In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(32)

“Move here,” Bibby said.

“We’re still piecing everything together. This helps. Thank you. Anything else you can think of?” Kins asked.

“No. Nothing. I sure hope nothing bad has happened to that little girl. This is a peaceful neighborhood. Good people. We all know one another and get along.”

Tracy turned to Lorraine. “Do you know if the school has security cameras for that parking lot?” She pointed out the window.

“It doesn’t. Last January thieves stole a wheelchair ramp that provided access to a portable classroom. It would have been nice to have caught them on camera.”

“Can you believe that?” Bibby said.

“We were the second school targeted,” Lorraine said. “But we don’t have much recourse without security cameras, and we won’t get them if the voters don’t approve two school levies to allocate funds for all Seattle elementary schools.”

“You said the entrance to the park can be difficult to find?” Tracy said to Bibby.

“I’m getting ready to take Jackpot out for his walk. We can go a little earlier if you’d like me to take you,” Bibby said.

“We’d appreciate that,” Tracy said.

Bibby stood and grimaced. “No worries. My back could sure use the walk,” he said.



After Bibby slid on his winter gear and tethered Jackpot to his leash, Kins and Tracy followed them out the door. Kins walked beside Bibby and Jackpot. Tracy walked behind them, surveying the school parking lot as they passed, then the house kitty-corner to what Bibby described as the park entrance. The entrance wasn’t well defined, though there was a park sign. Someone had sprayed graffiti on it—gang symbols.

“You have any gangs around here?” Tracy asked when they stopped at the park entrance.

“Only of the septuagenarian variety,” Bibby said.

The obscure park entrance made Tracy wonder if Cole had trouble finding the running trail. She made a note in her notebook.

Did Cole ask for directions?

Across the street from the trail entrance, Tracy noted a two-story house with floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows. She looked for security cameras over the front door and over a sliding glass door on the side, but she didn’t see any. She made a note to talk to each homeowner with a view of the park entrance, then followed Kins and Bibby into the park.

A signpost at the trail’s entrance did not include a trail map. If it was Cole’s first time running in the park, she might not have known the trail descended into a ravine and came to a dead end.

“A few years back the trail had become a dumping spot for garbage, used appliances, tires, you name it,” Bibby said, starting down the path. “A neighbor got funds from the county to clean it up, and the neighborhood did the work. It’s looking a lot better now.”

She followed Kins and Bibby down the steep grade into a wooded ravine with maple trees and ferns. Tracy agreed that going back up the grade would be a killer, and it made her wonder why Stephanie Cole chose to run here when she had seemingly better running paths closer to her home that circumnavigated a beautiful lake and weaved through one of Seattle’s best parks.

After fifteen minutes of walking, the trail flattened, and they stepped across wooden pallets creating a footbridge over a small creek. Bibby said, “This is where I passed her. As I said, I’d been chasing Jackpot all through these bushes and had just got ahold of his collar and got him back on the leash when she came jogging along.”

Tracy could not hear street traffic, just the wind rustling the leaves of the small, tranquil forest. Not that Tracy felt peace. The lack of sunlight and the quiet brought a sense of foreboding. She looked from the trail to the plants, at broken branches and depressed leaves. She looked for footprints in the dirt, anything to indicate a woman had been dragged along the ground. She looked for disturbed soil or a mound of dirt.

Winter light faded, blocked by the canopy, though many trees had shed most of their leaves. They continued along the trail. Tracy’s head remained on a swivel, searching for unnatural colors in the bushes. Already she was making plans to come back in the morning with cadaver dogs and CSI detectives. She’d also call Kaylee Wright, a sign-cutter who could re-create what had happened at a crime scene from shoeprints and broken vegetation. If this was a crime scene, they’d need Wright. Given the amount of time that had passed, and the hard rains last night, she doubted search-and-rescue dogs could track a scent, though she’d call to confirm. Kaylee was as good as the dogs, maybe better.

They came to an unceremonious but clearly marked dead end. Thick brush sloped up a steep hillside. Halfway up the slope, on two metal guardrails, someone had posted signs identifying this to be the end of the public trail.

“This is where Jackpot and I turn around and start the walk back up the hill.”

“Give me a hand,” Tracy said to Kins and held out her hand. Kins helped her step up onto the guardrail, but she couldn’t see above the slope. “What’s up there?” Tracy asked Bibby.

“Backyards,” Bibby said as Tracy stepped down. “That’s why it isn’t a continuous loop. Some of the land is private property.”

Tracy again studied the vegetation. She noticed a gap in the heavy brush, a small game trail that led up the hill.

“We’re losing light,” Kins said.