Getting nowhere fast, and in need of caffeine, Del ventured into the break room for a cup of bad coffee. Vic Fazzio stood with his back against the counter, staring at the tile floor.

  “Hey,” Del said.

  Fazzio looked up. “You too, huh?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Trying to jump-start your brain. I hate this time of the afternoon.”

  “Mine’s more frustration than fatigue.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Del told him about the investigation. “One dead end after another.”

  Faz sipped his coffee, then said, “You might want to talk to Rick Tombs.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Tombs runs the drug task force here in Seattle. If the two men came down from Canada, as Moss suggested, and they had drugs in their system, Tombs might have some ideas. Just a thought.”

  Del nodded. “Can’t hurt, I guess. Nothing else seems to be panning out.”

  Back at his desk, Del found Tombs in the SPD directory and gave him a call.

  “I can talk,” Tombs said. “But I was about to grab a late lunch. How about we talk there?”

  Del agreed and Tombs gave him directions to Shawn O’Donnell’s American Grill and Irish Pub on Second Avenue, adjacent to the Smith Tower. Tombs sat on an elevated stool at a pedestal table in the front of the restaurant. He wore his SPD uniform, a bright-silver badge pinned to his thick chest. Tombs stepped down to greet Del, who was a good ten inches taller than the sergeant. Tombs wore a buzz cut that revealed green eyes and pointed ears. He reminded Del of a Doberman.

  As he took his seat, Del considered the Irish décor—an array of crests bearing names like O’Donnell, Brannick, and Mullins hung on the walls. At the front of the space was what looked like a library, with bottles of Irish whiskeys among board games and antique books. On the wall were photographs of Irish landscapes.

  “You’re new, aren’t you?” Tombs had the gravelly voice of a smoker, though Del didn’t smell cigarette smoke or detect any other telltale signs like nicotine-stained fingers or teeth. Tombs rested meaty forearms on the table. Unlike Del, the sergeant’s stocky build looked to come from hours in the gym.

  “Just a few weeks.”

  “Where’d you transfer in from?”

  “Madison, Wisconsin.”

  “Never been. What did you do there?”

  “Worked patrol for a stint. Sat for the detective exam and worked my way up the ranks through the various sections.”

  “What brought you out here, then? Family?”

  Del didn’t want to get into it. First impression, Tombs didn’t come across as a touchy-feely sort of guy.

  “Logjam at homicide. Seattle was hiring.”

  Tombs sat back as the waitress delivered a corned beef sandwich and fries along with a bottle of malt vinegar. “Didn’t know if you’d already eaten, and I’m in a bit of a time crunch.”

  “Just coffee,” Del said to the waitress.

  Tombs lifted his sandwich and took a bite, then wiped his hands on his napkin and talked with his mouth full. “You said this was related to a case?”

  “Moss Gunderson and I—”

  “Moss.” Tombs laughed and shook his head. “He’ll talk your ear off; am I right?”

  Del nodded and smiled but didn’t comment. “We caught a drowning. Two men at a marina on Lake Union. I’m trying to figure out where they came from.” He told Tombs the details of his investigation to date.

  “Moss thought it could be they fell off a drug boat?” Tombs asked, sprinkling the malt vinegar on his French fries and popping several in his mouth.

  “He was speculating they came down from Canada. Toxicology revealed drugs in their systems, so . . . I’m just taking a stab in the dark. I’m running into a lot of dead ends. Was wondering if you’ve heard anything, or had any ideas on what course of action I might take from here.”

  “You check with Harbor Patrol? Maybe they intercepted a boat in the Puget Sound?”

  “They didn’t have anything.” Del told Tombs of his prior conversations, including the Harbor Patrol officer’s conclusion the bodies likely originated in Lake Union and didn’t drift there from some other place.

  “Sounds logical.” Tombs took another bite. “So, the thought is maybe a drug operation in the Lake Union area?”

  “Or a drug boat came through the locks and these two guys were on it? Again, I’m speculating at this point, just shotgunning it.”

  “Why would the two men have ended up in the water, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Del said.

  “I don’t either,” Tombs said. “Can’t think of a good reason they would have.” He set down his sandwich and sipped from his cup of coffee. Del waited. Tombs set down the cup. “There’s a battle going on between a couple of Mexican drug cartels for distribution in the Pacific Northwest. I’m just wondering if maybe one got wind of the other making a drug run and could have seized a boat, killed the two men on board, and dumped them overboard.”

  “Bodies were clean. No bullet holes. ME said they drowned.”

  “This was recent, right?”

  “Few weeks ago.”

  Tombs nodded. “Then it makes sense. You dump two bodies in the water this time of year, it takes about fifteen minutes for hypothermia to set in. If the two men weren’t strong swimmers, they’d drown quickly. And no bullet holes could have been deliberate, to make it look like a drowning and not a hit. Let me guess—no ID on either body.”

  “None,” Del said.

  Tombs nodded. “Okay. Let me ask around, see if any of our sources knows anything about this. Sometimes we get lucky.”

  “I’d appreciate it. As I said, I’m getting nowhere fast.”

  “Yeah, sure. No problem.” Tombs looked to his sandwich, a not-so-subtle hint.

  “I’ll leave you to your lunch,” Del said.

  Chapter Four

  At home that night Del thought about what Tombs had said. He didn’t buy the theory about a drug cartel not leaving bullet holes to throw off a police investigation. In his experience working narcotics, a drug hit was all about making a statement to your enemies. And being from Wisconsin, he knew a lot more about hypothermia than Tombs. Lake Union was not that wide, and there were marinas on both sides and boats tied to buoys within swimming distance, unless the two men couldn’t swim at all. But if that had been the case, it seemed likely someone would have seen or heard something. Possibly an argument, or the two men shouting for help. Something.

  The following morning, Del drove back to the marina to talk to the harbormaster and find out if maybe someone had heard something that night but had not equated it with the two men drowning. He suspected people living in a houseboat community, packed that close together, talked, and two bodies floating up to their marina would certainly be a topic of conversation.

  Del checked in with the marina manager, who directed Del to Slocum’s houseboat. This morning the lake was calm, the surface like gray glass beneath a winter sky, but Del still felt anxiety creeping in as he followed the manager’s directions along piers to a houseboat second from the end of a dock. Several boats had been decorated with Christmas lights and ornaments. Del hadn’t given the upcoming holiday much thought. It would only be him. He hadn’t accumulated enough time to go home to Wisconsin to visit family. He had decided to pick up some overtime to stay busy and make a little extra money. A poor consolation prize, for sure.

  The homes varied in style and size and, Del assumed, cost. Some looked luxurious. Others not so much. Slocum’s home was unremarkable. It looked like someone stuck a shingled shed on a floating pier and put a second, smaller shed atop it. The smaller shed had skylights and western-facing windows. Del stepped from the dock to the front door, looked for a doorbell, did not see one, and knocked. The door rattled in the jamb. Slocum answered and Del took in a big whiff of the unmistakable, sweet odor of marijuana.

  “Can I help you?” Slocum asked.

  Del had his doubts.

  He held up his shield. Slocum’s eyes widened and the blood looked to drain from his face, leaving him pale. “I’m Detective Del Castigliano. I was at the marina a couple weeks ago with my partner regarding the two men who drowned. You spoke with him, Moss Gunderson.”

  “I didn’t recognize you.” Slocum stumbled over his words. He tried to step forward, presumably to close the door, but Del didn’t step back.

  “You and I didn’t actually talk,” Del said. “But I’m handling the investigation and was hoping to run a couple things by you.”

  “Now is not really a good time, Detective,” Slocum said. “Maybe we could meet someplace convenient.”

  “Not a good time because you’re high, or not a good time because you’re busy?” Slocum’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a fish had just tugged the hook below the surface. “Listen, I don’t care what you do in your spare time.” Del considered the shed atop the boat. “Or what you’re growing. I’m a homicide detective trying to solve two deaths. I just want to run some things by you.”

  Del did not mention they would have a problem if the two drowned men were somehow involved in a grow operation Slocum was running, and had stumbled off a boat or the pier into the water, though he thought that unlikely.

  “Could we sit out on the deck?” Slocum motioned to the back of the boat.

  The deck was a little too close to the water for Del’s comfort, but given the aroma inside the house, he thought fresh air might be best and acquiesced. The small deck faced east, with a view across the slate-gray waters to boats moored at other marinas, lakeside buildings, and a double-deck steel truss bridge overhead. A yellow kayak tied to a rope floated off the back of the deck. Del slowly lowered into one of two beach chairs.

  “You don’t like the water, do you?” Slocum said.

  “Not unless it’s coming out of a shower head, no,” Del said.

  “We could go someplace else,” Slocum said.

  “I’ll make do,” Del said.

  Slocum sat in the second chair. “What more did you want to ask me?”

  “I’m still trying to identify the two men,” Del said, wanting to ease into the conversation and gauge how Slocum responded. “I’ve spoken to people who live here, and to boat owners and management at the other marinas. No one recognizes them. I talked to the Harbor Patrol and they have no report of a boat in distress or of two men going overboard. I’m operating under the assumption they drowned someplace around here, in this lake, and wondered if you might have some thoughts.”

  Slocum let out a breath of air and studied his bare feet. “Nothing more than what I told the other guy. I don’t recognize them, and no one around here has said they knew them or had seen them. Like I told the other guy, I think maybe they could have been aboard the Egregious, but I don’t really know.”

  Del had been about to ask Slocum if anyone had indicated they’d heard something—calls for help—but Slocum’s answer caught him by surprise and changed his question. “Aboard the what?”

  “The fishing boat. The one that got raided. I told your partner about it that night.”

  Del didn’t know what Slocum was talking about, but he also didn’t want to look like an idiot. Moss hadn’t mentioned anything about a raid, or a fishing boat, and it wasn’t in his written report. “Right. I wasn’t part of that conversation, so maybe you could go over it again. The Egregious is a boat?”

  “Seventy-five-foot purse seine fishing trawler.”

  “What does ‘purse seine’ mean?”

  “Means it uses nets to fish. Really bad for the ocean.”

  “When was this?”

  “The night before the two men floated up to the pier, though that was morning, so I guess it was actually two nights.”

  Del did a quick calculation. “If the men were found the morning of the twentieth, then this raid would have been the night of the eighteenth?”

  Slocum looked up at the low gray sky. “That sounds right.”

  “Does the boat moor here at the marina?”

  “Not permanently. The Egregious comes down once a month, sometimes twice, but that’s rare. At least it did.”

  “Comes down from where?”

  “Canada. Vancouver, I believe, but I don’t really know.”

  Just as Moss had suggested, Del thought. “Did you see the two men on board that ship?”

  “No. Just seemed like a possibility to consider, with everything going on.”

  “What do you mean, ‘everything going on’?”

  “I don’t know. The two men could have jumped ship to avoid arrest.”

  Again, the response surprised Del. “Arrest? Who raided the boat?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I’m assuming law enforcement of some kind. I told this to the other guy. What was his name?”

  “Moss Gunderson.”

  “Yeah, I told him.”

  “Tell me. From the beginning.”

  Slocum shrugged. “The Egregious got in late that night—the eighteenth. It always got in late and docked out at that open-water pier.” He pointed to the end of a finger pier parallel to the shore. “Too big to moor anyplace else. Later that night I heard a commotion and got up to find out what it was. I went outside and guys with guns were moving down the marina dock.”

  “Did they identify themselves?”

  “Not to me they didn’t.”

  It didn’t sound like law enforcement to Del. It sounded like maybe it was as Tombs had suggested, another drug ring. “They didn’t say they were Harbor Patrol, FBI, DEA, anything?”

  Slocum shook his head.

  “Did they say anything?”

  “Just said they were taking the boat.”

  That was unlike law enforcement. “Did the guys have any accents?” he asked.

  “Accents?”

  “Hispanic. Mexican.”

  “I didn’t hear any accents.”

  “What about uniforms? Did you see any labels or patches, anything?”

  Again, Slocum shook his head. “They wore those masks over their heads and faces . . . like the skiers. What do you call those things?”

  Del had to think for a moment. “Balaclavas?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  Del thought maybe he’d finally caught a break, that it was as Tombs had speculated, another drug ring fighting for control of the Pacific Northwest. It didn’t, however, explain why Moss hadn’t mentioned any of this to Del. He wondered if Slocum could be making up the story to protect himself or others, but why would he make up something so easy to refute? He sounded and looked sincere, which brought Del back around to his initial thought. Moss had withheld the information from him.

  “If they didn’t identify themselves, and they weren’t wearing any identification, why do you think they were law enforcement?”

  “Probably because I heard one of the men call another guy ‘sergeant.’ I think he slipped.”

  “Why do you say you think he slipped?”

  “Because the sergeant turned on him, quick. I couldn’t see his face, but his eyes were shooting daggers, man.”

  Del thought of Rick Tombs. “Can you describe this sergeant?”

  “Not really.” Slocum shrugged. “Like I said, it was dark, and they were wearing the face masks.”

  “Tall like me? Short? Stocky? Anything?”

  “Not tall like you. My height, but thicker. Stocky, yeah. That’s a good word. Though that could have been the clothing he had on. It was cold that night too.”

  Del estimated Slocum to be five foot eight, about the same height as Tombs. “Anything else that made you think they were law enforcement?”

  “Just the way they came. It seemed coordinated to me.”

  “What do you mean, ‘coordinated’?”

  “I don’t know. Just that they were in and out of here in minutes.”

  “How many guys?”

  “Half a dozen?” Slocum sounded unsure.

  “And do you know where they took the Egregious?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Honestly, I tried to stay out of this because of my own situation, you know?”

  His own situation. “Are you saying the Egregious was a drug boat?”

  “I don’t know,” Slocum said, but he broke off eye contact and again stared at his bare feet.

  “David, this is important. I need to know what you know.”

  Slocum let out another burst of air. “Okay, this is what I know. The Egregious came once a month. Always late at night. It docked here after hours, always paid cash, and made it clear it wanted to be off the marina’s books. And it always left early the next morning. In and out.” He shrugged and made a face as if to say the conclusion was inescapable.

  “Did you ever see a crew?”

  “Just the captain.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Said it was Jack. I don’t know if that was his real name or not. Never did offer a last name and I didn’t ask.”

  It fit nicely with what Tombs had proposed, maybe too nicely, and it was too critical a piece of information for Moss to have inadvertently left out of his report, which meant the omission had been deliberate. Del had thought that Moss gave him the investigation to get his feet wet. Now he wasn’t so sure. The problem was, he couldn’t confront someone of Moss’s stature in the detective room. Not yet anyway. Not without something more definitive. Moss could simply deny Slocum told him any such thing, maybe say Slocum was a pothead, that he couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast, or that Slocum was trying to create a diversion for something else that happened. And what evidence did Del have to refute it? None at the moment. Except a belief that Slocum was sincere. Still, he couldn’t very well run to his captain or to Halloway with a “belief.” And what would the rest of the homicide team think of Del if he did? They’d think Del ratted out his partner, which would pretty much end his career in Seattle.

  “You told all of this to the other detective?” Del asked.

  Slocum nodded. “Yeah.”

  Del looked for any tells the young man was lying. He didn’t see any.

  One thing was certain, though. Somebody was lying.

  About what, and why, Del didn’t yet know.

 

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