The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(8)

Funk moved to the computer on the nearby table. It showed images of a series of X-rays of the woman’s body. Using the mouse, Funk clicked his way through the images until finding the ones he wanted. “There. You see?” He pointed to the woman’s face. “She had implants on her chin and her cheekbones. She’s also had her nose altered.”

“Plastic surgery?” Tracy said.

“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” Funk corrected. “This is facial structure alteration.”

“Someone trying to change their appearance,” Tracy said.

“And recent. I’d say within the month, two months tops. And her hair has been recently dyed a darker color.” Funk turned back to the body. “Her natural color is light brown.”

Tracy and Kins both knew from a prior investigation that implants included a serial number. Plastic surgeons were obligated to record the serial numbers in their patients’ charts and provide that information to the manufacturer in case of a problem with the implant.

“Looks like we can cancel the sketch artist,” Kins said. “We just found Jane Doe.”



Kins and Tracy returned to Police Headquarters. Kins traced the serial numbers to Silitone, a Florida manufacturer. A Silitone worker bee took the information and called back within the hour. The implants had been shipped to a Dr. Yee Wu in Renton, Washington, a city located at the southern tip of Lake Washington, about a twenty-minute ride from downtown.

Kins called Dr. Wu’s clinic. The staff member gave him the standard admonitions about HIPAA laws and patient privacy. She stopped talking when Kins said he was a homicide detective investigating a potential homicide. HIPAA laws continued after a patient’s death, but Kins and Tracy weren’t interested in Jane Doe’s private medical history—at least not yet. They just wanted to know who she was.

They took a drive to Renton. Judging from the outside of the one-story stucco building, Tracy would have been nervous to get her nails done by Dr. Wu, let alone allow him to operate on her face. But according to Wu’s website, he’d studied at the University of Hong Kong, did his residency in plastic surgery at UCLA, and was board certified by the American Society of Plastic Surgeons.

“Testimonials tout him as the greatest sculptor since Michelangelo,” Tracy said.

“And of course we know if it’s on the Internet it must be true,” Kins said, pulling into a parking space.

They exited the car to the sound of a jet engine taking off from nearby Boeing Field, and made their way to the glass doors. The interior had a distinctly Asian feel, from the décor to the half a dozen patients seated in the lobby. A petite Asian woman in blue hospital scrubs identified herself as Dr. Wu’s physician assistant and said the doctor would be with them shortly.

“Heard that before,” Kins said as they retreated to seats in the waiting area. “Can you imagine if these guys had to keep a bus driver’s schedule? It would be mass chaos.”

Tracy handed him a Chinese magazine from the coffee table. “At least you won’t have to read a six-month-old copy of Time.”

The physician’s assistant reappeared in ten minutes. Rather than barking out their names, she discreetly indicated Dr. Wu would see them.

Kins put down the magazine. “And I was just getting to a good part.”

Dr. Wu stood behind his desk as Tracy and Kins entered his cramped office. Small in stature, perhaps five foot three, with large silver-framed glasses, Wu wore a white doctor’s smock over a blue shirt and a maroon knit tie, the end of which he tucked into the waistband of his pants.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Tracy said.

Wu’s hands were as soft and small as a young boy’s. After introductions, he sat and opened a file already on his desk. “The implant numbers you provided my PA correspond to a patient, Lynn Cora Hoff,” he said in a thick Chinese accent.

Jane Doe had a name. Simple as that.

“What can you tell us about her?” Tracy said.

If Wu was worried about HIPAA, he didn’t express it. He used the ball of his thumb to shove his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “Ms. Hoff is twenty-four years old, five foot seven, one hundred and thirty-two pounds. Caucasian. She had her nose shaved, a chin implant, and two cheekbone implants.”

“When was this done?” Tracy asked.

“June third.”

“Recently,” Kins said.

“Yes,” Wu said.

“Had you worked with Ms. Hoff before?” Tracy asked.

“No.”

“Did she say why she wanted the surgery?” Tracy asked.

Wu looked up as if he didn’t understand the question. The glasses had already slid down the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

“Why she was having reconstructive surgery?” Tracy said.

“Many women have reconstructive surgery,” Wu said, as if changing your face was an everyday occurrence. He again used his thumb to push the glasses onto his nose.

“I understand,” Tracy said. “But this seems more invasive than routine plastic surgery.”

“Women”—Wu looked to Kins—“and men, have surgery for many reasons.”

“So she didn’t say why?” Kins said.

“She did not.”

“Did she provide her medical background?” Tracy asked.