“That’s a deal I can’t refuse,” Faz said.

  “You’re a Godfather fan?” Del said.

  “Who isn’t? I wore out the tape.”

  “I’m thinking of getting a dog and naming him Santino. Figured I could call him Sonny,” Del said.

  “James Caan. I like it.”

  They drove into Rainier Valley and parked on a street across from a darkened schoolyard. The sidewalks were deserted. Christmas lights lit up the rooflines of some of the homes, and there were illuminated lawn decorations. Del knocked on the front door of a rambler-style home with a curtain pulled across the picture window. A bare porch light flipped on over their heads, the bulb flickering as if it were about to go out. A tall, well-built African American man pulled the door open. Del recognized Henderson Jones from the photograph accompanying the article in the paper. He looked to be late twenties or early thirties. He gave them the stink eye.

  “Henderson Jones?” Del said.

  “Who are you?”

  Del and Faz held up their badges but didn’t provide names. “SPD detectives. We’re sorry to come unannounced.”

  “I got nothing to say to you. You can talk to my lawyer.”

  “We could,” Del said quickly, before Jones closed the front door. “But that’s likely going to cost you a couple hours of his time.” The article in the paper said Jones had been let go from his construction job and was having a hard time financially. “We’re not here to bust your chops, Mr. Jones. We’re here to look into what you had to say about being set up.”

  Jones continued to eye them with suspicion. “Why?”

  “Because I . . . we think you’re telling the truth.”

  From the expression of discontent on Jones’s face, Del thought the man would slam the door, but he pulled it open further and stepped back, allowing them to enter. Inside, a middle-aged man and woman played cribbage at a kitchen table in the corner. Nearby stood a pregnant young woman. She held an infant on her hip and she, too, gave Del and Faz the stink eye.

  Del apologized for disturbing their evening.

  “You won’t disturb us,” the woman at the table said, considering her cards. “Do what you got to do.”

  “I’m going to put the baby down,” the younger woman said and departed the room.

  Jones moved to a recliner and sat, scowling. Though uninvited, Del and Faz sat side by side on a couch pushed up against the wall. Jones didn’t look eager to start the conversation, so Del did.

  “I read the article in the paper, about what you told that reporter. About the task force setting you up. I’d like to know more.”

  “Why? What are you going to do about it?”

  Del wasn’t sure what Jones meant by “it,” but he needed to get Jones past being pissed off. “I can’t say for certain until I hear what you have to say.”

  “Sounds like a crossroad to me,” the woman at the table said, her gaze behind her glasses still fixed on the cards in her hand.

  “I got this, Mama,” Jones said.

  “Don’t mind me,” the woman said. “I’m just minding my own business.”

  “I don’t want there to be further problems,” Jones said to Del. “I’m clean now. I don’t do that stuff anymore. I got a wife and a kid and another on the way. You all cost me my job. How am I supposed to support my family?”

  “Have to find that tree that grows money,” the woman said.

  “I’m sorry,” Del said to Jones. “For now, we can keep this conversation just between the three of us—until we figure out what’s going on.”

  Jones scoffed. “What’s going on is you got bad cops busting drug dealers and taking their drugs and money for themselves. That’s what’s going on. Are you seriously telling me you don’t even know that much?”

  Del consciously didn’t look to Faz, though he could feel his presence beside him. “You know this for certain?” Del asked.

  Jones shook his head. “Do I know?” he asked, sounding sarcastic. “I used to be one of them. Yeah, I know it for certain. I know everything that goes on around here.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”

  Now he glared at Del. “Some people don’t think I should be saying anything. Don’t think it’s smart.”

  “Why then did you talk to the reporter?” Del asked.

  “Get it out in the open so if anything were to happen to me, there’d be a record of it.”

  “A record of what exactly?”

  Jones paused, a look of disgust still etched on his face. Then it softened and he said, “Okay. I’ll play along. Here’s what I know. The police started busting drug dealers at some of the bars around here. They’d wait until after the dealers made their deals, then follow them and pull them over on some bullshit trumped-up charge. They’d tell them to empty their pockets, then go through their cars. What drugs and cash they found they took. Then if the dealer signed a disclaimer form saying he didn’t have anything in the car, they’d let him go with a traffic ticket. If the dealer refused, they’d prosecute him for the drugs.”

  “How much are we talking about?” Del asked.

  “Depended on the dealer. I’d say anywhere from three to five hundred to three to five thousand cash, and maybe that much in drugs.”

  “And you know dealers who will back you up?”

  “Hell no, they won’t back me up. Come on, man. Aren’t you listening? Nobody is going to stick their neck out. Why would they? What’s in it for them? More harassment and jail time? They did what they were told, and what did it get them? They all got busted and served time anyway.”

  “Why would the task force do that? Why not just continue to bust them and take their money?”

  “’Cause the dealers got smart. Figured the bar owners . . . someone . . . was tipping off the police, so they changed the way they did business. And, I heard the police had set their sights on a bigger, one-time score, worth millions, so they no longer had to mess around with the dealers.”

  “Do you know what kind of score?” Del asked.

  “Rumors. A bust before the drugs got distributed. Something big. They’d then turn around and sell what they took to a buyer and keep the money for themselves.”

  “Do you know where they’d find that score?”

  “Not for certain,” Jones said. “But up here . . . Could be a float plane, a boat, trucks. Any number of ways that the drugs come into the state.”

  Again, Del deliberately didn’t look to Faz. “Do you know how they lined up a buyer?” Del asked.

  Jones stared at him, just the hint of a smile forming on his lips. “That would sound to me like they had someone on the inside, someone who knew the big-time dealers and could talk to them; wouldn’t it?”

  “Would that person be you?” Del asked.

  Jones laughed and shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  “Do you know who the person on the inside is?”

  Jones looked to Del, then to Faz. “I’ll tell you what. I got my suspicions, yeah. You go show me I’m right. Do something with what I’m telling you, and I might have more information for you. But I’ve been down this road and gotten burned more than once. I ain’t getting burned again.”

  “More than once,” the woman at the table reiterated.

  “I got a family now. I have a lot more to risk.”

  “We could—” Del started but Faz interrupted.

  “Okay. We’ll see what we get.” Faz stood. “Thank you for your time.”

  Outside the house, Del and Faz kept quiet until they got back inside Del’s Oldsmobile. “Christ almighty, what have I gotten into?” Del said.

  “I don’t know,” Faz said. “But if he’s telling the truth . . . and that guy Slocum is telling the truth, that’s an awful lot of money. Ship that big? Who knows what the score could have been?”

  “But what do I do with this information? Who do I tell?”

  “You got the word of a drug dealer—”

  “Former,” Del said.

  “Says he,” Faz said. “Who’s pissed off at the SPD for losing his job. He could just be looking to even the score and using you to do it. This whole thing about him being in some danger, about not having any drug dealers to back up what he’s saying, or about an insider at SPD, could all be just smoke and mirrors.”

  “Do you think it is?”

  “No, but what I think doesn’t matter. What proof exists he’s telling the truth?”

  “None,” Del said. “Except maybe Slocum.”

  “Another pothead.”

  “What motivation does either man have to lie?” Del asked.

  “I’m just saying you stick your neck out with what you got and you’re likely to get your head cut off. And if you don’t, you can kiss your career good-bye. Who’s going to work with you? You, my friend, will be persona non grata.”

  When they reached Faz’s house, Del pulled to the curb. Faz didn’t immediately exit the car. “I’m sorry I involved you, Faz. I wouldn’t have if I had known.”

  “Hey, I’m a big boy, okay? I do what I think is right.”

  “I know you got a new house, a mortgage, and you and Vera want to start a family. I’ll leave you out of this.”

  Faz didn’t immediately respond, which told Del everything he needed to know. Then Faz said, “Nobody got hurt. That’s the one positive that maybe has come out of this.”

  “Except the two crewmen who drowned,” Del said.

  “You don’t know they were on board that boat,” Faz said. “And I don’t see any way you’re going to prove they were.”

  “I hear you,” Del said, again thinking that the ship’s captain wouldn’t have any motivation to talk. “And don’t worry. I won’t do anything that could come back to bite you.”

  “You watch your back,” Faz said. “If Jones is telling the truth, people will go a long way to protect that much money.” He got out of the car, then leaned below the roofline. “You got plans for Christmas?”

  Del didn’t, but he also didn’t want to be a charity case. “Just going to take it easy,” he said. “Maybe look to pull some overtime.”

  “You don’t have any family out here?”

  “Got a sister thinking about moving out, but not yet. Haven’t accumulated enough time off to go back home and no real motivation at this point.”

  “Then it’s settled. You’re going to come here.”

  “Look, Faz, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to do that, okay?”

  “Hey, I don’t have to do anything, except what Vera tells me to do,” Faz said. “She finds out I let a paisan spend Christmas alone and I’ll be sleeping with the fishes. You’ll come to dinner. And don’t say no. You don’t want to make Vera unhappy. Trust me on this. She prepares a feast unlike any you’ve ever experienced.”

  Del smiled. “Well, how do I say no to that?”

  “You don’t.”

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning, Del got into the office early and looked online for the case file on the two drowned men. The department had new computers, and everything was in the process of getting transferred over. The file had been closed and sent to storage. He called up the DEA office in downtown Seattle that served Alaska, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington and asked to talk to the special agent in charge, or SAC. A moment later he was speaking to another Italian, Anthony Sciaroni. He asked Sciaroni for an update on the file that had been sent over and gave him the names of the two Mexican men.

  Sciaroni said, “When was it sent over?”

  “Yesterday,” Del said.

  “What, you got a fire burning over there?”

  “Sorry. Just wanted to find out the agent to which it’s been assigned,” Del said, playing a hunch.

  “Give me the two names again.”

  Del did. After a beat Sciaroni said, “I’m not finding either one. The file probably hasn’t been logged in yet. Leave me a number and I’ll call you back.”

  “That’s okay,” Del said. “I’ll call back in a few days.” A pit opened in Del’s stomach. Now he was certain.

  He walked through the bull pens. Moss was not at his desk. Del left the PSB and stepped outside. A light snow fell, as had been forecast, flakes fluttering on a breeze blowing in from Elliott Bay. Del made his way back to the secure parking structure. He looked for Moss’s Buick but didn’t see it. It was too cold to stand outside, not to mention conspicuous. He got inside his Cutlass.

  He waited half an hour, turning the car on and off to maintain the heat inside and debating whether he should say anything. He couldn’t go to the captain, but he could push Moss, let him know he wasn’t an idiot, and he didn’t appreciate being made to look like one.

  Moss’s black LeSabre wound its way up the ramp and circled the lot, parking two aisles over. Del met Moss as he got out of the car with a cup of Starbucks and the newspaper. “Elmo? You just getting in too?”

  “It’s Del.”

  Moss smiled. “Okay. How about this weather, huh? Not often we see this downtown. They say we might have a white Christmas.”

  “Need to talk,” Del said.

  Moss hesitated, then recovered. “Sure. Let’s get in out of the cold.” He moved toward the stairs.

  “I called the DEA,” Del said. Moss turned back, put his free hand in his coat pocket. “They don’t have any record of a file being sent over.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe they haven’t assigned it yet.”

  “That’s what the SAC said. He told me to call back. Except, I’m thinking I could call back next year, and they won’t have a file because a file was never sent over; was it?”

  “You got something on your mind?”

  “The harbormaster.”

  “What about him?”

  “I talked to him.”

  Moss displayed the same smug grin. A you-can’t-touch-me smile. “And?”

  “And, he said he told you about the raid on the Egregious the night before we got the call about those two men. He told you about the men who came to the marina wearing balaclavas and confiscated the boat, a drug runner out of Vancouver, Canada.”

  “Did he?” Moss said.

  “Yeah. He did.” Del struggled to maintain his composure. He wanted to slap that grin from Moss’s face. “What did you do, Moss? Did you go to Rick Tombs and cut a deal? Tell him to cut you in for a piece or you’d blow the whistle?”

  Moss lost the smile. “That’s a pretty steep accusation, Castigliano. You got any evidence to back that up?”

  Del didn’t. “I’m working on it.”

  “Well then, here’s something to consider while you’re working on it. That was your file. You were lead detective.” The grin inched into a smile and Del began to more fully understand what Moss had done. “I gave it to you and told you to run with it. So, if anything didn’t get reported, that would be on you, wouldn’t it?”

  “Slocum told you about the raid. I wasn’t there.”

  “Not according to the incident report I prepared. In my report he told us both. Seems you left it out of the official report sent to the captain. Why would you do that?”

  “Your report makes no mention of the raid.”

  “Really? I got a copy says it does.”

  “You typed up two reports,” Del said.

  “I keep all my reports of every homicide I’ve investigated. A veteran told me it was a smart move when I first got started, just in case. And the incident report I kept clearly states what the harbormaster told both of us. So if the report you turned in to the captain doesn’t mention it, someone must have removed it. That would be the responsibility of the lead detective, wouldn’t it? And I can assure you I made sure the captain knew the lead detective was you, Delmo. I even closed out the file in your name.”

  “You set me up, you son of a bitch.”

  Moss smiled. “Think of it as the education of Elmo. I’m just passing along what a veteran once told me.”

  “Call me that again, Moss, and I’ll take your head off.”

  “Tsk, tsk. You don’t bite the hand that can put you in jail, Del.” He slapped Del in the chest with the newspaper. Del made no effort to take it, and the pages fell to the ground. “Think about that, rookie.”

  A cold breeze swirled as Moss descended the staircase, then the breeze gusted. The newspaper pages fluttered, several separating and lifted by the wind, blowing across the parking lot, catching on car tires. One page became airborne and blew over the side of the building, briefly taking flight, then falling out of sight, leaving Del standing in the cold, alone.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © Douglas Saunders

  Robert Dugoni is the critically acclaimed New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, and Amazon Charts bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite series, which has sold more than seven million books worldwide. He is also the author of the bestselling Charles Jenkins series; the bestselling David Sloane series; the stand-alone novels The 7th Canon, Damage Control, The World Played Chess, and The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell, Suspense Magazine’s 2018 Book of the Year, for which Dugoni won an AudioFile Earphones Award for narration; and the nonfiction exposé The Cyanide Canary, a Washington Post best book of the year. He is the recipient of the Nancy Pearl Book Award for fiction and a three-time winner of the Friends of Mystery Spotted Owl Award for best novel set in the Pacific Northwest. He is a two-time finalist for the Thriller Awards and the Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction, as well as a finalist for the Silver Falchion Award for mystery and the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Awards. His books are sold in more than twenty-five countries and have been translated into more than two dozen languages. Visit his website at www.robertdugonibooks.com.

  Also by Robert Dugoni

  The World Played Chess

  The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell

  The 7th Canon

  Damage Control

  The Charles Jenkins Series

  The Eighth Sister

  The Last Agent

  The Tracy Crosswhite Series

  My Sister’s Grave

 

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