The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(57)

“Not too bad,” Tracy said. She’d called the night before and spoken to Orr, letting her know the purpose of her visit.

She stepped into a modestly furnished but impeccably clean apartment with cream-colored leather furniture, a few bronze sculptures, and large framed prints. In one print, three Elvis Presleys dressed in cowboy garb aimed six-shooters into the living room. In another, multiple colorful images of a forever-young Marilyn Monroe winked seductively from behind the leaves of a potted fern.

“Andy Warhol,” Tracy said. “That Elvis is one of my favorite prints.”

“Are you a fan?” Patricia Orr asked.

“I’m a shooter,” Tracy said. “My sister and I competed in shooting tournaments all over the Pacific Northwest.”

“Do you and your sister still compete?”

“I still get out every so often,” Tracy said. “My sister passed away many years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Orr said. “Please, sit.” She motioned to the L-shaped couch facing a large flat screen. To the right, a sliding-glass door offered a view to the simmering foothills. Orr reached for a pitcher on the coffee table. “Can I pour you some iced tea?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

They made small talk, then settled in. “I’m very sorry about your niece,” Tracy said.

“I didn’t know what to feel when you called,” Orr said. “I’d already grieved Andrea’s death once. Then to find out she’d been alive . . .” She shook her head, as if confused. “And now she’s dead again. It just pains me to think that someone would be so cruel. I hope she didn’t suffer.”

“It doesn’t appear to be the case,” Tracy said, not really knowing, but knowing what Orr wanted to hear. The autopsy did not reveal any telltale signs of torture or abuse, and the bullet to the back of the head would have killed Andrea Strickland instantly.

“Do you know what happened?” Orr asked.

“We’re in the process of trying to find out,” Tracy said. “Obviously, Andrea did not die on the mountain. Somehow, she managed to walk off. What happened after that is not yet known.”

“Why would she do that?” Orr asked.

“There’s evidence she and her husband were having problems. He’d gotten them into some financial trouble and there are indications of infidelity.”

“He didn’t abuse her, did he?”

“We’re not aware of any physical abuse,” Tracy said, though Brenda Berg had indicated that Andrea Strickland hinted at it.

“The other detective said the husband was a suspect; is he still a suspect?”

“When was that?” Tracy asked.

“When he called . . . It was a while ago now, maybe a month. It was when they still thought Andrea had died on Mount Rainier.”

“You haven’t spoken to that detective since?”

“No.”

The lack of contact confirmed for Tracy that Fields had not been working the file. “We’re exploring several different scenarios,” she said. “I was hoping to get a little background about your niece. I understand she came to live with you when she was thirteen?”

Orr set her iced tea down on a coaster. “It was just before she’d turned fourteen.”

“Your sister and brother-in-law died in a car accident.”

“Yes,” Orr said. “Christmas Eve. It was horrific.”

“And Andrea was also in the car?”

Orr nodded. “The accident was late at night on a road not well traveled. Andrea was in the backseat and barely injured, but my sister and her husband died on impact. The highway patrolman said it was one of the most gruesome accident scenes he’d witnessed in twenty years.”

“I’m sorry,” Tracy said. “How long was Andrea trapped in the car?”

“Close to two hours,” Orr said softly. “I can’t imagine what that was like.”

“How was she, emotionally, when she came to live with you?”

Orr gave the question a bit of thought. “Quiet. Reserved. She had frequent nightmares.”

“And you lived here, in San Bernardino?”

“Not here in this apartment; a home out near the foothills, until the divorce.” She picked up her iced tea and took a sip, avoiding eye contact.

“Did Andrea have counseling?”

Orr sat back, glass in hand. Her demeanor appeared to have changed, more reticent and closed off. “Yes.”

“A doctor here in town?”

“Just a few miles from here.”

“What was that doctor’s name?”

“Townsend. Alan Townsend.”

“Do you know if he’s still in practice?”

“I believe he is. I don’t know for certain.”

“Did the counseling help?”

Orr shifted her gaze to the floor and shut her eyes, but a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. Tracy gave her a moment.

“I’m sorry if this is upsetting, Penny.”

Orr nodded, but the tears continued. Then her chest shuddered. “Andrea had been through so much,” she said. “I thought the nightmares were from the accident. I didn’t know.”

Tracy put it together—the divorce, the reluctance to talk about Andrea’s counseling. “Your husband?” Tracy asked, the scenario unfortunately all too familiar.