“What about the Toyota Enderby was driving? I had a friend run the plates. It’s not in Enderby’s name.”
Durant sighed. “We know, Mr. Ash. It’s registered to a gentleman named Gerald Latimer, who lived in Spokane. He passed away a number of years ago. Apparently the registration was never updated.”
“So who paid to keep it current?”
“We assume Enderby. The registration address is a storefront in Tacoma. Detective Kitzinger asked Tacoma PD to take a look. It’s vacant, and has been for a long time. It’s a dead end.”
“If that’s the case, then what does that tell you about Enderby?”
“That he was a slippery bastard who took every possible precaution in order not to get caught.”
“So he’s been planning this murder for years, is that what you think?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Ash. Maybe he borrowed the truck. Maybe he stole it yesterday and it hasn’t been reported yet. When you’ve been doing this job as long as I have, you learn that not everything points to a tidy conclusion. As I said, Detectives Kitzinger and O’Donnell are still checking into loose ends. You, on the other hand, are done digging. Let it go or I’ll add charges of obstruction to the list. And don’t bother the detectives, either. They have jobs to do. They won’t take your calls. Plus soon there will be a warrant for your arrest. So if you want to bother somebody, call me.”
Peter heard a voice in the background, something about a meeting.
Durant sighed. “I have to go. Crime never sleeps. But I hope I’ve made myself clear, Mr. Ash. Bring that girl to Child ProtectiveServices downtown before she’s further traumatized by watching you get proned on the sidewalk, handcuffed, and thrown into the back of a cruiser.”
Peter had been about to offer to put the social worker in touch with Carlotta Martinez, but now he had even less faith in the cops than before. “I hear you, Durant. Loud and clear.”
Then he turned off his phone and, as he crossed the Fifteenth Avenue bridge, tossed it out the passenger window, over the railing, and into the ship canal below.
18
Peter followed Manny down McGraw and parked across the street from KT’s little house. Peter locked the Tahoe and walked up to the big Semper Fi pickup as Ellie got out on the passenger side.
Manny rolled down his window. “I’ll keep an eye out here, just in case.”
Peter and Ellie waited for a break in traffic, then jogged across the road, the .357 bouncing slightly in his waistband. As they went up the front walk, she said, “I want my phone back.”
She was a teenage girl, of course she wanted her phone. “Here’s the thing,” Peter said. “If you go with the social worker, I’ll give you the phone back. But otherwise, I have to keep it wrapped in tinfoil. The police can track the signal. They’ll know where you are and come get you.”
“You’re kidding,” she said. “They can do that?”
“They can. So it’s up to you, whatever you want to do.”
She sighed and glanced back at Manny and Carlotta for a moment. “My mom always said it wasn’t good for me to spend so much time on my phone. That I needed to learn how to turn it off.” She swiped a forearm across her eyes. “I mean, I knew she was right. You spend four hours on TikTok and you feel like shit. But I never thought this was why I’d give it up.”
He put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. Then they climbed the porch steps and Ellie unlocked the front door.
It was a modest 1920s bungalow, with two small bedrooms tucked under the eaves and another on the main floor set up as an office. Even from the front hall, Peter could tell that the police had been through the place. The sofa cushions were askew, books replaced sloppily on the living room shelves. But the searchers seemed to have made an effort to keep things relatively neat, which hopefully made seeing it easier on Ellie.
She stood uneasily with one foot on the stairs, keys in her hand, looking around at the only home she’d ever known. “I’m not coming back here, am I? Not to live, I mean.”
Peter didn’t answer. He knew it wasn’t really a question.
She went upstairs to pack. He went to the kitchen, planning to go through the fridge and put perishables into the garbage for pickup. He noticed the Nespresso coffee maker was pulled out from the back of the counter, as if KT had just filled the water reservoir. He put his hand on it to push it back into place and realized it was warm.
He opened the top and pulled out the spent coffee pod.
That was warm, too.
The cops wouldn’t use a coffee maker at a crime scene. Plus they’d likely cleared out hours ago.
The coffee maker should not be warm.
Peter pulled the .357 from his waistband and moved toward the front hall. “Ellie? You doing okay up there?”
