My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(14)

“Yeah?”

“This a bad time?”

The clicking stopped. Laub turned. “Tracy.” He motioned her in. “Close the door.”

She entered and shut the door. The photographs on the shelves behind Laub served as a biography. He was married to an attractive redhead. They had twin daughters, though not identical, and a son who looked a lot like his father, with the same red hair and freckles. The boy apparently played football. “Take a seat.” The light from his desk lamp reflected in his glasses.

“I’m fine.”

“Take one anyway.”

She sat.

Laub removed his glasses and set them on his desk pad. Red impressions marked where the nose pads had pinched the bridge of his nose. “How you holding up?”

“I’m good.”

He eyeballed her. “People care, Tracy. We all just want to make sure you’re all right.”

“I appreciate everyone’s concern.”

“The medical examiner has the remains?”

Tracy nodded. “Yeah. Brought her back last night.”

“When will you get the report?”

“Maybe a day.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “At least now I know. That’s something.”

“Yeah, that’s something.” He picked up a pencil, tapping the eraser on his desk pad. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Last night. Slept like a baby.”

Laub leaned forward. “You want to tell everyone else you’re fine, that’s your prerogative, but you’re my responsibility. I need to know you’re okay; I don’t need you to be a hero.”

“I’m not trying to be anyone’s hero, Lieutenant. I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Why don’t you take some time? Sparrow can handle the Hansen case,” he said, referring to Kins by the nickname he’d picked up working undercover with narcotics. He’d grown his hair long and sported a wispy goatee, making him look like the Johnny Depp character, Captain Jack Sparrow.

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can handle it. I’m saying, don’t. I’m saying, go home, get some sleep. Take care of what you need to take care of. The job will still be here.”

“Is that an order?”

“No, but it’s a very strong suggestion.”

She got up from her chair and made it as far as the door.

“Tracy—”

She faced him. “I go home and I have nothing but the walls to look at, Lieutenant. Nothing but time to think about things I don’t want to think about.” Tracy paused to get her emotions under control. “I don’t have any pictures in my cubicle.”

Laub set down the pencil. “Maybe you should talk to somebody?”

“It’s been twenty years, Lieutenant. I’ve gone through it every day for twenty years. I’ll get through these days the same way I got through those, one bad day at a time.”





[page]CHAPTER 12





The second morning after Sarah’s disappearance, Tracy’s father entered his den looking utterly exhausted, despite a shower. Her parents had flown the red-eye from Hawaii. Her mother had not come home. When the plane had landed, she had gone directly to the American Legion building on Market Street to mobilize the volunteers already gathering there. Her father had come home to meet with Roy Calloway and had asked Tracy to stay in the event that the Sheriff had additional questions, though she’d already answered so many she couldn’t think of what else he could ask her.

Did you notice anyone at the competition acting peculiar, hanging around, seeming to take an unusual interest in Sarah?

Did anyone approach either of you, for any reason?

Did Sarah ever indicate that she felt threatened by anyone?

Calloway asked for a list of the boys Sarah had dated. Tracy could not think of a single person on it who would have any reason to harm Sarah. Most of them had been her friends since grammar school.

Her father’s hair, a premature gray, hung in ringlets over the collar of his long-sleeved shirt. Ordinarily it contrasted with his youthful demeanor and inquisitive blue eyes. This morning he looked his fifty-eight years. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot behind his round, wire-rimmed glasses. Usually fastidious about his appearance, several days’ growth competed with his thick mustache, the ends of which he kept long enough to wax into sharp points when he competed in shooting tournaments as “Doc” Crosswhite.

“Tell me about the truck,” her father said to Calloway, and it was not lost on Tracy that it was her father, not Calloway, asking the questions. At parties in their home, her father was never boisterous or demonstrative, but a crowd always seemed to find him. Holding court, Tracy’s mother called it. When James Crosswhite spoke, people listened, and when he asked questions, they gave him answers. At the same time, her father had a quiet and respectful manner about him that made you feel as if you were the only person in the room.

“We had it towed to the police impound,” Calloway said. “Seattle is sending a forensic team to check for fingerprints.” He looked to Tracy. “It appears she ran out of gas.”

“No.” Tracy stood near a red ottoman that matched two leather chairs. “I told you, I filled up before we left Cedar Grove. There should have been three-quarters of a tank.”