In the Clearing (13 page)

“Could be the reason Berkshire let Angela tell us her story,” Kins said, “So we’d have two competing stories and not be able to prove which one is the truth.”

Tracy pressed her temples, feeling the beginning twinge of a headache. “Berkshire’s a scumbag, but that’s his daughter and his grandson.”

“I know, but if it’s the only way to get his daughter off . . .” Kins said, letting the thought linger.

Cerrabone leaned against the edge of the table. “This was already going to be a difficult case with the domestic violence allegation. Now . . .” He let out a breath and shook his head. “I’m not sure where it leaves us.”

“This is why we should have GSR kits at every homicide,” Kins said, referring to gunshot-residue kits. Detectives could use them to take swabs of a person’s hand to detect primer and gunpowder residue. SPD didn’t use the kits because they weren’t conclusive. They could prove only that a person had been near a discharged weapon, not that he necessarily fired it.

“But we don’t,” Cerrabone said. “And it’s too late now.”

“He’s declined an attorney,” Kins said. “Why not go back in and confront him with the discrepancies in the evidence.”

“If we do and this is a ruse, we’d be educating him and his mother and Berkshire,” Tracy said. “That just gives them time to come up with something to explain the discrepancies. I say we keep that to ourselves for now.”

“Couple other problems,” Cerrabone said. “One, he might technically be an adult, but he looks fourteen. Berkshire, or whoever they get to defend him, will say he was scared and intimidated, and a jury will buy it. Two, unless they both recant and tell the same story, we have reasonable doubt up the wazoo, whoever we charge. Berkshire would, without a doubt, refuse to waive a speedy trial, and we could lose any chance of ever convicting either of them. I’m going to talk this over with Dunleavy,” he said, referring to the King County prosecutor, Kevin Dunleavy. “I’m going to recommend that we let them both go for now. Meanwhile, we’ll continue to work this and see if something shakes free. It always does.”

“Yeah, but in the interim, this isn’t going to play well in the media, especially if the brother raises hell,” Kins said.

“So talk to him,” Cerrabone said. “Explain the situation. Tell him we’re not giving up, but we need time to work the evidence.”

Tracy and Kins looked through the one-way glass. Connor Collins sat with his legs extended, head tilted back. Their would-be grounder had not just taken a bad hop; it had become a fly ball into the sun, against a bright-blue sky, and neither Tracy nor Kins were wearing sunglasses.

CHAPTER 11

T
he following morning, Tracy and Kins called Cerrabone, who’d spent a late night talking with Dunleavy. He had agreed with Cerrabone’s assessment not to charge either Angela or Connor Collins, but to wait until they’d developed more evidence.

“And nothing yet from Berkshire?” Kins asked, still puzzled by Berkshire’s silence.

“Not a word,” Cerrabone said.

They all had expected the Berkshire they knew to be raising holy hell that they’d taken a statement from Connor without an attorney present. “Could be further evidence he’s orchestrating all of this,” Kins said.

“You get a hold of Mark Collins?” Cerrabone asked.

“Faz and I are heading out that way now,” Kins said.

With a seeming stall in the Collins case and Kins and Faz working the evidence, Tracy turned her attention to Kimi Kanasket. She ran the names Earl and Élan Kanasket through Accurint, a database that provided access to public records, which meant it provided last known addresses. Going back forty years, Tracy suspected she was testing the limits of the system, but she was relieved to find a matching address in Yakima for both men. A quick Google search confirmed the address was on the Yakama Reservation. On a hunch, she also ran Tommy Moore’s name through the same database and determined that Moore also lived on the reservation.

Next, she ran all three men through a Triple I criminal background check. Moore had been arrested in 1978, 1979, and 1981, each time for drunk and disorderly conduct. On one of those occasions, he’d also been charged with assault and battery. In 1981 he’d been charged with breaking and entering, and in 1982 he’d spent time in jail for possession of a controlled substance. After that, his record was clear. The lack of any further arrests was ordinarily a strong indication the criminal had died, but the recent utility records said otherwise. Tracy wondered if Moore was one of the lucky few who had managed to somehow turn his life around.

Neither Élan nor Earl Kanasket had criminal records.

Tracy also ran the men’s names through the Department of Licensing database and obtained current and available prior driver’s licenses. DOL’s policy was to purge older license photos, but Tracy had found she could often go back three to four license cycles—ten to twelve years. She needed the current photos for herself. She would need the older photos if she tried to refresh someone’s recollection about any of the three men. It helped to have a photo as close in appearance to the time of the event being discussed, like Kimi Kanasket’s senior photo. That thought made her scribble a note to also go to the Stoneridge Library to browse through high school yearbooks and old newspapers from that period to get a pulse of the school Kimi attended and of Stoneridge during that time.

When she’d finished, Tracy called Jenny and told her she would be coming back to Stoneridge.

“Your captain approved you working the case?”

Jenny knew of Tracy’s relationship with Nolasco, since she’d been at the Academy when Tracy kneed him in the groin and broke his nose after he’d groped them both during an arrest scenario. “Not exactly. I’m using some personal time.”

“I hate to see you do that,” Jenny said. “I could make some calls.”

“Don’t worry about it. I lose the time if I don’t use it by the end of the year.” She told Jenny what she intended to do and said she’d call her when she’d checked into a hotel.

“No sense doing that,” Jenny said, “especially if you’re the one footing the bill. You can stay at my mom’s. We sent her off on the cruise today with her sister. You’d have the whole house to yourself.”

Tracy thought about the beautiful home on the expansive lawn. “You sure it’s no trouble?”

“Absolutely. My mother will be thrilled to know someone is staying there. By the way, you were on my list of people to call today. Turns out the forty-year reunion for the class of 1977 is in a few weeks, and they’re planning all kinds of events. I’m anticipating there will be a lot of people coming back to town who remember those days.”

“Good to know.”

“I can help line up interviews if you like.”

“Thanks, but I’m not there yet. And I like to surprise people.”

Tracy arrived at the Almond farmhouse just before sunset. She parked behind Jenny’s black-and-white SUV with the bar of lights across the roof and the six-point gold star emblazoned on the doors. When she stepped from her truck cab, Tracy noticed a drastic change in the temperature from when she’d left her home in West Seattle. Her truck didn’t have a temperature gauge, but she guessed from the goose bumps on her arms and the shivers running down her spine that the temperature had dropped close to freezing.

The twilight sky, a deepening blue, made it look as if an artist had brushed uneven strokes of magenta along the contours of the rolling hills surrounding the property. Shadows crept across the lawn and draped the fruit trees in gray light. Tracy turned at the sound of the front door opening, with Jenny momentarily obscured behind the screen. She pushed it open and stepped out, hesitated, and reached back inside. Lights illuminated the porch, stairs, and yard.

“I was just appreciating how peaceful it is out here,” Tracy said as Jenny descended the porch steps.

“A lot quieter when you don’t have seven kids running around the lawn,” Jenny said. “But that’s how I remember growing up. Utter chaos, kids running all over the yard screaming. We had a lot of fun when Dad moved us here.”

“Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“I talked to Mom today. She said to tell you to make yourself at home.” Jenny shivered and rubbed her arms. “Come on. I’ll show you around and get you set up.”

Tracy retrieved her suitcase from the cab and followed Jenny inside.

Jenny picked up several newspapers from an entry table beneath an ornate mirror. “Here are some articles about the reunion weekend.”

Tracy flipped open the
Goldendale
Enterprise
and found an article on the fortieth-anniversary celebration of the Stoneridge High School state football championship to be held in conjunction with the class of 1977 reunion. A boxed sidebar listed the weekend festivities, including a charity golf tournament and a Saturday morning parade through downtown to honor the members of the football team. The dedication of the school athletic complex to Stoneridge’s legendary coach, Ron Reynolds, would take place that night at halftime of the homecoming game against rival Columbia Central.

“I’ll show you the rest of the house,” Jenny said.

The kitchen had marble countertops and state-of-the-art appliances. Jenny pulled open the refrigerator, which looked a lot like Tracy’s, mostly condiments. “Eat whatever you want, but check the expiration dates. Mom never adjusted to Dad’s loss of appetite. We’ve thrown out a lot of perishables and cartons of milk the last six months. I also recalled your not-so-healthy eating habits and took the liberty of bringing over a couple Tupperware containers of leftovers. Nothing fancy. Lasagna and some chicken.”

Jenny led Tracy upstairs to the last room at the end of the hall and flipped on the light, revealing a canopy bed, a large dresser, an antique white vanity, and a love seat angled to see out the window. Tracy set her suitcase at the foot of the bed and joined Jenny at the window.

“Beautiful,” she said. The window looked out over the property to the rolling hills. The brush strokes of magenta had merged to a single thin line on the horizon as twilight faded and night encroached. “It reminds me of the view out my bedroom window when I was a kid.”

“This was my room,” Jenny said. “Maria and Sophia shared the other room. It was a bit of a sore spot that I got my own room, but only when they wanted to use it as leverage to bargain with my parents. They were closer in age and liked sharing a room.”

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

They went back downstairs, to the dining room. “Where will you start?” Jenny asked.

“Earl Kanasket,” she said. “I owe him the courtesy.”

“You found him?”

“Hopefully. Last known address is on the reservation,” Tracy said. “Appears to live with the son, Élan. Records also indicate Tommy Moore lives out there. If so, I’ll pay him a visit as well.”

“Give yourself a couple hours to get there,” Jenny said. “And let me know if you need anything. I can give you a tour of the town and introduce you to the Stoneridge chief of police.” Some small towns contracted with the local sheriff’s office, but some, like Stoneridge, also kept their own force. “I gave him a courtesy call and let him know you’d be in town. He has no jurisdiction, since Kimi died outside the city limits, but he tends to get his panties in a bunch easily.”

Tracy laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jenny looked to the grandfather clock in the front hall. “Speaking of panties in a bunch, I better get home and feed the kids. You need anything, you have my cell.” She handed Tracy a set of keys, and Tracy followed her outside. The shadows had reached the porch steps, and it felt as if the temperature had fallen a few more degrees.

Jenny got into her car and lowered the passenger-side window. “Call if you need anything,” she said.

Tracy watched the SUV navigate the perimeter of the property, then turn north. As the sound of the car engine faded, Tracy was again struck by the utter quiet. She imagined the sounds of a family sitting down at the table to eat, or to watch
The Wonderful World of Disney
after taking Sunday evening baths, which had been her and Sarah’s routine. The thought triggered a memory of her family’s unexpected trip to Disneyland, Sarah squealing on the Pirates of the Caribbean, covering her eyes in the Haunted Mansion, and the smile that didn’t leave her father’s face for three days. Their final night, as they watched the parade on Main Street, Tracy had asked him, “Can we come back, Daddy?”