My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(81)

“Today was about taking the first step to getting Sarah’s case reopened. I plan on taking the rest of this one step at a time.”

“What will you do now?”

“My immediate plans are to return to Seattle,” she said. “But that will have to wait until the storm blows through. I’d suggest we all get to where we need to be.”

She pushed through the crowd, Finlay assisting. Outside, several of the more persistent reporters continued to follow, but they quickly gave up, perhaps cognizant of the worsening weather. The snowflakes fell thick as a lace curtain, swirling in a persistent and occasionally gusting wind. Tracy pulled on a hat and slipped on gloves. “I can take it from here,” she said to Finlay.

“You sure?”

“You married, Finlay?”

“Very. I got three kids under the age of nine.”

“Then get on home to them.”

“I wish. Nights like these are usually bad for us.”

“I remember when I worked patrol.”

“For what it’s worth . . .”

“I understand,” she said. “Thank you.”

Tracy descended the courthouse steps. She’d not had a chance to change from her heels into her snow boots—the steps were slick and her footing treacherous. She had to take caution with each step. Moisture seeped through the leather of her pumps and she felt the cold invade her toes. She was going to ruin a perfectly good pair of shoes.

She raised her eyes to consider the traffic exiting the parking lot and beginning to back up on the road in front of the courthouse—cars and trucks, some with tire chains making a clinking noise that reminded her of Edmund House shuffling into the courtroom at the start of each morning and leaving each afternoon. A flatbed truck with large snow tires slowed as it approached the intersection. The right rear brake light illuminated. The left did not.

Tracy felt a rush of adrenaline. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up her pace, hurrying as quickly as the footing allowed. As she stepped from the bottom step, her foot came out from under her and she slipped, but managed to maintain her grip on the handrail in order to keep from completely sprawling onto the snow-covered pavement. By the time she’d pulled herself back to her feet, the flatbed had reached the intersection. She hustled across the street to the adjacent parking lot, straining to see, but it was too far a distance and the snowfall too thick for her to make out the letters and numbers on the license plate. A metal cage across the back window also blocked her view inside the cab. The truck made a right turn at the intersection, continuing on the road on the northern side of the courthouse.

Tracy slid between rows of the remaining parked cars. Exhaust belched from the tailpipes as drivers stood outside furiously scraping snow and ice from the front and back windows. Some backed from their stalls without clearing the snow. Others pulled forward to exit the lot, adding to the congestion. Tracy kept her eyes on the flatbed and didn’t see the car backing from a parking space until the bumper nicked her leg. Snow covered its back window. She slapped the trunk to get the driver’s attention and pivoted to avoid getting hit, but felt her shoe slip, and this time her knee smacked a patch of asphalt where the car had been parked, preventing the accumulation of snow. The driver got out, apologizing, but Tracy was already getting up, searching for the flatbed. It had stopped three cars from the next intersection for the main road. She cut between another row of parked cars, her lungs burning, calves aching from the strain of trying to maintain her balance. The truck reached the intersection and turned left into the blinding snow, away from her and in the direction of Cedar Grove.

Tracy stopped her pursuit and bent, hands on knees, keeping her head raised and watching until she could no longer see the vehicle. Her labored breathing marked the air in white bursts and the cold gripped her chest and lungs, stinging her exposed cheeks and ears. She realized that in her fall she’d torn her nylons and banged her knee, which ached. Her toes were numb.

She fumbled in her briefcase for a pen, bit off the cap, and wrote the letters and numbers of the license plate that she thought she’d been able to make out on her moistened palm.

Back at her car, she started the engine and turned the defroster on high. The wiper blades made a horrific noise as they scraped across the ice-encrusted windshield. Her fingers still numb, Tracy had trouble keying in the numbers for the call. She made a fist, blew into it, and flexed her fingers before trying again.

Kins answered on the first ring. “Hey.”

“It’s over.”

“What?”

“Meyers ruled from the bench. House is getting another trial.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in later on the details. Right now I need a favor. I need you to run a license plate for me. I only got a partial so I’m going to need you to try some different combinations, whatever you can.”

“Hang on. Let me get something to write with.”

“It’s a Washington plate.” She provided him what she thought had been the letters and numbers on it. “Could be a W instead of a V and the three might have been an eight.”

“You realize this could pull up a lot of possibilities.”

Tracy transferred the phone and blew into her other fist. “I understand. It’s a flatbed truck so it could be a commercial plate. I just couldn’t get a good-enough look.” She switched the phone again, flexed her fingers, and blew into her other fist.