The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(55)

A light breeze blew through an open sliding-glass door, bringing the faint odor of diesel fuel and the sound of a boat engine and seagulls cawing. The paddles of a ceiling fan slowly rotated above a barefoot woman standing near the door, sucking on a cigarette and holding a mug of coffee with the word “Gotcha!” on it.

“Sorry to get you up so early, Marta,” Faz said.

Marta wore a tank top and shorts. “Good to see you’re still an asshole, Fazio,” Marta said.

“Some things never change,” Faz said.

“Where are your manners, Faz?” Marta nodded to Del like he was the special on the menu. “I assume this is your partner now that you’re a big homicide dick.”

“Del, meet Marta Nikolic. The Nikolics are two of Seattle’s most upstanding citizens.”

“How do you work with this guy?” she asked Del.

“It ain’t easy sometimes,” Del said.

“So what do a couple of big-shot homicide detectives want with a couple of law-abiding citizens such as us?” Marta asked.

Ian Nikolic poured himself a mug of coffee from the stained pot and filched a Camel from his wife’s pack. “Let’s sit on the deck.”

Del looked like he’d just been asked to jump out of an airplane without a parachute.

“Too hot to sit outside,” Faz said. “You know me. I don’t tan. I cook.”

Nikolic and Marta had begun their careers as skip tracers. Clients paid them thousands of dollars to find people who didn’t want to be found or to locate money others had wrongfully taken. They were so adept at finding people, even the police department had, on occasion, used their services, which was how Faz got to know them. In fact, they’d become so good at finding people they’d branched out to hiding people—women in abusive relationships, corporate whistleblowers who feared for their safety, and stool pigeons not interested in entering the Federal Witness Protection Program and spending the rest of their lives living in a Midwest suburb as some everyday Joe. For the most part, they kept their noses clean, but getting information often required ingenuity that bordered on illegal.

Nik spoke to Marta. “He wants to know if we’ve heard anything about the woman who died on Mount Rainier and showed up in a crab pot in Puget Sound.”

“Wondering if anyone was looking for her,” Faz said.

“Someone looking for a dead woman,” Nikolic said, nodding his head. “Not a bad place to start.” Nik and Marta blew smoke out of the corners of their mouths toward the open door. “If someone around here helped her, they’re keeping it quiet and I don’t blame them,” Nik said.

“Why’s that?” Del asked.

“It’s bad for business when your client gets found, worse if she gets killed,” Nikolic said. “Not only is your reputation ruined, you got the police and everybody else knocking down your door.”

“What about a husband looking to find his wife?” Faz turned to Del. “What was his name?”

“Graham,” Del said. “Graham Strickland.”

“You heard his name or rumors of a husband searching for his missing wife?” Faz asked.

“I haven’t, but I can ask around.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Enough to actually pay me?”

Faz smiled. “Unlike you, I can’t afford a Ferrari. I’m making payments on a 2010 Subaru.”

Nik shook his head.

“The wife was using an alias: Lynn Cora Hoff,” Del said.

Nikolic found a pen amid the clutter and wrote it on a piece of paper. “What was the first name you said?”

“Andrea. Andrea Strickland.” Del spelled the last name. “Her maiden name was Moreland.”

“And while you’re at it, ask around about a Devin Chambers,” Faz said.

“Hang on, hang on,” Nikolic said. “Give me the last name you said.”

“Chambers. Devin Chambers,” Faz repeated.

“Another alias?” Nikolic blew smoke toward the sliding-glass door.

“A friend who might have helped the wife disappear.” Faz opened up his briefcase. “I was hoping you could take a look at some documents, give me your learned opinion.” Faz was playing to Nikolic’s large ego. He set his file on one of the desks and pulled out photocopies of Lynn Hoff’s birth certificate and the driver’s license they’d obtained from the DOL. He handed the photocopies to Nikolic.

Nikolic studied each while sipping his coffee and sucking on the cigarette. Marta extinguished her cigarette butt in an ashtray, blew a stream of blue smoke, and picked up the photocopies as Nik discarded them.

Nik held up the certified copy of the birth certificate. “Looks legit.”

“It appears to be,” Faz said.

“Likely a real person then. It’s easier than using a dead person since they check the death records now.” Nikolic continued to study the copy of the birth certificate. “The typeset is intaglio printing, which is appropriate for an official document. And the seal looks good. Can’t tell you about the paper from photocopies.” He put down his mug and walked to one of the desks, which had a combination light and magnifying glass on the end of a retractable arm. He turned on the light and examined the paper.

“Likely it was quality safety paper, though. If someone had erased or altered anything on the original, you would have seen it on these photocopies.”