Nate put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Okay. Name was Santiago Martinez. Alias El Pulgar, the Thumb, because years ago he got his thumb cut off. Damned if I know how that happened, but he moved oxy, cocaine, and fentanyl around Seattle, so probably one of his associates took it for him. He was running fentanyl and heroin for one of the cartels, working the supply chain from Mexico up I-5 and east to Yakima, Spokane, and beyond. He got caught selling in Seattle, did a few years in jail, and when he was released two years ago he moved out here. No sign of him dealing since then. Seattle PD are coming out tomorrow, although they haven’t been super specific about what time.”

“The crime guys definitely saying it was murder?” Dyson asked.

“They found a puncture at the back of his neck. Tox screen will show what killed him, but I expect it’ll be an overdose of some sort of drug. And nobody injects themselves in the back of the neck.”

“So somebody else did it?”

“Maybe. We found a baggie of a white substance on the floor in the laundry room. There were also digital scales, a pill press, and those little orange prescription bottles in there. A whole fucking drug factory, just without the drugs.”

Dyson tapped his finger on his teeth. “Maybe the drugs were the motive for the murder.”

“It’s one theory so far. The back door was unlocked. Maybe someone came in, killed Santiago, grabbed the drugs, and took off.”

“The guys get any useful evidence?”

“Lots of prints. We’re running them now. There were a few women’s things there, no clothes in the closet, but a bottle of shampoo in the bathroom, a pink toothbrush, that sort of thing.”

“Girlfriend?”

Nate gulped some Coke and set the can on his desk. “Neighbors said they’d seen a woman there. We’re looking for her.”

Dyson rubbed his mustache, bushy eyebrows drawn tight. “What about hair and fiber analysis?”

“Working on it. No blood at the scene to analyze. Just the puncture mark in his neck. He didn’t fight it.”

“Maybe he knew his attacker.”

“Or he was ambushed, didn’t expect it. Maybe the girlfriend—”

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice, shrill and nasal, cut into their conversation. “Is one of you Detective Nate Sweeney?”

Nate and Dyson whirled around. All the other cops’ heads swiveled, the bustle in the place suddenly stopped. A woman and man were standing just outside the detectives’ area. Cops, Nate could tell.