In the Clearing (21 page)

“The home wasn’t being sold?” Tracy asked, remembering that the night she’d arrived she’d gotten that distinct impression from the condition of the yard and the interior.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Holt said. “That would have gone directly against Tim’s wishes and the interim agreement we’d reached pending final resolution.”

“What agreement?”

“Angela had to get Tim’s consent to sell, and anything obtained over the appraised value at the time of separation would be split at the time of sale.”

“You have a copy of that agreement?”

“I do, and I can get a copy to you.”

Tracy nodded to Kins to let him know she was through. He said, “We understand that Mr. Collins was also redoing his will.”

Holt slid documents across the table. “My partner was creating a trust for Connor. It isn’t uncommon in a divorce. Tim was also changing his personal representative from Angela to his brother, Mark, and appointing Mark as the trustee of his estate.”

“Practically, that means that if anything happened to Tim, his estate would go to Connor, with the brother keeping a watch on it, not Angela,” Kins said.

“Correct.”

“Angela wouldn’t have any right to any portion of that trust or control over how the assets were distributed?”

“None. The brother would serve as a trustee until Connor reached the age of thirty-one, or he deemed the trust was no longer necessary.”

“Thirty-one?” Kins said. “That seems really old.”

“Tim didn’t want Angela to have any ability to get at the money, if anything were to happen to him. Connor isn’t the strongest personality. Tim wanted his brother to remain involved to ensure the money went to Connor—for his school, a down payment on a house, whatever. Tim wanted restrictions. By thirty-one, most of the estate would have been distributed.”

“But that new will and trust were never finalized?” Kins asked.

“No. Tim was coming in that Friday to sign everything and have it witnessed.”

“The day after he got shot?”

Holt nodded. “Yes.”

“So what happens now?”

Holt shrugged. “Everything goes to Angela as the surviving spouse, and she remains the personal representative.”

“Even though they were separated?”

“Even though they were separated.”

“And it is against Tim Collins’s express wishes.”

“His express wishes don’t matter without a signed and witnessed new will.”

Kins was quiet on the drive back to the Justice Center, appearing to be deep in thought.

“We should call local real estate agents,” Tracy said. “To find out if Angela spoke to any of them and when. When are we supposed to get her cell phone and computer files?”

“Cerrabone said Berkshire promised them any day now.” Kins looked at her. “You think that’s where the forty-five thousand dollars went?”

“Sure looked like the property was being fixed up to sell,” Tracy said.

“She was depleting the estate to fix up her asset.”

“One way to get more money out of him, and if she turned around and sold that asset, she’d get the full benefit.”

“Except that would have been in violation of the agreement they’d reached,” Kins said.

“Not if Tim was dead,” Tracy said.

CHAPTER 18

K
ins left the office right away after their meeting with Tim Collins’s divorce attorney. Tracy planned to stay a little later, playing catch-up after being away two days. When her cell phone rang, she smiled at the caller ID.

“I was hoping it would be you,” she said.

“We finished early,” Dan said. “It was a miracle on par with Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. I’m on an earlier flight.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. When do you get in?”

“If there aren’t any delays, I should arrive right around nine.”

“And will you be spending the night?” she asked, teasing. West Seattle was only about twenty minutes from the airport. They’d already discussed Dan spending the night before he drove to Cedar Grove to care for his two dogs, Rex and Sherlock. Knowing he’d be exhausted after a long and trying week, Tracy wanted to surprise him by cooking him a late dinner.

“Do you give a discount for Triple A members?” Dan asked.

“No, but we do for AARP members.”

“Ouch.”

“I think we can negotiate something.”

“Then I’ll see you when I see you.”

Tracy hung up and grabbed her coat, in a hurry to go shopping, when her desk phone rang. She contemplated not answering but saw it was her private line.

“I’m thirsty,” Kelly Rosa said, “And it’s been a hell of a week. My husband has the girls at a soccer practice and is taking them out to dinner, so I have a couple hours’ reprieve. Buy me a beer, and I’ll spill my guts about Kimi Kanasket.”

Rosa chose a Capitol Hill bar called the Elysian. Tracy found her at a table in the back by interior floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed patrons to see the brewery’s large metal beer tanks. Tracy never could quite reconcile Rosa’s physical appearance with what she did for a living. Only five feet tall and dressed in comfortable clothes, Rosa looked more like a PTA parent or a soccer mom than someone who spent her workdays trudging up mountains and navigating forests and swamps to recover and examine the remains of bodies often in advanced and horrific stages of decay. Rosa had once explained to Tracy that she thought of her job as a forensic anthropologist for the King County Medical Examiner’s Office to be as much historian as scientist. She said she looked at each new case as a puzzle that required her to journey back in time, and it was her job to solve the puzzle.

Rosa sipped a beer with one hand while texting with the other. With two teenage daughters, she had to be a model of efficiency.

“Those things will be the death of society,” Tracy said, reaching the table and pointing to Rosa’s phone.

Rosa stood, phone still in hand, and gave Tracy a hug.

“How’re you doing?” Tracy asked.

“Still living the dream. Hang on. I’m actually texting my husband to confirm he’s taking the girls out to dinner after their soccer practice.”

“I’m sorry you’re missing out,” Tracy said.

Rosa scoffed. “Ha. If I wasn’t here having a beer, I’d be standing in the cold and rain watching a ball get kicked all over the field. You’ve saved me from a nasty cold.” Rosa hit “Send” and set the phone down. “Okay. The ringer is off and so am I. How are you?”

“Can’t complain.” The legs of Tracy’s chair scraped the terrazzo tile floor as she sat.

“It’s been a while,” Rosa said. “That’s a good thing.”

Tracy took a moment to look around and smell the rich aroma of hops. “Interesting place. I like it.”

“Paul and I used to come here after I got off work,” she said. “BK.”

“BK?”

“Before kids—though my kids still think the two of us have never been to a bar in our lives. I told my oldest about a Rolling Stones concert we went to in college, and I don’t know what shocked me more—that she didn’t know who the Rolling Stones were or that she refused to believe we ever went to a concert. Wait until the day I tell them I once died my hair purple.”

A waitress approached. “What are you drinking?” Tracy asked.

“The Immortal.”

“It’s an IPA,” the waitress said, handing Tracy a menu with beers named Loser Pale Ale, Men’s Room Red, and the Wise. “I could use a little wisdom,” Tracy said, “but who can pass up immortality?”

Rosa sipped her beer. “I see way too much mortality at work.”

If the demands of Rosa’s job ever wore her down, she didn’t show it. At least Tracy had never seen it. Rosa packed a lot of positive energy into her small frame.

“How’s that boyfriend of yours?” Rosa asked.

“Good,” Tracy said. “But right now neither of us seems to be able to get out from under work.”

“Screw that.” Rosa slapped the table loud enough to draw the attention of a woman seated at the next table. “The work will always be here. People are always going to die. Take him someplace exotic, where you don’t have to worry about anything except what cocktail to drink and how many times a day you can have sex.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tracy said. “Help me solve this one and I might find that time.”

“I think I can help with that,” Rosa said, “but I’m waiting for someone.” She glanced over Tracy’s shoulder to the door.

Tracy noticed a third chair at the table and recalled Rosa mentioning she might ask for help. “So who is he?”

“Trust me. He’s worth the wait.” She glanced again to the door. “And there he is.” Rosa stood and waved at a ruggedly handsome man scanning the crowd. When he saw Rosa, he returned her wave and flashed a mouthful of white teeth.

Rosa spoke under her breath. “Is it sexual harassment if I just
think
about grabbing his butt?” She stuck out her hand and gave the man a one-armed hug, then made the introductions. “Tracy, meet Peter Gabriel.”

Tan, lean-muscled, and dressed in a pair of loose-fitting khakis, an open-collared shirt, and a lightweight raincoat, Gabriel looked like he’d just walked off the pages of a J.Crew catalog. His curly brown hair fell nearly to his shoulders. Tracy was guessing he was a rock climber or an extreme skier—definitely something outdoorsy.

“Peter Gabriel, like the singer?” she asked.

“Spelled the same,” he said, offering a firm handshake. His other hand held a single manila file. “Good taste in music.”

He set the file on the table, took off his raincoat, and pulled out a chair.

“About a year back, Peter and I worked another river-drowning case together,” Rosa said. She paused to let the wailing sound of a siren pass before continuing. “I thought he might be of help with this one.”

“Okay,” Tracy said, turning to face him. “What do you do, Peter?”

Gabriel was unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He wore two colorful woven rope bracelets on his left wrist. A hefty sport watch adorned his right. “I work as a consultant for REI, but my passion has always been white-water river rafting and canoeing.”

The waitress returned with Tracy’s beer and offered Gabriel a bright smile. Gabriel surveyed the beer menu for a moment, then said, “Okay, I cannot pass up the opportunity to try a beer called ‘Loser Pale Ale.’”

Tracy liked him already.

“Peter has guided white-water excursions on just about every major river in the state,” Rosa said. “Everything from Class Two to Class Five rapids. Did I get that right?”

“You did,” Gabriel said before turning to Tracy. “My dad owned a white-water rafting company on the Rogue River in Oregon. It was a family business. My brothers and sisters and I could navigate a river about the same time we could walk. I guided my first white-water trip when I was twelve.”

“About a year ago, I needed some help with a body pulled from the Skykomish,” Rosa said, referring to a river about an hour northeast of Seattle. “We were trying to determine whether or not the injuries were inflicted by the river. Peter was recommended to me.”

“I appreciate the help,” Tracy said.

Rosa flipped open her manila folder, and Gabriel mimicked her, opening his. “Let’s start with the coroner’s finding that the deceased was alive when she entered the water,” Rosa said. “First, drowning is one of the most difficult causes of death to get a handle on, because there is no true definitive sign of drowning. A drowning person actually dies from a lack of oxygen. Having said that, I concur with the pathologist who prepared this report that the person was likely alive when she hit the water.”

“You do?” Tracy asked, surprised and disappointed by the conclusion.

“Based on what’s in the coroner’s report, yes. The coroner found water in her air passages, including the lungs and stomach. Now, a person can get water in both locations passively if there is a strong current, but in this instance I believe the intake of water is consistent with a person still breathing upon impact.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to let Peter answer that.”

“The White Salmon in November runs just around forty-two degrees,” Gabriel offered. “A person hitting water that cold, if alive, will have a gasp reflex. I know. I’ve done it. If the victim wasn’t wearing a life jacket or wet suit, she’d go under and take that gasp, ingesting a large volume of water.”