. Family time.
“What time tomorrow?” she asked.
CHAPTER 14
Saturday morning, Tracy met Pete Welsh in the lobby of his office building. The weekend had dawned gloriously, and Tracy regretted agreeing to the meeting. She would much rather have remained home with Dan and Daniella. Dan tried to make the situation better by telling Tracy he would take Daniella on a walk at Marymoor Park, but it only made her FOMO—an acronym he fondly used that meant Fear of Missing Out—worse.
“We’ll catch up to you at home in the afternoon,” Dan said.
Which was fine, except Daniella took her naps in the afternoon. Tracy was back to seeing her little one in a crib.
“Thanks for coming back,” Welsh said, greeting her.
Welsh had given her some information the prior afternoon. Dennis Hopper Junior had lived on a houseboat at the marina off and on since 1990. “He says he knew D. S.—David Slocum—well. Slocum was the marina’s harbormaster back then.”
“I’m anxious to speak to Mr. Hopper,” she said.
Welsh described Hopper as a bit of a character and said he had frequently rented out the houseboat when he left to pursue work as a roustabout and roughneck on oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico, as a greenhorn on Alaskan fishing boats, a cook working a small cruise ship between Florida and the Cayman Islands, and other interesting jobs. Welsh said Hopper had once told him he’d even been employed flying hot-air balloons.
Welsh led Tracy from his office and headed to the piers with more than 250 houseboats. “Hopper also served as the harbormaster for a short time, as I understand it, but the marina couldn’t really count on him. He picked up and took off without much notice and never knew how long he’d be away.”
They emerged in bright sunshine with the same glorious view Welsh had from his second-story marina manager’s window. Boaters pushed what looked like blue plastic wheelbarrows filled with boating equipment, coolers, and toys down the piers to their slips. Some greeted Welsh by name. Welsh punched in a code on a second gate across one of the finger piers. The gate had sharp arrow tips extending off the sides and the top to prevent someone from reaching or stepping around it.
Some of the houseboats were elaborate and beautifully maintained. Hopper’s was best described as eclectic. Beside a yellow front door that faced the lake was a garage-style roll-up door. The second story was stacked over the first and looked to have been added on. Welsh rang the bell, which elicited a voice from above.
“That you, Pete?”
Welsh looked at Tracy and smiled. They stepped back from the door and looked up at a wiry-thin, shirtless man with a silver ponytail leaning over the second story. His skin was the color of a weathered, well-oiled baseball mitt. “How are you this morning, Dennis?” Welsh said.
“I’m good. Just soaking up some vitamin D. Got the plants out this morning and decided if it was good for the plants, it was good for me.”
“The legal plants, right?”
“Of course,” Hopper said. He looked to Tracy. “You must be the detective.”
“I am,” Tracy said.
“Pete didn’t say you were good looking.” Hopper chuckled. “He’s married, by the way. But I am flying solo.”
Tracy smiled. “My solo days are long gone. I’m married.”
“Happily?” Hopper asked, still smiling.
“Very. With a little girl, two dogs, and a cat.”
“You’re a Norman Rockwell painting. Can’t blame a guy for asking.”
“I don’t.”
“Come on up. Door is unlocked.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Welsh said. “By the way, the accountant grumbled, but she’s looking for records. You might not need them though. Dennis is like a repository when it comes to the happenings around here and at the marina. Don’t ask him about any of his other jobs if you’re looking to get home before next week.”
“Got it,” Tracy said. She pushed in the door. The interior was surprisingly well decorated and also eclectic. Somehow it all worked. A chandelier of hubcaps dangled from the ceiling over a dining room table with legs carved to represent African animals. The room held the sweet aroma of marijuana. Directly before her was a spiral staircase. Tracy climbed it and emerged on a deck with two blue-and-white beach chairs that looked to have seen better days. Hopper gave Tracy a tour of his plants and flowers growing in pots all around the deck—roses, bamboo palms, a lemon and an orange tree, an avocado plant, and various perennials.
“Impressive.” Tracy had tried to grow a lemon tree, without success, and had been told not to even bother with an avocado plant. “You have a green thumb,” she said.
“The real foliage is inside beneath grow lights, but I figured it probably best a police detective didn’t see that aspect of my operation.”
Tracy laughed. “I know nothing.”
“It’s just survival. The stuff they sell in those stores is crap, and way overpriced. I always felt like, Why pay for something you can grow yourself?”
“Makes sense,” Tracy said.
“Do you smoke?”
“I don’t,” she said. “I envy your ability to grow a lemon and an orange tree though. I’ve tried and failed.”
“Tough up here in Puget Sound with all the cloudy weather. Having the grow lamps helps. What did the woman do when a lemon tree fell on her cat?”
“I don’t know. What did she do?”
“Nothing. Just stood there with a sour puss.” Hopper beamed and Tracy laughed. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “I got some cold beer in the fridge.”
“I’m fine.” Tracy looked out at the view of boats moored and on the lake. “It’s nice up here.”
“I love it,” Hopper said, spreading his arms. “This is my nirvana.”
“Pete Welsh says you’ve been a resident at the marina a long time.”
“Moved onto the boat in 1990 after the wife threw me out. Turned out to be the best day of my life. Rented for six months, then bought the boat with the divorce settlement and have been here ever since, when I wasn’t working anyway. I often thought of moving, but the water always called me home.”
“Looks like you put on an addition.”
“I added on this deck for my grow operation, and that room to accommodate a nephew who came to live with me for a few years. He didn’t have the best home life.”
“How’s he now?”
“Working in LA for one of those movie studios. He builds out many of the sets you see in movies. Built one for a movie starring Dennis Hopper, which I think was preordained since my parents named me Dennis after watching the movie Easy Rider. Might be why I never stay long in one place.”
“I understand you were here in 1995 and knew the harbormaster.”
“You’ll have to be more specific about the month, but generally yeah, and I knew David. He lived a couple piers over and we had some things in common. We traded snippets of our various plants and tried to graft them to grow the best pot in the Pacific Northwest.”
“How’d that work out?”
“We liked to think we achieved it, but we were high, so what did we know.”
Again, Tracy smiled. “And do you recall a boat named the Egregious?”
“A purse seine fishing boat out of Vancouver, BC. Remember it well.”
“I don’t know boats,” Tracy said. “What kind of boat is that?”
“Seventy- or seventy-five-foot long, sky blue with white masts, commercial fishing boat. But that was just a front. The Egregious was running drugs, I can tell you that.”
