What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(10)

“He got cold feet. That’s understandable.”

“The attorney for the state wouldn’t even talk settlement.

Arrogant prick knew what my guy was going through. He had used Ted’s uncomfortableness to harass him during his deposition and intimated he’d do the same at trial—make public his private humiliation in court.” Dan just shook his head as if to say, It gets worse. “I called Simmons back and told him we’d take it out of the state’s ass at trial. I thought I got him calmed down.”

“What happened?” Tracy said, getting a bad feeling.

“He shot himself. His wife found him in their garage.”

“Oh no,” Tracy said. She could tell Dan was shaken and on the verge of tears.

“I feel so bad for his wife and his kids. He must have been a lot more troubled by what happened to him than he showed.” Tears spilled down his cheeks.

“How’s the wife doing?”

Dan shook his head. “This will be a scar they all will wear for the rest of their lives.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. Having lost a father to suicide, she knew Dan was right.

“So . . . ,” Dan said with false cheer. “How was your day?”

She reached out and hugged him, Daniella between them. “I met with another family of a victim up in Curry Canyon and gave them the news.”

Dan pulled back. “And here I am piling on.”

“No. You’re not,” she said. “It was hard. It always is, but it brought this family some closure, and for that they were grateful and gracious.”

“I’m not sure how to bring closure now to Simmons’s family.”

“That’s not your job, Dan. I know that can sound callous, but it’s not.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know.” She gave him another awkward hug. Then she said, “Why don’t you shower? I’ll get Daniella dressed and get her down, then make us dinner. We can enjoy a quiet evening.”

As Dan left the room, Tracy thought again of Anita Childress and hoped she could bring the young woman some closure, but feared she would only bring her more pain.





C H A P T E R 4

The following morning, Tracy pulled into the parking lot of the Glendale Country Club in Bellevue and viewed an expanse of lush, green fairways and manicured greens. White-and-green checked flags marked holes. She walked down steps and found pushcarts and golf carts loaded with golf bags lining the paved asphalt between the pro shop and the locker rooms. A clear, azure sky, not a cloud to be seen, hung overhead, and the temperature hovered between a crisp chill and comfortable.

Moss Gunderson had retired from the Seattle Police Department nearly fifteen years earlier at sixty years of age. He told Tracy on the telephone the prior evening that he had a standing round of golf every Wednesday morning, and that no one and nothing short of his funeral would ever interrupt it. He said he’d played in rain, sleet, hail, even snow—they’d used orange golf balls —and called his foursome “the Mailmen.”

Tracy offered to meet Moss after his round, but he said lunch followed the round, when they settled bets and had a few cocktails.

He suggested she ride in his golf cart and ask him her questions about Lisa Childress in between his shots. “Either that, or we talk on the phone.”

Tracy never opted to speak on the phone if she had the choice.

She liked to evaluate a person’s facial expressions and body posture as they answered questions, though she didn’t think that would be much of an issue with Moss, the lead detective on Childress’s disappearance.

Moss gave Tracy directions to the club and told her, “You won’t miss me. I glow.”

Whatever that meant.

Tracy watched golfers come and go. The clubhouse attendants helped with their clubs, and everyone seemed friendly. Dan had a handicap of eleven strokes at one time, and he’d bought Tracy a set of clubs to interest her. She enjoyed playing, but she didn’t have time at present to practice, which made a round of golf a round of frustration. Being at the club this morning and seeing the camaraderie, she thought it would be nice for Dan to have that outlet now.

The glass doors of the golf shop opened and a tall, heavyset man emerged. He definitely glowed in bright-orange pants, a white belt, and a neon-green shirt partially hidden beneath a black windbreaker. Moss Gunderson also wore a black baseball-style cap with the Glendale crest—a G with two crossed golf clubs. He carried two sleeves of golf balls and looked like a Norwegian version of Faz or Del. Tracy estimated him to be six foot four and more than 250

pounds.

“You better buy a box if you’re playing eighteen holes, Moss,” a passing elderly man said. “Six balls won’t last you through the first three holes.”

“Something you don’t worry about with your hundred-yard drives, Stan. Is your husband playing today or are you still hitting from the ladies tees?” Moss laughed and looked at Tracy. “Detective Crosswhite?”

“That would be me,” Tracy said.

“Sorry about that.”

“No worries. You weren’t lying; you do glow.”

“I figure if you’re going to make a statement, make it loud and bold. Hey, Lou?” Moss called to another man who looked about the same age and was putting clubs on the back of a cart beside another set. “You’re riding solo this morning. I’m riding with my girlfriend.