The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(33)

The room fell silent, the air so still I could hear the clock on the stove ticking. I had my head down, my hand pressed to my cheek, which was warm to the touch. Above me, I heard the faint sound of Graham breathing. I sat there, my gaze on the floor, hair covering my face, tasting the metallic tinge of my own blood. Then, slowly, I looked up at him. I looked up at the man I’d married.

His hand remained balled in a fist.





CHAPTER 11


Late on a weekday afternoon, Faz and Del stepped through the doors of the Department of Licensing on Spring Street in downtown Seattle. A mass of bored humanity sat in uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, which was just what Faz had expected to find. An automated female voice identified the next customer and directed the person to the proper window, everyone moving like robots.

“It’s like something out of an apocalyptic movie in which machines have taken over and humans are drones,” Faz said. “I think I watched this on TV last night.”

“How many you think are here for the air-conditioning?” Del said.

“What do you want to bet the library’s a madhouse too?” Faz said.

Seattle had spent millions on a one-of-a-kind glass-and-steel eleven-story library in downtown, but a public building is open to the public—all the public. The library had become a safe haven for the homeless, the mentally disturbed, and those seeking to use one of the facility’s four hundred public computers to search the Internet for porn and do unspeakable things right there in the public domain. Those numbers swelled in the winter when the temperature dropped near or below freezing, and again in the summer when Seattle baked.

“If you build it, they will cum,” Del said, laughing.

“Wouldn’t touch those computers with your hands,” Faz said.

Television and computer screens indicated the numbers the clerks in the booths were serving, but the numbers everyone intently watched were on the digital clock: 4:18.

“The office closes at four thirty,” Del said.

“Good thing we ain’t waiting,” Faz said.

“You wanna bet?” Del asked.

“Early dinner?” Faz said.

“Loser buys sandwiches at Salumi,” Del said.

“I like that bet. I win either way. I can also pick up some pasta for Vera and be twice blessed.”

“Happy wife, happy Faz,” Del said.

At the counter, Faz showed his badge and ID to a woman behind the partition. She didn’t look impressed.

“We have an appointment with Henrik . . .”

When he fumbled over the last name the woman said, “Engvaldson.”

“That’s it,” Faz said. “Tongue twister.”

She didn’t smile, pointing to the chairs, then picking up the phone. “Take a seat.” Del smiled as they turned for the white plastic chairs. “I can taste the grilled lamb sandwich already, and you know what is going to make it especially good?”

“It’s free,” Faz said.

“Bingo,” Del said.

Del wasn’t cheap; he’d bought his share of meals. He just liked a good bet. He couldn’t watch a game or a fight without placing a bet of some kind. It was never much, just a couple bucks, and Faz admitted it did make things more interesting.

Faz hoped Engvaldson could provide a little detail on what Andrea Strickland had used to obtain a driver’s license in Lynn Hoff’s name. At this point, any information would be welcome.

They didn’t wait long. A very tall man in khakis and a light-blue button-down greeted them in the lobby. “Detectives,” he said, extending a hand as if it were on the end of a crane. “I’m Henrik Engvaldson. Which of you did I speak with on the phone?”

“That would be me,” Faz said, feeling small, and that was saying something. Faz stood six foot four and, as of that morning, he weighed 268 pounds, butt naked. Del was an inch taller and ten to fifteen pounds heavier, though he would never admit it. The gut, however, didn’t lie.

They followed Engvaldson to a door at the back of the room. He had to duck to pass under the header, which confirmed he was taller than six foot eight. Faz gave Del a look as they continued down a narrow hallway.

“What nationality is ‘Engvaldson’?” Faz said.

“Apparently, it’s Swedish,” Engvaldson said. “I grew up thinking I was Norwegian until my wife did that Ancestry.com thing. Big mistake. Turns out my ancestors are from Sweden.”

“Like that commercial,” Faz said.

“Exactly.”

“Me? I don’t want to know about any of that,” Del said. “I’m liable to find out things I don’t want to know.”

“Like maybe you aren’t human?” Faz said.

Engvaldson led them into an office typical for a government employee, small and utilitarian, but serviceable. When he sat, he looked too tall for his desk. He opened a file and handed Faz an eight-by-ten copy of a photograph of Lynn Hoff’s—aka Andrea Strickland’s—driver’s license. “She preapplied for her license—”

“Preapplied?” Del asked. “What does that mean?”

“Filled out her application online, then came in to finish it. It saves time.”

“Good to know,” Del said.

“What did she use for ID?” Faz asked.