What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(67)

Tracy’s cell phone rang. She accepted the call.

“Detective Crosswhite?” Tracy recognized Melissa Childs’s voice.

“Yes, Melissa.”

“I’ve given what we talked about a lot of thought, and I want to thank you for being so considerate, for letting this be my decision.”

“Of course,” Tracy said. “The decision remains yours.”

“Well . . . As I said, I’ve thought about it and I don’t really see the advantage for me to go back to being Lisa Childress. I’ve made a life for myself here in Escondido, a good life. It’s not great but it’s a life in which I can function.”

“I understand,” Tracy said. In her mind she could see Deiondre Jones shaking his head and smirking at her. It would be just like last time.

“But it’s not just me, is it?” Childs said.

“What’s that?”

“I said, ‘It’s not just me.’ I have to think about the other people this impacts; don’t I? I have a mother who hasn’t seen her daughter for twenty-five years. I can only imagine the pain she’s suffered, thinking I’d died but not really knowing. And my daughter. She grew up without a mother. In a sense what happened to me, not being able to remember them, was a blessing. I imagine their memories must have been very painful.”

Tracy recalled her mother saying something similar about her grandmother, that her grandmother was lucky because at least she didn’t know what she wasn’t remembering. The disease was much harder on those who could recall what her grandmother had been like, and all the good moments they had shared.

“What would you like me to do?” Tracy asked.

“I’d like to meet them—my mother and my daughter. I suppose my husband also. I think I owe it to them.”

“When would you like to do that?”

“Well, I guess now is as good a time as any.”

“Then I’ll make it happen,” Tracy said. “And I’ll do my best to keep it quiet, so you can have some peace.”





C H A P T E R 2 6

As Tracy took the exit and drove to return the pool car in the garage on Sixth Avenue, her work cell phone buzzed. Caller ID indicated Police Headquarters but did not provide a name, which meant it wasn’t Faz, Del, or Kins. No name usually meant the brass.

The only brass she now dealt with was Chief Weber. The only reason Tracy could think of why Weber would call would be for an update on the cold cases Tracy was pursuing, but even that seemed to be overkill. No. It was overkill.

In all of Tracy’s years working Violent Crimes, Chief Clarridge had only asked her about one case, the serial killer they called “the Cowboy.” Clarridge only stepped to the podium if the case was high profile, or if the case resolution made the department look good, like Tracy finding the bodies buried by the serial killers in North Seattle and Curry Canyon.

Regardless of the reason for the call, Tracy let it go to voice mail, then checked her messages. Chief Weber told Tracy to call her and left a number. Not just yet.

She backtracked to Park 90/5. She’d pay Oz, Mike Melton, a visit and see if he’d worked his magic to pull DNA from the cold cases she’d sent over. If he had, Tracy would seek to match that DNA with a person in their system. Then she’d talk to Chief Weber and tell her the progress she’d made on three cases.

She stopped at Salumi and ordered a hot sopressata-and-provolone sandwich and a Leonetta’s meatball sandwich to go.

Yeah, she was bribing Melton, again. Both were his favorites. But as her mom had said, the quickest way to a man’s heart was his stomach.



Having worked in a number of different CSI divisions as she made her way up to Violent Crimes, Tracy knew the Park 90/5 complex well. She surprised Melton, who tapped the keys on his keyboard with his head angled to read thru his bifocal glasses. He jumped when Tracy blurted out, “You cut your hair.”

She couldn’t help it. Melton’s other nickname had been “Grizzly”

because he had the wild mane and matching beard that resembled the actor in Grizzly Adams. Melton’s hair no longer touched the collar of his shirt and showed more gray. Tracy couldn’t ever remember seeing Melton’s ears, which seemed too small for his head, or his neck—he’d also trimmed his beard, which lessened the effect of the two fangs of gray and made his head look smaller.

“Good thing you’re a detective,” Melton said. “Nothing gets by you.”

“You look younger.”

“You’re a poor liar. The gray makes me look older. Do I look any thinner?”

Tracy played it safe. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Melton made a face. “I was hoping for thinner. The family’s been after me to lose some weight.”

“You’re not heavy.”

“I’m big-boned,” he said. “With too much on those bones. My cholesterol is high. So’s my blood pressure. I told my doctor it comes with the job. Pesky detectives. Doctor is talking about medication.

Getting old ain’t for sissies.”

“Well, as a friend of mine likes to say, the alternative to getting old is worse, so count your blessings.”

“Every day.” He shifted his attention to the bag. “Smells like something one might use to jump the line and get her cases put ahead of the other detectives pushing me.”