In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(56)

Evan gave it a cursory glance but didn’t respond. He looked worried.

Kins pulled up a second picture. “And this was her car. Look a little closer, Evan. It’s very important we find that girl before she gets hurt.”

Evan glanced quickly at the photo. “I didn’t see any cars. I just walked.”

Kins glanced at Tracy and she read his meaning. Evan remembered walking that day.

“What about the young woman, Evan? Did you see her?” Tracy asked.

“I didn’t see her.”

“We know she ran in the park that day, Evan.”

Again, Evan didn’t answer.

“Did you see the girl, Evan?”

“I was sick,” he said suddenly. “I had the flu.”

“Not Wednesday, Evan,” Kins said. “You walked on Wednesday, and you mowed the lawns on Thursday. You weren’t sick.”

“Was she lost, Evan? Did she stop to ask for directions?” Tracy tried.

Evan brought both hands to his head. “I . . . I . . . I don’t remember.”

“Evan, we have to find that girl. We know you wouldn’t want to see her get hurt. It’s important that we find her.”

“I have to go home.”

Tracy changed gears. “Was Carrol at home sick yesterday?”

“Carrol works at the Home Depot.”

“Did he get sick?” Kins tried. “Was he home yesterday—Sunday?”

“Carrol works at the Home Depot. Franklin works at a retirement home. I don’t work.”

“Was Carrol home sick yesterday and today, Evan?” Tracy asked again.

“I had to see the doctor,” he said, seemingly more and more confused. “I had to go to the doctor.”

“Evan?” He stopped and looked at Tracy. “It’s okay, Evan.” He appeared guarded. “Can I bum a cigarette?” Tracy asked.

Evan instinctively touched the breast pocket of his jacket, then he shook his head. “I have to go home. I’m not supposed to talk to you. I have to go. I have to go home.” He resumed walking, nearly jogging. He turned right at the end of the block.

“He smokes,” Tracy said, watching Evan disappear around the corner.

“But you’re not going to convince a prosecutor or a judge to give us a warrant just because he patted his jacket.”

“Not by itself. But we also know Carrol lied about his work schedule.”

“Not about Wednesday.”

“We know someone big enough to carry a 140-pound woman, knocked out, was lying in wait in the ravine, and the Sprague house backs to the same ravine.”

“Franklin and Carrol both worked Wednesday, which is the day in question, and three other houses back up to that same ravine.”

They started back to their car. “Let’s try anyway,” Tracy said. “Let’s see if we can get Cerrabone on board.”



They caught up with Rick Cerrabone in his office, preparing for trial. A senior prosecuting attorney in the Most Dangerous Offender Project, Cerrabone was always preparing for a trial, and his office inside the King County Courthouse usually looked as if a bomb had detonated. Cerrabone was old-school. He’d reluctantly accepted the use of laptop computers and other gadgetry, but he still maintained numerous black binders, some piled atop each other on his desk, others lining his office walls beside boxes containing exhibits, transcripts, photographs, and other material.

Cerrabone invited Tracy and Kins into his office out of professional courtesy—over the years they had worked many cases together—but he told them he didn’t have a lot of time and might get called to the courtroom at any moment for a plea deal.

He gestured to the two chairs across from his desk. Tracy and Kins cleared stacks of paper and sat. Legal books lined floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, though the books were now just decoration. Every case had long ago been put online. The shelves included framed photographs of Cerrabone with his wife, and pictures of his three children—two grown boys and a daughter in a graduation cap and gown.

“Is that from college?” Tracy asked, disbelieving.

Cerrabone turned to look at the picture. “Medical school. Johns Hopkins.”

“Hillary Cerrabone graduated medical school? She was just a little girl.”

“And I was once young and had hair,” Cerrabone said. “Don’t remind me.”

Cerrabone had never looked young. He had a hangdog appearance, with perpetual dark bags under his eyes, a five-o’clock shadow, and skin that begged for sunshine. When Tracy first met him, she thought he looked like Joe Torre, the former Yankees manager. In court, Cerrabone reminded her of the stumbling, bumbling television police detective Columbo. It was an act that juries bought. After trials, jurors often expressed that they “felt sorry for Cerrabone” because he looked like he worked so hard.

“No wonder you’re still working,” Kins said.

“Not for that one,” Cerrabone said. “We didn’t pay a dime. She got scholarships for both her undergraduate and graduate studies. What wasn’t covered by the scholarship, she took out in student loans.”

“Can she talk to my boys? I have three in college and the tuition is killing me. One comes off the payroll this June, however. If he opts for graduate school, he’s on his own.”