What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(4)

Politics. You had to love it.

“I can ask some families and see if they’d be willing,” Tracy said.

“You can tell them it will help other families of missing persons, give them hope that we will someday find their loved ones also, that we will never give up.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

Weber stood. “Good. You let me know if you want to go back to Violent Crimes and I’ll make it happen, but I think you have another career path when you’re ready to move on from this office.”

“Another career path?”

“You should be running a unit, working your way up the ladder, the way I did.”

Tracy immediately dismissed it. “I’m better in the field than behind a desk—no offense intended.”

“None taken. But don’t be hasty. Think about it.”

Tracy’s gaze drifted to the shelves of binders. “I do have one request.”

“Name it.”

“I could use help from time to time with some investigations. I’d like to be able to call in another detective when I need one.” It would be an end run around her captain, Johnny Nolasco.

“Consider it done.”

“Captain Nolasco won’t like it,” Tracy said, more to the point.

“I’ve heard the two of you have a rocky working relationship.”

That was an understatement. “It would be better coming from you than me,” Tracy said.

“I understand. You got an open door if you need it.”

“I appreciate that, Chief.”

Tracy walked Weber out and closed the door behind her. She didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, Weber could be an ace in the hole—if Tracy needed one. On the other hand, Tracy felt like she needed to take a shower.

Her desk phone rang. Tracy leaned over the clutter to answer it.

“Detective Crosswhite.”

“Detective, I have a young woman looking for her mother. Says she’s been missing almost twenty-five years.”

Tracy looked at the binders. Art Nunzio’s cautionary voice played in her head, not for the first time. Just take it one case at a time. I always believe I’m one phone call away from solving another case.

“Put her through,” Tracy said.





C H A P T E R 2

An hour later, Tracy studied the pages in a black binder she’d pulled from the vault storage and relished the aromas of fresh-ground coffee and herbal teas. She picked at a blueberry scone and nursed coffee from a mug the size of a bowl, sitting at an upright table in the back corner of the Macrina Bakery on First Avenue in Seattle’s SoDo district, an acronym for south of downtown. For meetings outside the office, she often chose the bakery, which was easy to get to and had easy-to-find parking. She loved the smells, especially the fresh-baked bread—a memory from her childhood Saturday mornings when her mother made fresh loaves. She also liked the vibe. The bakery played music, but not so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think, or have a conversation—she was becoming her parents—and the interior décor was unpretentious, with an open ceiling revealing the air ducts and sprinkler heads.

Tracy had been prepared to tell the caller what she always told those seeking to find their loved ones. The Cold Case Unit had not forgotten about the missing or deceased person, and if the caller had additional information, Tracy would be happy to receive it. If promising, the information would be followed up, and Tracy would keep the family informed. She tried not to sound rote. She tried to sound sincere. But too often the caller didn’t have new information— no fresh leads or evidence. The case had often been picked over from every angle by the investigating detectives, then picked over again when transferred to the cold case detective. But with the publicity from the missing persons she had resolved in North Seattle and Curry Canyon, Tracy received many calls from family members asking to have their loved one’s file reopened and reevaluated. She couldn’t get to them all.

But something unique and familiar about this morning’s caller had struck a chord with Tracy. Anita Childress wasn’t looking for a daughter or a sister or an aunt. She sought her mother, missing twenty-four years. That thought was sobering.

Over the phone, Childress told Tracy she had been just two years old when Lisa Childress, an investigative reporter for the Post-Intelligencer, now an online newspaper, left home in the middle of the night and never returned. Her body was never found. She had, like Sarah Crosswhite, Tracy’s younger sister, simply disappeared.

Tracy looked up from the binder pages when she sensed someone standing at her table. The woman before her was big-boned, and her face struck Tracy as model worthy.

“Detective Crosswhite?” Tracy closed the binder and moved to get up from the bench seat to shake the woman’s hand. “Don’t get up.” Anita Childress extended a hand across the table and introduced herself. She then stepped up into the elevated chair across the table.

“Do you want a cup of coffee or something to eat?” Tracy said.

“I have a tea coming. I ate this morning. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“I was just familiarizing myself with your mother’s file. I’m afraid I’m not very far along.”

Childress smiled. “It’s understandable,” she said. “I’ve been following the story in Curry Canyon and North Seattle—all the bodies they’re finding. It’s sickening.”