What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(30)

She now had a number of different directions she could go, which generally boded well for an investigation, but she didn’t feel buoyed. She felt the way Moss Gunderson and Keith Ellis must have felt, like she was reaching dead ends. Certain things were out of her control—whether someone recognized the photographs she had posted, or some new piece of information proved Larry Childress killed his wife.

And Tracy didn’t like not being in control.





C H A P T E R 1 3

The following morning, Tracy left her house and drove west across the lake, but rather than drive into downtown Seattle, she proceeded north on I-5 and drove around Lake Union, crossing the Fremont Bridge above the Fremont Cut to Westlake Avenue. She followed her GPS to a Shell gas station from which, in 1996, a call had been placed to Lisa Childress’s home phone. The gas station remained, but the pay phone was no longer present. Of more interest was the phone’s former location, less than two-tenths of a mile from the Diamond Marina, where the bodies of the two crewmen had been found three months before Childress disappeared.

From the gas station, Tracy drove to the marina, a complex of three two-story, brown stucco buildings. Wrought-iron gates spanned the gaps between the buildings, and posted signs attached to the bars indicated passage to the marina was limited to boat owners and guests. Marina signage appeared above the entrance to the building in the center and the building on the left, advertising moorage rate specials. Tracy would start there. She climbed the building’s wooden stairs and pulled open a red door. At the front counter she flashed her police credentials and told a young man she’d like to speak to the owner, manager, or whoever was in charge. The young man left the counter and moments later returned with another man, who identified himself as the marina manager.

Tracy asked for a moment of the man’s time. He looked apprehensive but led Tracy to his office on the second floor.

Windows provided Tracy with an eastern view of Lake Union beneath an overcast morning sky that turned the water slate gray.

Boats of all types, shapes, and sizes were moored at slips and beneath a wooden, barn-style boathouse. Across the lake were still more boats, along with industrial-style buildings, and Gas Works Park’s green lawn.

The manager introduced himself as Pete Welsh. “What is it I can help you with, Detective?”

“How long have you been here?”

“About six years.”

“I’m looking into a cold case that took place well before your time, November 1995 and 1996, but I have some general marina-type questions I’m hoping you can help with.”

Welsh seemed to relax. “I can try.”

Tracy pulled out a xeroxed copy of Lisa Childress’s handwritten notes mentioning the Diamond Marina. “Specifically, I’m hoping you can help decipher these notes from a reporter.”

Welsh slipped on a pair of reading glasses that dangled from a Croakie around his neck. He took the sheet of paper from Lisa Childress’s file and studied it, then looked up at Tracy.

“The name ‘Diamond Marina’ obviously refers to this marina,”

Tracy said. “And I’m fairly certain the word ‘Egregious’ is the name of a boat. I’m uncertain what the word ‘Canadian’ beside it means, but I’m assuming it was a Canadian vessel?”

“You said these were a reporter’s notes?” Welsh asked.

“That’s correct.”

“Not a harbormaster’s?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m assuming that’s what HM/D. S. means. With D. S. being the harbormaster’s initials.”

“What’s a harbormaster?”

“How technical do you want me to get?”

Tracy smiled. “I’ll let you know when you’re losing me.”

“A harbormaster is responsible for enforcing the regulations of a particular harbor or port, as well as for the security of the harbor.”

“That sounds official. How about unofficial?”

“They can be more like glorified parking attendants. They collect moorage fees, tell boats where to moor, which slip, and provide the marina rules.”

“How long can a person rent a slip?”

“Some rent monthly, some six months. Some only want a night’s moorage on their way east to Lake Washington or west to the locks leading to Elliott Bay and Puget Sound, maybe all the way out into the Pacific Ocean, or the Inside Passage north into Canada.”

“So the word ‘Canadian’ next to Egregious could mean the ship was headed to Canada?”

“It could,” Welsh said. “It might also mean it was a Canadian ship, registered in Canada. We get those as well.”

“How would I know that, whether it was a ship registered in Canada?”

Welsh turned to his computer and started tapping the keyboard.

“You’d go to Transport Canada.” He turned his screen so Tracy could read it. “That’s the Canadian agency responsible for the registration of vessels. It provides title to boats, the way the DMV provides title to cars. Do you know the type of boat?”

“No.”

“That makes it more difficult, since more than one boat can have the same name, and the case is so old the boat could have sold.”

“And changed names?”