Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5) Read online

  PRAISE FOR ROBERT DUGONI’S TRACY CROSSWHITE SERIES

  PRAISE FOR The Trapped Girl

  “In Dugoni’s outstanding fourth Tracy Crosswhite mystery, the Seattle homicide detective investigates the death of Andrea Strickland, a young woman whose body a fisherman finds in a crab pot raised from the sea . . . In less deft hands this tale wouldn’t hold water, but Dugoni presents his victim’s life in discrete pieces, each revealing a bit more about Andrea and her struggle to find happiness. Tracy’s quest to uncover the truth leads her into life-altering peril in this exceptional installment.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Dugoni drills so deep into the troubled relationships among his characters that each new revelation shows them in a disturbing new light . . . An unholy tangle of crimes makes this his best book to date.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Dugoni has a gift for creating compelling characters and mysteries that seem straightforward, but his stories, like an onion, have many hidden layers. He also is able to capture the spirit and atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest, making the environment come alive . . . Another winner from Dugoni.”

  —Associated Press

  “All of Robert Dugoni’s talents are once again firmly on display in The Trapped Girl, a blisteringly effective crime thriller . . . structured along classical lines drawn years ago by the likes of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. A fiendishly clever tale that colors its pages with crisp shades of postmodern noir.”

  —Providence Journal

  “Robert Dugoni, yet again, delivers an excellent read . . . With many twists, turns, and jumps in the road traveled by the detective and her cohorts, this absolutely superb plot becomes more than just a little entertaining. The problem remains the same: Readers must now once again wait impatiently for the next book by Robert Dugoni to arrive.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  PRAISE FOR In the Clearing

  “Tracy displays ingenuity and bravery as she strives to figure out who killed Kimi.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Dugoni’s third ‘Tracy Crosswhite’ novel (after Her Final Breath) continues his series’s standard of excellence with superb plotting and skillful balancing of the two story lines.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  “Dugoni has become one of the best crime novelists in the business, and his latest featuring Seattle homicide detective Tracy Crosswhite will only draw more accolades.”

  —Romantic Times, Top Pick

  “Robert Dugoni tops himself in the darkly brilliant and mesmerizing In the Clearing, an ironically apt title for a tale in which nothing at all is clear.”

  —Providence Journal

  PRAISE FOR Her Final Breath

  “A stunningly suspenseful exercise in terror that hits every note at the perfect pitch.”

  —Providence Journal

  “Absorbing . . . Dugoni expertly ratchets up the suspense as Crosswhite becomes a target herself.”

  —Seattle Times

  “Dugoni does a masterful job with this entertaining novel, as he has done in all his prior works. If you are not already reading his books, you should be!”

  —Bookreporter

  “Takes the stock items and reinvents them with crafty plotting and high energy . . . The revelations come in a wild finale.”

  —Booklist

  “Another stellar story featuring homicide detective Tracy Crosswhite . . . Crosswhite is a sympathetic, well-drawn protagonist, and her next adventure can’t come fast enough.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  PRAISE FOR My Sister’s Grave

  “One of the best books I’ll read this year.”

  —Lisa Gardner, bestselling author of Touch & Go

  “Dugoni does a superior job of positioning [the plot elements] for maximum impact, especially in a climactic scene set in an abandoned mine during a blizzard.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Yes, a conspiracy is revealed, but it’s an unexpected one, as moving as it is startling . . . The ending is violent, suspenseful, even touching. A nice surprise for thriller fans.”

  —Booklist

  “Combines the best of a police procedural with a legal thriller, and the end result is outstanding . . . Dugoni continues to deliver emotional and gut-wrenching, character-driven suspense stories that will resonate with any fan of the thriller genre.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  “Well written, and its classic premise is sure to absorb legal-thriller fans . . . The characters are richly detailed and true to life, and the ending is sure to please fans.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “My Sister’s Grave is a chilling portrait shaded in neo-noir, as if someone had taken a knife to a Norman Rockwell painting by casting small-town America as the place where bad guys blend into the landscape, establishing Dugoni as a force to be reckoned with outside the courtroom as well as in.”

  —Providence Journal

  “What starts out as a sturdy police procedural morphs into a gripping legal thriller . . . Dugoni is a superb storyteller, and his courtroom drama shines . . . This ‘Grave’ is one to get lost in.”

  —Boston Globe

  ALSO BY ROBERT DUGONI

  The 7th Canon

  Damage Control

  The Tracy Crosswhite Series

  My Sister’s Grave

  Her Final Breath

  In the Clearing

  The Trapped Girl

  The Academy (a short story)

  Third Watch (a short story)

  The David Sloane Series

  The Jury Master

  Wrongful Death

  Bodily Harm

  Murder One

  The Conviction

  Nonfiction with Joseph Hilldorfer

  The Cyanide Canary

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Robert Dugoni

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542045018

  ISBN-10: 1542045010

  Cover design by David Drummond

  Cover photography by Chrissy Wiley

  To Meg Ruley, Rebecca Scherer, and the team at Jane Rotrosen Agency—the best literary agents in the business. Words cannot express how much I appreciate your guidance and support over these years. I was blessed to walk in the front door of your brownstone and you have made me a part of the JRA extended family. Can I get an “oorah”!

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

 
CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  D’Andre Miller pushed open the glass doors of the Rainier Beach Community Center and stepped out into the frigid night. The temperature had dropped considerably, a sharp contrast to the humid, sweat-soaked air inside the basketball gym. His breath burned in his throat, and goose bumps tickled his arms beneath his hooded sweatshirt as he shuffled his rubber sandals down the concrete steps. His basketball shoes, laces tied together, dangled over his right shoulder, his leather basketball tucked securely into the crook of his arm. His prized possessions would never touch anything but the hard court.

  “Hey, Baby D!”

  D’Andre turned, though still shuffling backward on the concrete patio, no time to lose. Terry O’Neil had pushed open the glass doors of the community center. “Sweet J, Baby. Sweet J,” he yelled.

  D’Andre smiled at the praise and thought again of his crossover and three-point jump shot to win the final pickup game.

  “You were balling tonight, Baby D,” Terry said. Terry opened the rec center’s gym three nights a week and supervised the basketball games.

  “Thanks, Terry,” D’Andre said. He had been balling. Threes and floaters like Steph, drives to the bucket like KD. He’d drained them all, and he’d been playing against guys at least three years older. Just twelve, D’Andre had been the youngest player that the older boys at the center let play, though tonight it had been because they were short players. In the future, they wouldn’t even question his age. Not if they wanted to win.

  “You coming back tomorrow night?” Terry shouted, now standing on the top step, his breath like cigarette smoke in the tinted yellow light.

  “Can’t,” D’Andre yelled, still shuffling backward. “I got a math test Thursday and I have to study.”

  “All right then. You get right with school. But then you come back. Anytime, Baby D. You proved yourself tonight.”

  D’Andre liked the sound of that. The best played at the center, and D’Andre had plans to be better than all of them. He’d hung around the gym since he was nine, mimicking their moves—crossovers, Euro-Steps, hesitations—the best each had to offer. And he had showed game tonight . . . though maybe for one game too many. He’d have to bust his butt to get home by his curfew. He should have begged out of the last game, but how could he? He’d finally gotten his chance; he didn’t want to tell them his mama would whip his butt if he was late getting home.

  Though she would.

  Mama had said to be home by nine. She’d also said D’Andre best have his homework done when he walked in the door. No homework . . . No basketball. A C on his report card . . . No basketball. Forget to do his chores, talk back, get home late . . . No basketball. Mama wasn’t playing either. That’s what she told him. “I ain’t playing and neither will you.” Mama didn’t have time for nonsense, not while trying to raise three sons on her own. D’Andre did things Mama’s way.

  End of story.

  The oldest child, he understood Mama had it tough. She worked all day and didn’t get home until after six. Grandma made dinner while Mama checked homework. By the time Mama got to bed, D’Andre knew she was beat. “I don’t want this for you,” she told him one night as they sat at the kitchen table going over his math. “You do right in school, get your degree. Become a doctor or a lawyer.”

  School came first. She’d already grounded D’Andre once for getting home late, and she wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. “I’m not raising a fool. You got a one-in-a-million chance to play professional basketball, but you can do anything if you study and work hard in school.”

  He wasn’t like some of the fools at his school, bringing home Cs and Ds. D’Andre had straight As, except for math. He needed to ace his test this Thursday. Not that he’d get anything for it. Mama didn’t promise anything for straight As. “Why would I reward you for doing what you’re supposed to be doing?” she’d said.

  D’Andre cradled the basketball and checked his cell phone. He had ten minutes to get home. He could make it, but only if he moved his butt. He slid on his Beats headphones, listening to Lil Wayne—whose music Mama forbade in the house. She called Lil Wayne a “tatted up felon fool”—which D’Andre actually found funny. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his headphones and started jogging, each breath marking the air in a white burst. It felt cold enough to snow, though he’d never seen snow in Seattle. People said it snowed a lot in 2008, but he’d been too young to remember. He glanced up at the sky, not really sure what he was expecting to see. The clouds looked like cotton balls against an ink-black sky, the edges tinted silver from the light of a full moon.

  D’Andre hurried down Rainier Avenue with the lyrics of “Tha Block Is Hot” busting in his ears. In his mind, he juked a would-be defender and changed direction, heading west on Henderson. That was D’Andre’s best skill, changing direction without losing speed. He learned that from Terrell, and Terrell was going to the UW, at least for a year, before he turned pro. D’Andre wouldn’t be going pro after just one year in college. He’d get his degree. “Don’t give me that nonsense about going pro,” Mama would say. “You tear up your knee, then what are you going to do?”

  D’Andre booked it on Henderson, picking up his pace to Lil Wayne’s lyrics. He’d cross Renton Avenue, cut over the Chief Sealth Trail, hop the back fence, and push through the kitchen door with minutes to spare. Mama would give him that look, just to let him know she had him on the clock. Then she’d heat up a plate of spaghetti and sit down, and they’d talk while he ate. He liked those moments, when his brothers were in bed, and it was just him and Mama at the table.

  “Someday I’m going to buy you a big house,” he’d tell her. “Big enough that you’ll need one of those scooters to get around.”

  “Why would I need a house like that? It’s hard enough to keep this one clean.”

  “I’m going to get you a maid too.”

  She’d smile. “You buy yourself a big house.”

  “Then you and Grandma can come live with me.”

  “Your wife might have something to say about that.”

  “Who’s she?” he’d say, and break out in a smile.

  Mama would pour him another glass of milk and kiss him atop his head. “Eat your spaghetti and get to bed. The best growing hours are before midnight.”

  D’Andre thought again about that final crossover and jump shot. Marvin had been talking smack all night, trying to get under D’Andre’s skin, trying to make him lose his cool. It was just smack and it didn’t bother D’Andre none. Mama once told him, “You lose your cool on a basketball court and I’ll walk down from the stands and pull you from the game right then and there.”

  D’Andre hurried to the corner and crossed 46th Avenue South, getting close to home. It had been so sweet, his crossover. D’Andre busted the ball up court, dribbling low with his left hand, then gave a burst of speed to get Marvin on his right hip. Nearing the three-point line, he dipped his shoulder, like he intended to drive to the basket. Marvin bit and also dropped low. When he did, D’Andre planted his left foot hard. Marvin couldn’t stop. He kept going, right on by, already stumbling when D’Andre cr
ossed the ball from his left to his right hand.

  D’Andre leapt from the curb at Renton Avenue South, his orange basketball floating from his fingertips and arcing upward toward the imagined basket. In his mind he watched the ball slip through the rim, compressing that white net in a sweet ripple.

  A dark blur in D’Andre’s peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned his head. Too late. The basketball exploded from his hands, seeming to momentarily hang in the air, suspended above the car’s hood. It hit the windshield hard and shot forward. Striking pavement, it bounced high at first, then a little less with each bounce, over and over, until it rolled into the gutter, ricocheted gently against the curb, and came to its final rest.

  Not moving.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tracy Crosswhite had read in some magazine somewhere that the Smith Tower in Seattle’s Pioneer Square had once been the tallest building west of the Mississippi. Now, the building wasn’t even in Seattle’s top thirty, and its significance was largely historic. The city was rapidly changing, and not necessarily for the better.

  Seattle was headed for a record year for homicides.

  On average, Tracy and the fifteen other detectives in the Seattle Police Department’s Violent Crimes Section investigated thirty homicides a year, but like the height of the downtown buildings, that number had been steadily increasing—another downside to being one of the fastest growing cities in America. It meant more work for them all, work they’d all just as soon do without.

  Tracy removed her corduroy jacket and hung it with Kinsington Rowe’s leather coat on a hook at Shawn O’Donnell’s American Grill and Irish Pub. Kins started to sit, but grimaced and abruptly stopped.

  “Your hip hurting again?” Tracy asked.

  “It’s been catching,” Kins said. “It’s worse in the cold weather.” He rotated the hip and it freed with a small pop. Tracy cringed. A football injury had become degenerative.

  “When’s the surgery?”

  “Don’t remind me.” He sat across from her.

  “You’re worried about it?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m worried about it. I told you the story about the woman who stroked out in the middle of the same surgery, didn’t I?”