Chapter Five

  Del returned to the PSB just before noon and ran into Vic Fazzio as he exited the building onto Fourth Avenue.

  “Hey,” Fazzio said. “You just getting in?”

  “Had some witnesses I needed to talk with this morning.”

  “You alone?” Fazzio asked, looking past Del.

  “I’m handling this marina case on my own.”

  “I meant, have you eaten? You want to grab lunch?”

  Del wanted to get into the office, but the more he thought about it, running into Fazzio could be fortuitous. Fazzio seemed to have his ear to the ground at the PSB. More so than Del, anyway. “No. No, I haven’t. What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s an Italian place on First Avenue in Pioneer Square I’ve been meaning to check out. It looks good, authentic. You up for it?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  They walked down the hill to Antichi Sapori on First Avenue.

  “‘Old tastes,’” Del said, reading the name of the restaurant. “I like it.”

  “Tu parli italiano?” Fazzio asked.

  “Cosa prendi in giro? A casa mia era la prima lingua.” What, are you kidding? In my house it was the first language.

  “Yeah, for me too,” Fazzio said.

  A maître d’ greeted them and led them outside. Wrought-iron fencing enclosed a section of the sidewalk for outdoor dining at tables covered with white tablecloths. The weather wasn’t perfect, but the sun was out, and Del was learning that you made use of Seattle’s sunny days. The waiter dropped off sparkling water, bread, olive oil, and menus. They eyed the entries for a few minutes, then Fazzio said, “This looks good, huh?”

  “Yeah, it does, but in my house, you reserve judgment until you taste the food.”

  “Are you a hundred percent Italian?”

  “Through and through. You?”

  “Same. My wife, Vera, she’s Italian also. She spoils me. Best cook I know. I’m not careful, I’ll put on fifty pounds like that.” Fazzio snapped his fingers. He had the build of a power forward. “I’ve always thought about owning a restaurant, you know? Vera could do the cooking and I’d sample.”

  “Sign me up,” Del said. “That’s a job I could handle.”

  “Are you married?” Fazzio asked.

  “Me? No. Thought I would be. Had a long-term girlfriend but things didn’t work out.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Is she from around here?”

  “No. This was back in Wisconsin.”

  “What brought you out here?”

  Del sipped his sparkling water. “Seattle was hiring homicide detectives.”

  “They’re not hiring in Wisconsin?”

  “The ex lives in Wisconsin.”

  “Oh,” Fazzio said. “This was sort of a fresh start, then.”

  “Hope so,” Del said.

  The waiter returned and Del ordered the chicken parmigiana with a spaghetti side. Fazzio ordered the veal scallopini piccata, then raised his glass of sparkling water. “Salute. Welcome to Seattle.”

  “Salute, Vic,” Del said and took a sip.

  “Listen,” Fazzio said. “Nobody calls me Vic except Vera. Around here I’m Faz.”

  “Faz it is.”

  “So, how’re you liking homicide?”

  “It’s okay,” Del said. “Still getting my feet wet.”

  “That Moss, he’s something, huh?” Faz said.

  “Yeah, he’s something.” Del contemplated how best to broach the subject.

  “How’s his temperament been?” Faz asked.

  “His temperament?”

  “His mood. Is he doing okay?” Faz asked.

  “Seems to be. Why do you ask?”

  “He hasn’t said anything?”

  “About what?”

  “Word is he’s going through a nasty divorce. Heard the wife left him for some young guy with a house on the lake, but still took a big chunk out of his ass.”

  “Seems fine,” Del said. He saw an opening and took it. “I wonder if maybe he’s been preoccupied, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I wonder if maybe the divorce has thrown him off his game a bit.”

  “Something come up?”

  “Probably nothing, but . . .” Del told Faz what had transpired at the marina and what he’d learned when he interviewed David Slocum that morning, including Slocum’s belief that the Egregious was running drugs down from Canada. As he spoke, he evaluated Faz’s reaction.

  “Moss didn’t tell you about this harbormaster discussing a raid?” Faz sounded skeptical.

  “Not a word. Not in his written report either. I’ll be honest. It’s too important to be inadvertent.”

  “This harbormaster credible?”

  “Seemed sincere. Can’t think of any reason why he’d make up a story like that. One so easy to refute.”

  “You talk to Moss yet?”

  “Just learned of it. But I did talk to that guy you suggested, Rick Tombs. He told me there’s a bit of a turf war going on between two Mexican cartels for distribution in the Pacific Northwest. So what this guy Slocum had to say would seem to fit.”

  Faz sipped his water. He looked and sounded tentative. “It does. Maybe this guy Slocum can look at mug shots and identify who raided the boat?”

  “No. He said they wore face masks, you know, like the skiers wear.”

  Faz set down his glass. “Face masks?”

  Del seemed to have hit a nerve. “That’s what he said. Why?”

  “What else did this harbormaster say?”

  Del told him about the lack of any emblems on the clothing and one man’s use of the word “sergeant” that nearly got his head bitten off. Faz leaned back from the table. His face strained with concern.

  “Something more I should know about?” Del asked.

  “The Last Line wears those ski masks, so no one can identify the members . . . supposed to protect them and their families from the drug dealers and from bribes.”

  “What’s the Last Line?” Del asked.

  “That’s Tombs’s drug task force. The name is supposed to mean the last line of defense between the drug dealers and the citizens of Seattle.”

  Del felt that familiar twinge in his gut, the one he got when things began to crystallize and make sense.

  The waiter returned and set down both their plates, but neither Del nor Faz rushed to pick up a fork or to put a napkin in his lap.

  Del looked across the table and said what they were both thinking. “The odds would seem to indicate it was this Last Line that came to the marina; don’t they?”

  “You check yet with the Harbor Patrol, or the evidence room, see if they impounded that ship or checked in any drugs that night or the following morning?”

  “Not that particular ship, but the Harbor Patrol didn’t indicate they had anything happening either of those two nights. Haven’t yet spoken to the evidence room, but I will.” He threw out a thought, hoping to get Fazzio’s opinion. “I was going to talk to Moss. Now I’m not so sure that’s the right next step.”

  Faz shook his head. “I’m not so sure either. Not with what you got at present. Maybe best to wait. See what else you find out first.”

  “Something else?” Del asked.

  “I’m just thinking. You know, maybe you don’t want to be calling out Moss without something more to substantiate what this harbormaster said. It’ll make him look bad, which makes you look bad, like you’re questioning your partner.”

  “Like I’m a rat?”

  “Things like that get around is all I’m saying.”

  Del knew they did. “I’ll make some phone calls when I get back.” The food was getting cold. He looked at his plate. The food looked good, but then, looks could be deceiving.

  Back at his desk, Del called the Harbor Patrol and talked to the officer he’d spoken with previously. The officer had no record of the Egregious being impounded November eighteenth or nineteenth. Del then called the SPD evidence room. The detective on duty said no drugs had been catalogued into evidence the evening of the eighteenth or the following day. Del called the DEA and the FBI. Neither had any record of a raid at the marina. On the off chance the raid could have been by another drug ring wearing face coverings to protect their identities, Del asked both the DEA and the FBI if they were aware of any turf wars between rival Mexican cartels for distribution in the Pacific Northwest. They told Del they had nothing specific on their radar.

  After some digging, Del found the Canadian agency responsible for registering boats and eventually found a seventy-five-foot purse seine fishing trawler named the Egregious with a home port in Vancouver. The boat was registered to a Jack Flynt. The information confirmed David Slocum was telling the truth, at least about the existence of the boat and the captain. Del called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Vancouver and, again, after starts and stops, was put in touch with a drug unit. The sergeant he spoke with had no record of a Jack Flynt, nor had Canadian authorities ever impounded the Egregious for running drugs, though he thanked Del for the tip and said they’d check it out.

  As Del worked the phone lines, Moss’s distinct voice rose over the rest of the bull pen chatter, as it usually did. A second later, Moss dropped a multipage document on Del’s desk.

  “What’s this?” Del hung up the phone and picked up the document, skimming the first page.

  “That right there is the names of your two Mexicans.”

  Del looked up at his partner, then read the document. Ayax Florez Navarro and Juvenal Lucio Ibarra. “How’d you get this?”

  “Played a hunch, rookie. Called the Border Patrol and sent them the photographs. They called me back and said they had a file on each man documenting multiple arrests and deportations to Mexico on drug-related offenses. Each is suspected to work for the Oaxaca cartel, one of the smaller drug cartels operating in Mexico but which has recently increased operations in the US, mostly on the West Coast. It’s led to a bloody turf war with other cartels.”

  Which was exactly what Rick Tombs had suggested. Coincidence? Del didn’t think so. “Border Patrol told you this?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You get a name?”

  Moss scoffed. “Of course I got a name. I’ll put it in my report. Something else?” Moss asked.

  “No,” Del said, heeding Faz’s words of caution. “Just wondering where we go from here?”

  “We go nowhere. This gets turned over to the DEA, and they run with it since it’s international and they know more about what’s going on down there. Close your file and send it to me. I’ll finalize my report and see it gets where it’s supposed to go.” Moss turned to leave.

  “How’d the two bodies end up in Lake Union?” Del asked.

  Moss turned back. “Who knows? Somebody dumps these two guys overboard or off a pier, or maybe they jumped ship fearing for their lives, but couldn’t swim. Frankly, I’m surprised they didn’t wash up to the pier with bullet holes in their skulls and missing body parts.”

  Again, Moss had parroted what Tombs had hypothesized.

  Del studied the names. His instincts told him things were not as they appeared, that Moss was spoon-feeding him a load of crap. “Sounds like what you suggested all along. These guys were working a ship coming down from Canada on a drug run.”

  “Sometimes even the old guys can get one right. I’ll ask the DEA to let us know what they find out. If you’re curious.”

  Del prodded further. “I know you have a lot on your plate, Moss. I can close the file and send it over. Send me your report and give me the name of the DEA contact.”

  “If you’re worried about the credit, don’t be.”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “I’ll let the captain know you handled this to its conclusion—give you your props.” He knocked his knuckles on the top of Del’s cubicle wall and stepped away. “Send it to me this afternoon.”

  Chapter Six

  Del put the file together and sent it over to Moss.

  After he had done so, he stopped at the Public Affairs Office and told the woman at the counter he was looking for articles on the drug task force—everything and anything she had on the Last Line. She told him she’d have the articles for him in the morning, but Del wanted them before he left for the day, preferring to not read them at his desk. He told her he’d pick them up on his way home that evening. The woman didn’t look happy. She called back just before five. She had left a packet in an interoffice envelope on the counter.

  At home, Del draped his coat over the back of the folding chair, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his collar. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat at the card table he’d positioned near the sliding glass door to the balcony that overlooked downtown Seattle and Elliott Bay. Christmas lights illuminated the buildings and multiple construction cranes.

  He opened the packet and pulled out the articles, which confirmed what Faz had said about the task force being set up under the auspices of Sergeant Rick Tombs from narcotics.

  Except for Tombs, the members of that force—the number was not provided—were unnamed, ostensibly to protect them and their families. Several were Gulf War veterans. A photo accompanying one of the articles showed five task force members standing behind Tombs in khaki-colored uniforms and wearing balaclavas. Pistols were prominently displayed in holsters on their hips, and each held an automatic weapon across a bulletproof vest. Del sifted through additional articles and came across a Seattle Times story detailing a yearlong operation that had resulted in the arrest of twenty-two drug dealers. Subsequent news stories indicated twenty-one of the twenty-two arrested had pled to charges of drug possession with intent to distribute. The one holdout, Henderson Jones, had refused and, after nearly a year, the district attorney had only recently dropped the charges. A separate article in the Post-Intelligencer detailed how Jones, of Rainier Valley, claimed he was innocent, that the charge against him had been fabricated, that he had been out of state visiting a brother at the time of the alleged drug deal implicating him, and he had documentation to confirm it, including gas and restaurant receipts from Southern California. That caught Del’s attention because it was hard evidence, seemingly irrefutable. Neither the prosecutor nor Rick Tombs offered a response, citing the ongoing criminal case.

  The Post-Intelligencer reporter, however, had written a follow-up article and found the receipts to be legitimate. “I haven’t sold drugs in years and the police know it,” Jones said in that article. “I’ve been working a construction crew, bringing in regular checks, getting taxes taken out of my money, making something of myself for my family. And then the police fabricate this [expletive] charge.”

  Jones said that since his arrest, he had been fired from his job and unable to secure employment. He said the task force’s motivation to go after him went back to when he ran drugs in Rainier Valley. “I did things back then I’m not proud of, and people obviously haven’t forgotten, but I’ve been clean since my son was born. I want my children to have a stable home.”

  Del thought the article provocative and the reporter innovative for pursuing the story from a different angle than all the others. He checked the byline. Lisa Childress. An investigative reporter.

  He set down the article and stood from the table. On the balcony the chilled air refreshed him. He looked at the lights of downtown Seattle, including red ones that blinked atop stanchions, a warning for passing airplanes. Del saw warning lights of his own and debated what to do. He thought of traveling to Canada and finding Jack Flynt, but why would he speak to Del? Why would he admit he’d been running drugs? Del looked back to the articles on the table and picked up the story about Henderson Jones. He could go to the reporter, but he’d been down this path before and would likely only get a regurgitation of the article and a refusal to reveal anything obtained in confidence. Better to go to the source.

  He went inside and picked up the phone.

  Vera, Faz’s wife, greeted Del at their home in Green Lake.

  “I’m sorry to steal your husband for the evening,” Del said.

  “Vic says you’re new to the team too.”

  “Just came from Wisconsin about a month ago.”

  “With your family?”

  “No. I’m not married.”

  “Do you have friends here in Seattle?”

  “Not yet, but I’m hopeful.” Del smiled but felt uncomfortable.

  Faz came down the stairs and grabbed a leather coat off a hook on the wall by the front door. “You get a chance to meet?”

  “Just now,” Vera said.

  “I won’t be late,” Faz said, kissing his wife.

  “Nice to meet you, Del,” Vera said. “I hope you won’t be a stranger.”

  “Nice meeting you too,” Del said.

  Outside, Faz eyed Del’s car. “Oldsmobile Cutlass. Nice.”

  “You know cars?”

  “You kidding? This is a classic. Had a sixty-five Falcon in New Jersey but sold it to buy an engagement ring.” Faz admired the interior, which Del kept spotless.

  Del said, “My father has a hunter-green sixty-five Chevy Impala that will be mine someday. He’s always loved the muscle cars. Told me never buy a car that can’t get you out of trouble in a hurry.”

  “Good advice. Didn’t think they made the Impala in hunter green.”

  “Custom,” Del said. “Thanks for coming with me, Faz. I’m sorry to be taking you away from your wife. You got a nice house. Warm. Inviting.”

  “Hey, you’re a paisan. This is what we do.” Faz told Del he and Vera had purchased the home within the year and were looking to start a family. “Vera wants four or five kids.”

  “That’s a lot of tuition money.”

  “Don’t I know it. Okay, tell me more about what you learned.”

  Del filled in Faz as they drove I-5 over the Ship Canal Bridge across Lake Union.

  “It could be nothing,” Del said. “But I figured I got to find out; you know?”

  “I hear you. You think this guy is going to talk?”

  “He was pissed off enough to talk to the reporter. I figure he might be angry enough to talk to me too. If it’s a wild-goose chase, I’ll make it up to you, buy you lunch at Antichi Sapori.”

 

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