Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

erotic dancer in a motel room became a lightning rod for activists to push an agenda asserting that the SPD was insensitive to women. The timing could not have been worse. The SPD was already reeling from a Department of Justice investigation that concluded Seattle police officers employed excessive force, and a subsequent federal court decision that found that the department was dragging its feet implementing reforms. The brass wasn’t exactly in the mood to have groups of women screaming to the news media.
    Tracy considered the worn gray carpet and contemplated the amount of hair, blood, semen, and God-knew-what-else CSI would vacuum up. She didn’t envy them. “Forensics is going to be a bitch,” she said.
    “Maybe this is what they mean by fifty shades of gray.”
    She gave Kins an eye roll and looked again at the dancer. Tracy wanted to cut the rope, but Stuart Funk, the King County medical examiner, had jurisdiction over the body. She and Kins couldn’t touch it. Funk would transport Schreiber back to the ME’s office downtown, still naked, bound, and contorted.
    A final indignity.

CHAPTER 7
    A computer check through the Office of the Secretary of State revealed that a limited liability company, Pink Palace LLC, operated three strip clubs of the same name in Seattle. The president was one Darrell Nash, whose address was a pricey Victorian in the pricey Queen Anne neighborhood.
    “Who says sleaze doesn’t pay,” Kins said, climbing an impressive flight of stone steps.
    They’d done a drive-by of the Pink Palace club located just off Aurora a couple of miles from the Aurora Motor Inn. Tracy wanted to get a feel for the magnitude of the operation. As with most things in life, not all strip clubs were created equal, or catered to the same clientele. The Pink Palace looked like one of the more high-end clubs, resembling a modern Cineplex with a glowing neon marquee. A Jumbotron television alternately flashed images of scantily clad, writhing women, and advertised special attractions and discounts. The posted hours revealed the club had closed at two and wouldn’t reopen until eleven.
    Tracy knocked hard on the front door of Nash’s house, sending dogs inside into a barking frenzy. The shirtless man who answered had a serious scowl and some even more serious bedhead. He wore baggy pajama pants. A silver ring pierced his left nipple on an impressive chest above a washboard stomach. A purple-and-gold tiger adorned his right pectoral muscle. He looked like a frat boy roused after a night of partying.
    “Do you know what time it is?” he asked.
    Already tired and not in the mood for crap, Tracy flashed her shield and ID. “Yes, we do. And I’m guessing it’s a lot earlier for us than you.” She noticed a woman standing in the entryway. Two young girls in nightgowns clutched her legs. Tracy softened her tone. “We’re sorry to disturb you,” she said. “Are you Darrell Nash?”
    “Yes.” Nash winced each time the dogs barked, as if he was nursing a hangover. He yelled over his shoulder, “Can you please go shut them up? And bring me a shirt.” He looked back to Tracy. “What’s this about?”
    “One of your employees,” Kins said.
    “Which one?”
    “One of your dancers.”
    “I don’t employ any dancers,” he said. “They’re independent contractors, and I have more than ninety. If one of them has done anything illegal, I can’t be held liable. I’ve talked to my lawyer about it.”
    Tracy sensed Kins’s gaze shift to her. She kept her focus on Nash. “May we come in?”
    “Do we need to do this now?” Nash asked. He instinctively looked at his wrist, though he wasn’t wearing a watch.
    “Yes, we do,” Tracy said.
    Nash led Kins and Tracy to the back of the house, into what he called his “office,” though Tracy didn’t notice a scrap of paper anywhere in the room. They stood on a purple-and-gold throw rug with a tiger that matched Nash’s tattoo. Subtle lighting in glass cases