What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(86)

“I guess it can’t hurt,” Faz said. “Maybe there’s a spark of decency hidden beneath all that camouflage.”

“There isn’t,” Del said.

“That’s a problem, Del,” Tracy said. “We can’t very well take the fight to Moss if we can’t even put on the boxing gloves.”



“I’ll go with you, Tracy; I’m just saying don’t get your hopes up.”

She wasn’t. Moss wasn’t stupid, and she suspected he’d thought this through, maybe even went to a lawyer for advice.

Moss lived in Northeast Bellevue in a house just above Lake Sammamish. Tracy and Del parked in the circular drive. Daylight rapidly faded and dusk had set in. The home, dark-green wood clapboard with black trim, sat nestled within trees and shrubbery.

Above the front door was a three-sided window made of stained glass.

Moss pulled the door open and stared at Tracy, about to say something until his gaze shifted to Del.

“Moss,” Del said.

Moss smiled. He wore golf clothes as similarly outlandish as the clothes he wore the morning Tracy first spoke to him. His pants were red, his shirt black with red checks. A white belt. “Well, I guess it was just a matter of time before you two showed up. I heard you were friendly. Worked on the same team for a decade. Am I right?”

“Want to talk to you, Moss,” Del said.

“Really. What about?” Moss grinned.

“You know what it’s about,” Del said.

Moss pulled the door open and took a step back. “Not a problem. Come on in to our humble abode.”

“Who is it?” a woman yelled from another room as Tracy and Del stepped into a marbled entryway beneath a glass chandelier.

“An old friend,” Moss said, keeping his gaze on Del. “One of my protégés.”

The entry had a step down to a living room with comfortable brown leather couches facing plate-glass windows offering a view of the lake and across it to the homes on the other side. In the corner of the room, a telescope on a tripod faced the view.

The woman who entered the hallway had shoulder-length blonde hair beneath a light-blue visor and looked to be midforties, roughly thirty years younger than Moss. “You’ve never met my wife, Frieda, have you, Del?”

Del looked to the petite woman in stretch golf pants and a black turtleneck beneath a golf jacket that matched the color of the visor. “I don’t believe so,” Del said. “It’s nice to meet you, Frieda.”

“Del was a rookie who I trained a long time ago,” Moss said.

“Taught him everything he knows. Isn’t that right, Del?”

Del looked to Frieda. “Everything but how to dress.”

“Well, thank God for that.” Frieda smiled. “I don’t think the world could stand a second Moss.”

Moss redirected his finger at Tracy. “And this is the renowned Tracy Crosswhite,” Moss said. “She’s famous for solving cold cases, honey. Won the Medal of Valor three times, I believe.”

“Congratulations,” Frieda said. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

“We just got back from golf and dinner at the club,” Moss said.

“You’ve never come out with me, Del. Do you golf?”

“Badly,” Del said.

“We all golf badly, Del. It’s just different degrees of terrible.”

Tracy feared Del might reach out and slap the smile off Moss’s smug face. “Honey, these two nice detectives would like to talk to me about one of my old cases. Even in retirement, duty calls. I’ll be in the den.”

“Will you be long?”

He looked again to Del. “No. I don’t believe this will take much time at all.”

Moss led them into a room of dark-wood paneling with an antique partners desk and a computer monitor on an inlaid leather desk pad. The monitor wasn’t connected to a computer.

“Before we get started, would you mind opening your coats?”

Del did and Moss patted him down. “You wouldn’t be wearing a wire, would you, partner?”

Del didn’t answer.

Moss turned to Tracy. “Do not put your hands on me,” she said.

Moss chuckled. “I heard you were a hard-ass. Heard you and Johnny Nolasco weren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

“We’re not on any terms,” Tracy said.

Moss moved the computer monitor to one side of the desk so he could see both of them. Before sitting in a leather chair, he asked, “Can I get either of you a Scotch or Irish whiskey?” Del and Tracy declined. Moss sat and put his slippered feet on the desk edge. “So, what would you like to talk to me about.”

“A woman’s life,” Tracy said.

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Lisa Childress,” Tracy said.

“The gal on the television? She’s getting a lot of airtime. So is the husband.”

“He’s saying you did a shitty job,” Del said.

“That’s the beauty of retirement, Del. The stink no longer sticks to me.” He looked to Tracy. “They’re saying the wife has amnesia. Is it true?”

“Nobody knows,” Tracy said, hoping the ambiguity might scare Moss into talking. It was a risk, but she could provide Childress with some protection. Moss’s smile faltered slightly. “She isn’t really talking to the media . . . yet. I know about the raid at the Diamond Marina, Moss. I want to know what happened. I want to know why you didn’t report it.”