In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(24)

Franklin watched the news while eating his steak, which he charred top and bottom but left blood raw inside. He could hear Evan rummaging in kitchen drawers and predicted what was to come next.

“I don’t see no batteries.”

“Your right is the hand you throw a baseball with.”

“I know my . . .”

The rummaging stopped. Then it started again. The dumbshit had been looking in the wrong drawer.

“Here they are.”

Franklin groaned. Taking care of Evan, and Carrol for that matter, was a lot of work, but he’d promised his daddy he’d look after the both of them, though their daddy had done little of it himself while alive. When he hadn’t been at work, he’d either be down in the cellar or up at the cabin. And he hadn’t given Franklin much choice in the matter, not after Franklin discovered what was in the cellar. Not like he could just sell the house and move on.

Evan called out from the kitchen. “You want a Bud or a Bud Light?”

“What did I say? Did I say Bud Light? That’s Carrol’s piss water. I don’t drink that shit. Just bring me a Bud.”

“They ain’t cold.”

Franklin was ready to explode. “I put two in the freezer so they’d . . .” Franklin swallowed the rest of the sentence when the picture of the young girl appeared on the television.

Evan walked back into the room. “I took the second one out so it don’t explode—”

“Shh.” Franklin stared at the television. “Turn up the volume.”

“I got the batteries.”

“Quit running your mouth and turn up the volume.” A name appeared under the photograph. Stephanie Cole. “Shit,” Franklin said under his breath. He put down his fork and knife.

The news report didn’t provide a lot of particulars or details, but it didn’t need to. One thing was clear. The police were looking for Cole. The newscaster said she had last been seen leaving work in Fremont Wednesday afternoon, and that her usual routine was to jog around Green Lake or Woodland Park. There was no mention of North Park. One good thing. The newscaster also reported on Cole’s car, a blue Prius with a California license plate and, as the plate number flashed on the screen, a number for a dedicated police tip line followed. The newscaster ended with a plea that anyone with any information should call that number.

Franklin closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. His stomach gripped and his ulcer burned. The doctor said the ulcer was from stress. No shit, Sherlock. You try living here and have no stress. “‘Nobody’s going to look for her.’ Isn’t that what you said, little brother?”

Evan paled. “I didn’t know, Franklin.”

Franklin stood. His thighs toppled the dinner tray and his plate of food onto the throw rug. “‘Nobody is going to look for her.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

“But—”

“No buts, Evan. I told you not to do it. You just screwed all of us, all the work I put in.”

“They didn’t say they knowed nothing.”

“They’re not going to give details of their investigation over the television. The police never say what they know and don’t know. The point is, they’re looking for her hard, and now, so is everybody else. How hard you think it’s going to be to find a car with California license plates?”

Franklin ran his hand over the stubble on his chin, thinking about what to do. He’d had Carrol deal with the car, but who knew what type of job the lazy shit had done. Maybe this would blow over, like the others. Maybe this girl wasn’t worth finding neither. Maybe the police would make a run at it, then give up. He doubted it. This one was different. This wasn’t no prostitute. This was a damn cheerleader. They’d keep looking, and that meant Franklin needed to do something now.

He looked at his food strewn on the carpet and took Evan’s plate. “That’s yours,” he said, pointing to the carpet.

Evan didn’t protest. He held out the bottle of beer. “You still want your beer?”

Franklin reached for his beer. When Evan stepped forward to hand it to him, Franklin slapped him hard across the mouth, knocking him to the ground.





CHAPTER 13

Tracy had spent a quiet night at home with Dan and Daniella. It had rained hard, and they’d lit a fire in the family room and read books until the workweek caught up to her and she fell asleep on the couch. Not that her slumber lasted long. During an investigation, her subconscious often worked a case after she’d gone to bed, then when she woke up. This morning her thoughts had prevented her from going back to bed after feeding Daniella.

Tracy unlocked the door to the Cold Case office and moved quickly to her desk. When she took the cold case position, she thought she had worked her last weekend, but here she was, again. She and Kins had agreed to meet later that morning.

She found the summary of cases Art Nunzio had put together, the files he’d been working. She’d awoken that morning thinking of Stephanie Cole, which triggered a recollection of the Cowboy—the serial killer who had tied up and murdered female prostitutes working the motels on Aurora Avenue in North Seattle. Tracy had put the Cowboy in prison, but foremost on her mind, what had triggered the recollection, was something she had read in Nunzio’s summary of the cases he’d worked.