What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(2)

No response.

She could see the faint outline of someone seated behind the steering wheel and thought again of those ridiculous horror movies— some helpless woman, with an IQ slightly above roadkill, lured to an isolated spot by a deranged killer in a leather mask carrying a chain saw. She usually said something idiotic like “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

And the chain saw fires up so loud, it’s visceral.

Rumrum . . . RRRRRRRWWWW!

It was too early in the morning to sit and wait. Lisa reached to the cluttered passenger seat and fumbled beneath papers, notepads, a fleece jacket, and expended fast-food wrappers before finding her microcassette tape recorder. She made sure the battery worked and rewound the tape, then pressed “Record” and slipped the machine into the inside pocket of her jacket. A pen and pad of paper could make a source anxious, no matter how many times Lisa assured she would not reveal the person’s identity.

She grabbed her bag, which she used as a briefcase, slipped her car keys inside, and felt a long, cylindrical canister. She knew intuitively what she’d felt, bear spray, and who had put it there, Larry.

Her husband insisted she get pepper spray, but Lisa had not gotten around to it. The bear spray, from their camping supplies, was his not-so-subtle reminder. As her mother would have said, “At least you know he cares.”

She pushed open her car door, the dome light illuminating the mess, and stepped out. The early-morning temperature and stiff breeze chilled her. She estimated upper thirties or low forties. The breeze carried a chemical smell from one of the Duwamish plants, or maybe it was just the polluted waterway. The city wrestled with the business owners to clean it up or pay heavy fines.

As she approached the car, the wind gusted, carrying the electric hum of engines at work. She pulled open the passenger door and detected a rank smell she could only describe as the lingering odors of marijuana and a baby’s diaper.

The man behind the steering wheel wore a ball cap and a puffy jacket. He did not acknowledge her. He stared out the windshield.

“I’m Lisa Childress,” she said.

No response.

“Are you the person who called? Sir?” She reached across the seat and pushed the man’s shoulder. He tilted against the driver’s-side window, then toppled forward. His head hit the steering wheel before his body listed sideways—like a bag of potatoes shifting weight—and he slumped between the two seats. His hat dislodged, revealing damage to his skull. Blood, the color of chocolate syrup, and bits of brain matter splattered the shoulder of his jacket.

The weeds rustled behind her. Lisa turned. A person emerged but with his face covered beneath a black ski mask. She reached for the bear spray, but not quickly enough. The assailant grabbed her by the throat and shoved her hard against the car. Her head impacted, and a burst of stars momentarily blinded her. His hand squeezed her throat; she could not breathe.

He banged her head a second time. Then a third. Her fingers frantically flicked at the canister’s safety cap. The man sensed her movement, but not before Lisa raised the can and depressed the nozzle, spraying him in the eyes. He wailed in pain and released his grip, fingers ripping at the mask. He pulled it free, and for a brief moment Lisa saw him. Then he fled into the darkness.

Dizzy and disoriented, Lisa reached out to brace her arm against the car, missed the frame, and stumbled off-balance. She fell into the weeds, dropping the canister. Dazed, she rose to a knee but, nauseated, she threw up.

Get away.

She struggled to her feet. The building, lights, and night sky weaved and spun.

She stepped, tripped, and felt her body falling forward, weightless, her head striking the pavement.





C H A P T E R 1

Present Day

Seattle, Washington

Tracy Crosswhite had no sooner shut her office door than someone knocked. She wanted to tell the person to go away.

She wanted a minute to catch her breath. She had just returned to Police Headquarters after notifying another family that their loved one’s body had been found buried in Curry Canyon. The prior winter, Tracy had tracked an abducted woman to a cabin in the canyon and discovered a horror show. The property, along with the basement beneath a home in North Seattle, had for decades been the burial ground for two sadistic serial killers. The news was difficult for Tracy to deliver, and harder for the family to hear. Family members expressed relief to finally have closure, but they also reexperienced the pain that had pierced their hearts those many years ago. Each case took an emotional toll on Tracy, who was all too familiar with both the family’s grief and the painful healing process they would endure.

She had sought just five minutes of solitude.

Five minutes of peace.

Five minutes of respite.

She didn’t have that luxury.

She pulled open the door, surprised to find Chief of Police Marcella Weber on the other side.

“You got a minute?” Weber spoke in a voice that always seemed too deep. In her sixties, Weber was an attractive woman who looked twenty years younger. She’d once credited her youthful appearance and lack of wrinkles to being African American, but it also could have been because she was full-figured. Her pixie haircut made her look youthful, as well. Not that looking young was her goal.

She didn’t dye her hair, and the strands of gray let people know she had experience under her belt. Though she wore gold stud earrings, her fingers were devoid of jewelry, including a wedding band. She looked at Tracy with eyes the camera loved, but which she could use to burn holes through an officer when necessary. She always wore her police uniform and told those who cared to listen, “I’ll always be a cop first.”