What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(51)

She looked at the California driver’s license that Chris Taylor had sent. It was issued June 15, 1996, not long after Lisa Childress had disappeared. She opened the third document and found an employment application. Melissa Childs’s middle initial was A. She applied for part-time work at H&R Block. Under the section asking for education, Childs had put Palomar College—Escondido Center, with a start date of 6/96. She did not provide an end date. She had drawn a slash line through the box asking for degrees earned. Under Major/Subject she wrote: bookkeeping/firefighting. An interesting combination. Under Special Skills, Childs wrote: Fast learner. She did not provide any prior work experience.

It was almost as if Melissa Childs had fallen from the sky that June 1996. Everything flowed from that date. Tracy wondered. Could it be possible? Could Childress have done as Dan had speculated?

Could she have just walked away from a daughter, started fresh?

Tracy thought of Daniella and didn’t think it possible.

It also didn’t explain the can of bear spray—or David Slocum.





C H A P T E R 2 0

Monday morning, Tracy called Police Headquarters and told the Personnel Department she didn’t feel well and was taking a sick day. It was a white lie, and it didn’t hurt anyone but herself.

She’d use one of her sick days.

She’d have the house to herself. Therese took Daniella to a day-care session that was supposed to introduce Daniella to other children and teach her things like sharing. Tracy thought it dubious, but it was a chance for both Therese and Daniella to get out of the house and for both to be with children and adults the same age. Dan had gone into his office that morning. He seemed better. The weekend project had proven to be therapeutic. Tim and Dan spent all day Saturday and Sunday constructing the structure—it had been that complicated, but they got it put together and the four of them ate beneath it Sunday night.

Tracy shut the door to her home office and requested that Alexa play a classical station. She found the phone number to the Escondido police station and asked to speak to someone in the Missing Persons Unit. She was told a missing person would be handled by the Investigations Bureau. After several starts and stops, a lieutenant in the Special Investigation Division picked up, and Tracy explained who she was and the purpose for her call.

“Can you give me the name and date of birth again of the missing person?” he asked.

Tracy did. “What would you like us to do, Detective?” he asked in a less than enthusiastic tone, likely concluding that after twenty-four years, Tracy was conducting a wild-goose chase and he would be coming home with an empty sack.

“I’d like to find out if she’s still living at the address I provided, or if she’s even still in Escondido. I ran her through what databases I could up here and came up empty.”

“You said you’re trying to determine if she’s a person who went missing twenty-four years ago?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you said she worked as a bookkeeper and maybe as a firefighter?”

“That appears to be what she was studying at the local college there.”

“Did you call the fire department? Maybe she worked for them.”

He was passing the buck, but at least the pass seemed to be in the right direction. “Do you have a number?”

“The fire department administrative office is here in this building.

That would be your best bet, rather than calling each fire department in town.” Tracy didn’t know the number of departments in town, but after witnessing the Southern California summer wildfires on the news the last few years, she knew there were never enough firefighters. The lieutenant provided the number and told Tracy to call back if she struck out and he’d try to track down a current address through the California DMV and property rolls.

Tracy thanked him. Minutes later, she was working her way through the Escondido Fire Department’s administrative offices.

“What year was that?” a woman asked.

“Had to be 1996 or thereafter.”

“Hang on.” The woman put Tracy on hold again. Several minutes later, another voice came on the phone, a man. Tracy expected him to also pass the buck.

“This is Fire Chief Mark Davis. How can I help you?”

Tracy hadn’t expected the chief, and she wondered what would warrant her talking to the top brass. She provided an abbreviated story, expecting to get kicked back to the police department. When she finished, she heard only silence. “Hello? Chief Davis?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” He sounded like he had a lilt in his voice, almost like when someone said, You’re kidding, right? Tracy couldn’t blame the man.



“I thought we got cut off,” she said.

“No. No we didn’t. It’s just . . . well, Detective, there have been some folks waiting twenty-four years for this call.”

Late that afternoon, Tracy stepped off a plane at San Diego International Airport into sunshine, palm trees, and a warm breeze that brought the smell of the Pacific Ocean. Just outside the airport terminal, a silver-haired man about Tracy’s height waited for her in navy-blue pants and a light-blue, short-sleeve shirt with the Escondido Fire Department emblem on his shoulder. Chief Mark Davis greeted Tracy with a warm but hesitant smile. He looked like a fireman, a cliché for sure, but he was lean, muscled, and seemingly in excellent shape. He also had a bronze San Diego glow—someone who spent time outdoors.