In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(53)

Tracy had just called the Home Depot in Shoreline to speak to Carrol Sprague when Johnny Nolasco stepped into the A Team’s cubicle and gave her a quizzical look.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Tracy set down the receiver. “I’m working a case with Kins.”

Kins turned but, still on the phone, didn’t respond.

Nolasco had his sleeves rolled up and several sheets of paper in hand. “What about your cold cases?”

“I’m working those also.”

Nolasco looked to Kins, who had just ended his conversation. “Why didn’t you come to me if you needed help on your files?”

“I ran it by Billy,” Kins said.

“Why?”

“This one came in the other day from Missing Persons. Fernandez is still in trial, and Faz and Del have the shooting in Pioneer Square. Tracy was here when it came in. I asked Billy if I could get some help.”

“Why are we working a missing person case?”

“The circumstances.”

“Which are?”

Kins gave him a brief summary.

Nolasco looked to a calendar on the wall. “Where are you on it?”

Kins explained their progress to date.

Nolasco turned to Tracy. “And what are you doing?”

“At the moment I’m putting together a list of suspects based on interviews, known evidence, and known exculpatory evidence. I’m also coordinating with CSI, Kaylee Wright, and with the crime lab.”

“Why the crime lab?”

“We found cigarette butts in the park. Wright believes the butt was left by someone lying in wait for this girl. We’re hopeful the lab can pull DNA. We also found blood.”

“Who knew she was running in this park?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Tracy said.

“What cold cases are you working?”

Tracy told him about the two missing prostitutes and about Elle Chin.

“Nunzio worked sexual assaults, cases that had collected DNA evidence and had a chance to be solved. Do any of those cases have DNA evidence?”

“Not yet,” Tracy said, knowing the question had been rhetorical.

“Sounds like you’re starting off on the wrong foot. You do realize Nunzio had a breakout year last year, clearing twenty files.”

“It was made abundantly clear in the press release,” Tracy said. “I was wondering who provided them the specifics.”

Nolasco smirked. “We celebrate the successes. We also hold ourselves to them.”

“I’ll remember that,” Tracy said. “When I solve these cases.” Her cell phone rang. Grateful for the excuse to get away, she stood and checked caller ID but didn’t recognize the number with the 206 area code. She answered, “Detective Crosswhite.”

“Detective?” A male voice, high-pitched. “This is Carrol Sprague. I believe you spoke to my brother, Franklin, and asked that I give you a call.”

“Thanks for getting back to me, Mr. Sprague.”

“I’m at work today. I can’t make personal calls except if I’m on break. I don’t get a lot of free time.” The voice sounded affected, but she couldn’t quite place how. Tracy asked Carrol the same questions she had asked Franklin and the other neighbors—his whereabouts Wednesday at dusk and whether he had seen Stephanie Cole.

Carrol confirmed he had worked that day and said he went out for a beer at a place called the Pacific Pub on Aurora Avenue. “So I really wasn’t in a position to see or hear anything.”

“Did you get a beer with anyone from work?”

“No.”

“Did you meet anyone at the bar?”

“No. But they know me in the bar. You could ask the waitress.”

Tracy would. She asked if Sprague ever walked in the park.

“I don’t get a lot of opportunity on workdays, and I’m not much of a walker to be honest.”

“What about your brothers?”

“Evan has more time to do those sorts of things. I think Franklin told you Evan is slow?”

“He did mention it.”

“He has more time.”

Tracy continued to get a weird vibe from the conversation. It sounded almost as if Carrol was talking an octave higher than normal. He was deliberate with each word. “How’s he feeling?” Tracy asked.

Pause. “Evan? He’s fine.”

“Did he get over his cold?”

“Oh . . . uh, yeah. Th . . . th . . . that was nothing. He’s h . . . h . . . healthy as a horse.” There was another pause.

Tracy quickly asked, “Is he taking his walks again?”

No answer.

“Mr. Sprague?”

The pause became pregnant. Sprague again spoke deliberately, as if carefully choosing each word. “I’m sorry, Detective. I think maybe we got cut off for a second. I didn’t hear your question.”

“I was just wondering if Evan was taking his regular walks again.”

“I don’t really know, Detective. Like I said, I’m not home most afternoons. I . . . I . . . I haven’t been getting home until late, so I . . . I . . . I can’t really say what Evan was doing.”

It sounded like a recovery and not a very good one. She wondered about the stutter, if that was the reason his voice sounded stilted.