In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(67)

Carrol Sprague.

Sprague backed from his parking spot. Tracy started the engine, kept the headlights off, and pulled forward, giving herself plenty of room behind the Kia. Sprague wove his way through the parking lot to 244th Street Southwest, turned left, and drove to Aurora Avenue North, also known as the Pacific Highway. Tracy followed, maintaining a distance of several car lengths behind the Kia on the four-lane road. She had to be close enough to make the traffic lights and to turn, if Sprague suddenly turned.

Sprague drove for several miles, passing one-story fast food restaurants, motels, hotels, and travel lodges, as well as one-story businesses. Tracy thought again of Angel Jackson and Donna Jones, and how easy it would have been for Sprague to cruise the strip after work to snatch a prostitute without attracting any attention.

He made a right turn into a strip mall parking lot. Businesses included a chiropractor’s office, a video game arcade store, and a bar, the Pacific Pub. Tracy turned into the driveway and watched in the rearview mirror as Sprague parked the Kia and got out, again pulling the jacket hood over his head before entering the bar.

Creature of habit.

Tracy slipped on her raincoat, pulled her blouse from the waistline of her jeans to look a little less put together, then stepped from the car and hurried beneath the awning protecting the entrances to the businesses from the rain.

The pub’s glass door and windows had been tinted black, so she couldn’t see where Carrol Sprague sat. Tracy stepped inside to dim lighting from globes hanging over a bar, booths along the walls, and several tables with chairs. At a booth closest to the bar, Carrol Sprague removed his jacket and hung it on a hook before he lowered onto the bench seat.

Tracy sat in an empty booth where she could watch the back of Carrol Sprague’s head. Above him, hanging from the ceiling, a television broadcast a college football game. A waitress appeared at Sprague’s table with a laminated menu, but it never left her hand. She and Sprague exchanged a few words. They looked as if they knew each other. This was likely the bar Franklin said his brother frequented after work.

After a couple minutes, the waitress moved down the booths to Tracy, welcomed her, and handed her the menu.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Maybe. I’m supposed to meet someone here. Let me look over the menu while I’m waiting.”

The waitress left the menu on the table and departed. She returned to Sprague’s table with a longneck Bud Light, again stopping to talk with him. Girlfriend? Tracy wondered. The woman again approached Tracy’s booth. “I think I’ll have a Budweiser while I’m waiting,” she said.

“A bottle or a draft?”

“A bottle’s fine.”

Tracy kept her eyes on Sprague, but to any of the other half a dozen people in the bar, she looked like she was watching the football game on the mounted television. The waitress returned with her bottle of beer. Twenty minutes later, she delivered a basket of food, what looked to be a hamburger and French fries, and a second beer to Sprague. She didn’t take the first bottle.

She approached Tracy’s booth. “Still waiting?” she asked.

“Still waiting,” Tracy said.

“Can I get you another beer?”

“Not just yet.”

“Just flag me down if you need anything.”

“I’ll do that.”

Another ten minutes passed. The bells hanging on the glass door jingled. In Tracy’s peripheral vision, a man entered the bar. As he made his way to Carrol Sprague’s table, Tracy paid closer attention.

Franklin Sprague.

“Shit,” she said under her breath.



Carrol Sprague looked up from his hamburger, his mouth filled with a large bite, and mumbled a greeting to his brother sliding into the booth across from him.

Franklin did not respond.

“What’s up?” Carrol asked. He wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin and set it on the table. Franklin had called him just before Carrol got off work and said he’d meet him at the Pacific Pub, that he had something to talk to Carrol about. The call had made Carrol queasy. The only thing worse than Franklin being upset about something was Franklin telling you he needed to talk to you, but not telling you about what. He made it feel like an interrogation, like he was asking you questions he already knew the answers to and really wanted to determine if you were lying or trying to get away with something.

The waitress appeared at the table and handed Franklin a longneck Bud. “Thanks, Janice.”

“Can I get you any food?”

“Not tonight. I ate at work.”

She tore off the bill and slipped it beneath the basket, departing.

“She wouldn’t be bad if she lost twenty to thirty pounds in her ass,” Franklin said, watching her leave.

“More cushion for the pushing,” Carrol said, trying to keep it light. He sipped his beer.

Franklin turned his attention back to the table. “You talk to Evan?”

“Evan?” Carrol shook his head. “When?”

“What do you mean, when? Anytime. Did you talk to Evan last night when we got home?”

Carrol didn’t know what this was about. He’d talked to Evan last night when he got home. Nothing of substance though. “Not really.” That seemed like the safest answer.

“How did he seem to you?”