What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(48)

Tracy checked the story byline. Lisa Childress. She felt her heartbeat quicken.

“I haven’t sold drugs in years and the police know it,” Jones had said. “I’ve been working on a construction crew, bringing in a regular check, getting taxes taken out of my money, making something of myself for my family. And then the police fabricate this BS charge.”

Jones, of Rainier Valley, said that since his arrest and yearlong pretrial hearings, he had been fired from his job and unable to secure employment. “People see the arrest and, you know, they don’t want the liability of hiring a drug dealer.”

Jones said the Last Line’s motivation to go after him went back a long way, when he had run drugs in Rainier Valley. “I did things back then I’m not proud of, and people obviously haven’t forgotten.

But I’ve been clean since my son was born. I want my children to have a more stable home.”

As the articles printed, the machine humming and clicking, Tracy called the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s Office and asked to speak to Rick Cerrabone. Cerrabone was a senior prosecuting attorney in the Most Dangerous Offender Project, MDOP

for short, and had been at the prosecuting attorney’s office for more than two decades.

“Cerrabone.”

“You sound busy,” she said, not bothering to identify herself.

She and Cerrabone had worked many cases together.

“I’m always busy. What’s up?”

“I’m hoping someone could pull a file for me.”

“I heard you’re no longer working active investigations. You just got a big fancy award; didn’t you?”

“This is for a cold case.”

“You got the case number?”

“Wouldn’t be bothering you if I did. I got a name and a date. The prosecuting attorney dismissed the case. I’d like to find out why.”

“Give me the name. Not going to get to it today. Probably have the paralegal pull it Monday.”

“Monday works.” Tracy provided the name, Henderson Jones, and the date of his arrest.

“How’s life outside the shithole?” Cerrabone asked.

“Bright and shiny. You?”

“Not complaining. Planning a family trip to Europe this summer.

If I don’t die before the plane takes off. I’ll have someone call you Monday.”

Tracy signed off. Someone knocked on her door and Tracy called out for the person to enter. A young man wheeled in three boxes stacked on a handcart—the three cases she’d asked to be pulled from storage. She’d deliver them to Melton over at Park 90/5

and ask him to work his magic, then head home early.

The desk phone rang. “Typical,” Tracy said, answering it.

“Detective Crosswhite. This is Chris Taylor from Escondido. I found that employment file for Melissa Childs. I’m going to scan it. I’ll need an email to send it to.”

Tracy looked at the time, but that wasn’t the reason she provided Taylor with her personal email address. The thought of Maria Vanpelt getting ahold of the information remained fresh.

“How long before you send it?”

“After I close up today at seven; if that’s okay.”

Tracy knew Taylor was under the gun with the April fifteenth tax deadline closing fast. “That’s perfect. Thanks for your assistance.”

“Hope it helps that woman find her mother. Can’t imagine what that would be like. I still miss my dad and we lost him twelve years ago.”

Tracy knew what it was like. It was like waking every morning with a dull ache in your heart.

She disconnected. She had one last thing she needed to check.

She called Personnel and asked for the last known address and phone number for Sergeant Rick Tombs. Officers provided the information upon retirement to receive their pension checks. It was also not uncommon for a detective taking over a case file to call a retired detective with questions. She heard the woman in Personnel typing on the keyboard.

“Got an address and phone number,” she said. “But the file also indicates the individual is deceased.”





C H A P T E R 1 9

After dropping off the files at Park 90/5 and sending Mike Melton an email explaining what she needed, Tracy received the email she had requested from Personnel. The fact that Sergeant Rick Tombs was dead only increased her interest. Tombs retired to an address in Scottsdale, Arizona, and left a cell phone number with a 480 area code, which Tracy presumed was also for Scottsdale.

Tracy looked up the address on a search engine. The house was located in Desert Highlands, a golfing community. Curious, she used the search engine to look up other homes in that community and didn’t find one under $2.5 million, and that didn’t include the likely cost of a golfing membership and the monthly dues. Tombs certainly seemed to have done all right for himself in retirement. She typed in the name Rick Tombs and Scottsdale, Arizona, in a search engine, and one of the first hits was an obituary. Tombs had passed away almost five years ago. His cause of death was not provided.

So he definitely wasn’t doing so well.

Tracy arrived home at just after 5:00 p.m. She was anxious to see Daniella. She opened the front door and called out, which elicited the expected Rex and Sherlock alarm bells. Nails clicked on the tile like hail patter on a metal roof. The two dogs came around the kitchen corner so fast they slid sideways, Rex into Sherlock and both dogs taking out the throw rug and crashing into the back of the couch, a tangle of legs and paws, before they righted to greet Tracy.