The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4)

by Robert Dugoni

  Rex and Sherlock greeted Tracy as she came through the side door from the garage into the kitchen, though it was without their usual enthusiasm and seemed more obligatory. They quickly retreated out the sliding glass door to the deck, and plopped down on their sides, their tongues hanging from their mouths, panting, and otherwise looking miserable. Thank God they were shorthaired.

  Shirtless, Dan stood on the deck wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops and looked anything but miserable. He kept himself in good shape running and lifting weights several times a week and getting out for hikes in the mountains on the weekends. In the winter, he still skied like he was eighteen. His stomach remained flat and his chest well developed, with just the right amount of chest hair. At the moment, he wasn’t wearing his round wire-rimmed glasses that, along with his curly hair, made him look like a college professor.

  “What did you do to them?” Tracy asked, nodding to the dogs as she stepped out the sliding glass door.

  “Just a walk,” Dan said. “You know they’re big babies in the heat.” He opened the grill and quickly became enveloped in a cloud of smoke.

  “Do I need to bring out the fire extinguisher?” Tracy said, closing the sliding glass door so the smoke didn’t fill the house.

  Dan fanned a burst of flames and flipped a piece of chicken with tongs before quickly closing the hood and stepping back. “If you know any way to barbecue chicken without starting a three-alarm blaze I’m all ears.” They kissed and Dan gestured to a table between two deck chairs. “I poured you a glass of wine.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to change first. You look a lot more comfortable than I feel.”

  Dan threw back his head and spread his arms. Though dusk, it remained warm and he had always loved the heat. Even as kids growing up in Cedar Grove, Tracy remembered his unbridled joy on hot summer days. “The hotter the better,” he used to say, then he’d rattle off all the things they would do—like riding their bikes into the hills and jumping from the rope swing into the river.

  “The weather stays like this, you may never go back to work,” Tracy said.

  “I wish. I have yet another trip down to Los Angeles to deal with my favorite opposing counsel.”

  “You didn’t get it resolved today?”

  “We got that resolved. The judge called their motion frivolous, gave me my attorney’s fees, and told them to get the case finished. I’m flying down to put the judgment on the record and start the appeal clock.”

  “Can’t you do it over the phone or by e-mail?”

  “I don’t trust them. I want it on the record in open court.”

  “When do you have to go?”

  “Friday.”

  “If I didn’t have this new case I’d go with you; we could have spent the weekend at the beach.”

  “That sounds a lot better than dealing with those jackasses. Resolve your case and we’ll do it.”

  “Turning out to be easier said than done. Let me change and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Tracy went inside and exchanged her work clothes for shorts and a tank top. Back on the deck, she said, “Much better.” Dan sat in one of the two lounge chairs sipping a Corona. With the sun fading fast, the deck on the east side of the home provided relief from the heat, though the thermometer on the wall indicated it remained seventy-two.

  “I assume this has to do with the woman in the crab pot?”

  Tracy sat in the empty chair and sipped her wine. “We’ve had a hell of a time trying to identify her.”

  Dan grimaced. “That bad?”

  “The body’s in decent condition. We think she’s a ghost.”

  “A ghost?”

  “Someone deliberately living off the radar.” Tracy explained how they’d tracked down the name Lynn Hoff, but also the seeming dead end they’d reached. “Nolasco wants us to wrap it up, declare her indigent, and let the city cremate her.”

  Looking suddenly alarmed, Dan stood and said, “Speaking of cremation.” He quickly grabbed the tongs. When he opened the barbecue only a small puff of smoke emerged. “They’re alive.” He plucked each piece of chicken off the grill and set them on a nearby plate. For all the flames, the chicken looked golden brown and crisp. Tracy had no idea how Dan did it. He turned the knobs off, killing the flames, then shut off the nozzle supplying the propane.

  Tracy went inside to get place settings and Dan retrieved a salad and dressing from the fridge. They went back onto the deck, sat, and dished out food. Below, on Elliott Bay, tiny white triangles tacked back and forth in the ripples of waves. The sky, devoid of a single cloud, provided no indication the heat wave would end anytime soon.

  As they ate, Dan said, “So tell me why you think this woman is a ghost.”

  Tracy explained what they’d found at Dr. Wu’s and the motel room, and through the DOL, and the basis for her conclusion that Lynn Hoff was not a druggie, a prostitute, or homeless. “If she’s not a druggie or a prostitute, why wouldn’t someone have reported her as missing?”

  “Maybe it’s like you said—she wasn’t really missing if she didn’t want to be found,” Dan said. “So maybe nobody suspects she’s missing.”

  “But if she’s hiding from someone, that means she has some identity, right? Nobody can just walk away from everyone and everything unnoticed. She had to have some family, friends, work colleagues. Nobody can fall off the radar that easily, can they?”

  “They can for a while—depending on what they tell everyone . . . or if they die,” he said, chewing on a drumstick.

  “That’s not a bad thought.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve been focusing on whether she had a prior criminal record, but that might not be the right focus. Whoever Jane Doe is, she might have been using a false identity because she knows Lynn Hoff is not going to show up in any database. She could be dead.”

  Tracy’s cell phone rang. She recognized her desk number. When on call, or working a fresh homicide, she had her calls at the office forwarded to her cell. “I have to take this,” she said. Dan picked up his wineglass and sat back. Tracy excused herself from the table and walked to the deck railing. “This is Detective Crosswhite.”

  “Detective Crosswhite, this is Glenn Hicks. I’m a district ranger with Mount Rainier National Park.”

  “What can I do for you?” Tracy asked. She turned and looked south, where the mountain loomed ever large.

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not exactly sure.” Hicks gave a long sigh through the phone. Then he said, “But I think you might have found one of my corpses.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Marriage is bliss.

  That’s what people say, anyway. I found it not all that different from being single, except for little things, like I had to clear space in the closet for Graham’s clothes, and there was twice as much laundry and twice as many dirty dishes. I hadn’t anticipated we’d live in my loft, which isn’t much bigger than a studio apartment, but Graham said it was less expensive than his apartment and we’d save money, plus we’d be living in the Pearl District and could walk to all the cool restaurants and stores.

  Not that we ever do walk to all the cool restaurants and stores. It’s been six weeks since the big day—I did summit Mount Rainier, by the way, though Graham didn’t make it. He had to turn back at Disappointment Cleaver with altitude sickness. I thought he’d be happy I’d made it, but he was more upset with the guides, who he said didn’t prepare him well enough for the ascent.

  Anyway, Graham has been working late—a lot. He has a big public offering for one of BSBT’s signature clients and says that if he pulls it off, there’s no way he can’t be made a firm partner. It’s okay with me he’s working so much. Like I said, I was used to living alone and it’s been an adjustment having someone else in the loft. I’ve never been much of a talker, but Graham likes to talk when he gets home, sometimes anyway. He has a lot of big ideas about companies he wants to someday start, though he says he hasn’t found “that magic fit” just yet.

 
Graham working late gives me more time to spend reading, though he keeps encouraging me to go back to the gym. That twenty pounds I lost training for and climbing Rainier? I found it. I should say, it found me. I certainly wasn’t looking for it. I think it’s genetics. I can remember my father saying to my mother that no matter how much he ate, or how far or how often he jogged, he could never get below 190 pounds.

  Not that I’m 190 pounds!

  Good God.

  Still, I’m 135, which isn’t exactly lean and mean.

  The sex has been less frequent than I expected. Graham says he’s tired after the long days, but I’m wondering if it has to do with those pounds. Before we got married, Graham used to say, “I like my women with a little meat on their bones.” Now he’ll say things like, “You should go to the gym when I’m working late, or go out for a walk. You don’t have to be cooped up in here all night.”

  I like cooped up. I like my books. And I don’t mind the pounds. My wardrobe is built for it!

  I was cooped up on a Wednesday night, reading The Nightingale, a book that had transported me back to 1940s Paris, when Nazis goose-stepped down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. I heard someone at the door. My loft is on the third floor of a converted warehouse. It’s the only loft on the floor and while you can access it by stairs or take an elevator, you have to punch in a four-digit security code to get in the front door and to get the elevator to ascend. My front door is also keyless. I think the landlord got tired of getting calls in the middle of the night from tenants who’d locked themselves out. I use the same four-digit code for the elevator and my door—the day and month of my birthday. Real sneaky, I know.

  Anyway, we don’t get solicitors, so the sound of someone at the door that early in the evening surprised me. I glanced up at the clock on the wall near the windows that provided a partial view of the Willamette River and Broadway Bridge. Six thirty. I wasn’t expecting Graham that early. Lately, he had not been getting home until after ten.

  “Hey,” he said, stepping in and giving me a quick glance before shutting the door and setting down his backpack.

  “Hey,” I said, sensing something wrong. Graham’s moods could be hard to predict. When he was happy, he was a ball of fast-talking energy. He’d go on and on whether or not I participated in the conversation. Then he’d catch himself and say, “I’m sorry. I haven’t given you a chance to say anything.” But before I could say anything, he’d start talking again. Those were the good nights. The not-so-good nights were when Graham came home sullen, bordering on angry. The first few times I’d asked if he was all right, but I’d stopped after he’d said, “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I talk all day. Just give me some peace and quiet.”

  Tonight he stood at the door, eyes seemingly searching the ceiling rafters. He looked disheveled, which was not like him. I’d had to give him more space in the closet for his clothes, which was fine since I didn’t have much in the wardrobe department. Remember—cubicle worker. Portland. Graham needed suits, and shirts and ties for work, which he only bought from Nordstrom. He had a personal shopper who knew his tastes, and Graham liked the way they tailored his clothes. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ. I usually looked like I’d rolled out of bed, thrown on the first thing I selected, and headed out the door without even bothering to put on mascara, which was exactly what I did most mornings.

  Tonight, Graham’s tie was loose and the top button of his shirt undone. He looked sweaty, like he’d run home.

  “I have to get out of that place,” he said.

  “What place?”

  “BSBT.” He tossed his car keys on the counter that divided the living area from the kitchenette. A staircase led to the loft where I kept my bed and where the bathroom was located.

  “I thought you were liking it better,” I said. “I thought the public offering was going well.”

  “You would think that.” The comment stung. Graham sighed and I noticed his eyes were glassy, like he’d been crying—or drinking. “I’m drowning there. Can’t you tell?” He paced near the front door, talking without expecting a response. “It’s death by a thousand paper cuts and I’m bleeding all over my body. There’s no creativity. None. Everyone is so robotic in their thinking and actions. No one thinks outside the box. No one. And if you do, you get slapped back in line with the rest of the drones.” He shook his head, still pacing. “I can’t do it anymore. Fuck it. I won’t do it anymore.”

  “What would you do?”

  He stopped pacing, nodding his head the way he did when something was exciting him. Just like that his mood changed. The shadow of darkness lifted. He became animated. His eyes darted all over the room. He approached the couch and dropped to his knees. “I’ve thought about this a lot the last six months.” I smelled alcohol. “I told you that I was looking for that magic fit. You remember? Well, I think I’ve found it. I’ve been doing some research.”

  “About what?” I managed to get in.

  “Marijuana,” Graham said, eyes wide, his face beaming.

  “What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He got to his feet, rubbing his palms together. “Oregon is legalizing marijuana. It’s going to be a total cash cow. I talked to some people in Seattle who said the people who get in on the ground floor are going to be making money hand over fist.”

  I earmarked the page in my book and set it on the seat cushion beside me. I’d recently read about this in the newspaper. “I read an article that said that with all the medical marijuana dispensaries, it’s going to be more difficult for independent stores here, and not like Seattle.”

  “Those are just the naysayers,” Graham said, sitting so close that I had to tuck my legs up under me. “Those are the drones, the people without any imagination. Trust me, I’ve been looking into this and the money is there for the making.”

  “When have you been looking into it?”

  “What?”

  “When have you been looking into it? You’ve been working so late, and every weekend.”

  His eyes went wide again, only this time it looked more like someone walking in on a surprise. “Are you listening to me? I’m telling you we have a chance to do something for ourselves, and you’re more interested in interrogating me.”

  “I’m not interrogating you. I just asked—”

  “Well then, at least show me a little bit of enthusiasm.” He moved toward the window but turned back to where I was sitting. “Is that too much to ask? You’re my wife. You’re supposed to support me.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that so I didn’t say anything. In truth, neither of us really supported the other. Graham thought it best we keep our finances separate—separate credit cards, separate bank accounts, separate debit cards, separate phone bills, though occasionally he would ask to borrow my credit card when the law firm’s paycheck hadn’t cleared, or when we went out, because he didn’t like the way his wallet fit in the back pocket of his pants.

  “I want to leave BSBT and open up a marijuana dispensary,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “You want to leave now? But you’ve been working so hard and you said you were so close to being made a partner.”

  He came back to his place on the couch. “That’s my point. I’m working hard . . . for them.” He reached out and took my hand. “This is a chance for me to work hard for myself . . . for us,” he added quickly. “We could do it together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. “I mean we could open the business together, the two of us. You could get out of that cubicle.”

  But I liked my cubicle. “I like my job.”

  “It’s a dead end. Do you want to die in that place? Cubicles and offices are coffins. It’s where the truly gifted go to die.”

  He was leaning forward again, enough to make me pull back from the alcohol odor. “I don’t know,” I said. “The article I read said that getting licenses to open a dispensary is expensive, not
to mention all the start-up costs and the overhead. And we don’t have any experience growing . . . well, anything.”

  “I’ve been reading up on it too,” he said, getting up suddenly and hurrying to the front door to retrieve his leather satchel. He made his way back to the couch, sat, pulled out a manila file about three inches thick, and moved the magazines on the coffee table to spread out its contents.

  “We don’t have to grow. We buy our product from distributors.”

  I was amazed at the level of detail Graham had gone to. It looked like he’d put together a complete pro forma statement, including start-up and operating costs.

  “I want to call it Genesis,” he said, “like the first book of the Bible, because this would just be the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what?”

  “A corporation,” he said. “We can use the money from the dispensary to invest in other start-ups and businesses. I spoke to the bank and between our two salaries we should have no problem qualifying for a loan—”

  “When did you speak to the bank?”