The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4)

by Robert Dugoni

  She called Orr. “We may have a development in Andrea’s case,” she said, deliberately vague. “Will you be home tomorrow around ten to talk?”

  “A development?” Orr had asked. “What is it?”

  “I’ll know more tomorrow. Will you be available?”

  “Yes,” Orr had said.

  Tracy didn’t like being dishonest, but she also didn’t want to take a flight all the way to San Bernardino only to find Orr was not at home or had skipped town.

  CHAPTER 32

  Tracy succeeded in securing two aisle seats, one at the front of the plane and one at the rear, so she wouldn’t have to talk to Stan Fields during the flight. The guy made her skin crawl even before their little spat in the conference room over jurisdiction. Luckily, the plane was full, which would make her intent less obvious, though she suspected even Fields wasn’t oblivious to such things, nor did she really care.

  She had a brief telephone conversation with Fields the prior afternoon to provide him the flight information before she left work for home. Neither of them mentioned the prior confrontation, which meant neither of them had forgotten it, but both were intending to bear a less-than-ideal situation.

  Tracy arrived at the flight gate at just after 5:00 a.m. When Fields hadn’t arrived by 5:20, and the gate agent began to board the plane, Tracy hoped he might miss the flight, but no such luck. She saw him hurrying down the terminal clutching a McDonald’s bag in one hand and dragging a rolling suitcase behind him. He’d dressed casually in a polo shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes and what looked like a Members Only jacket.

  “What’s with the suitcase?” she said when Fields approached.

  “In case you’re right,” he said, “and it is the aunt and she knows where Strickland is. One of us is likely to have to stay a day or two while we get an arrest warrant.”

  If they found Andrea Strickland still alive, they would have to ask local police to take her into custody while they obtained an arrest warrant from the court seeking extradition. Tracy didn’t say it, but she knew Fields would insist on being the one to escort Strickland back to Washington, if indeed she was still alive, so that Pierce County could take the credit. Frankly, she didn’t care about the accolades, and since it was a missing persons case, Fields would have the right.

  The gate agent announced the boarding of passengers in Zone One. “That’s me,” Tracy said, turning for the gate.

  “I hope this isn’t just some wild-goose chase,” Fields said.

  Tracy didn’t bother to turn around. “We’ll both know soon enough,” she said over her shoulder.

  She checked her cell phone for messages while she waited in the terminal for Fields to deplane. Kins had sent a text message asking that she let him know the results of her conversation with Penny Orr. When Fields stepped off the plane they made their way to the shuttle buses that would take them to the rental car counter for what her GPS said would be a thirty-minute drive, traffic always being the unknown in Southern California. Tracy expected Fields to press her for more information, but he remained quiet. The less he knew, she hoped, the less likely he would feel the need to interrupt her questioning of Penny Orr.

  At nine thirty, traffic was heavy but moved at a steady pace. They arrived at Penny Orr’s apartment complex at just after ten. Tracy led the way to the second story and knocked three times. When Orr opened the door she looked curious, though not shocked, which meant she’d viewed them through the peephole.

  “Detective? I thought when you called last night you meant that we would talk on the phone.”

  “Sorry to come unannounced,” Tracy said, turning to introduce Fields. “This is Detective Stan Fields from the Pierce County Sheriff’s Office. They had original jurisdiction over Andrea’s disappearance.”

  Fields extended a hand and introduced himself.

  Orr looked and sounded flustered. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little out of sorts.”

  “May we come in for a minute?” Tracy said.

  Orr hesitated, then opened the door and stepped back. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m packing for a trip.”

  Tracy noticed two large suitcases in the front hallway. “We’ll try not to keep you long,” she said. “Do you have a plane to catch?”

  “What?” She paused, then said, “Oh, yes, a little later today.”

  “Where are you going?” Fields asked.

  “Florida,” she said. “To visit a friend.”

  “You’re bringing a lot of clothes for Florida,” Fields said. “Most people I know live in shorts and tank tops down there.”

  Orr smiled but otherwise did not respond. The apartment had the lemon-fresh smell of a disinfectant, and it looked as if it had recently undergone an industrial cleaning. The television broadcast the local news. Orr picked up the remote from the coffee table and shut it off.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “I think we’re fine,” Tracy said.

  “I had my coffee fill on the plane,” Fields said.

  They moved to the couches. Orr sat in the same location she had during Tracy’s prior visit. Tracy sat on the adjacent couch, Fields to her right.

  “You said there might be a development?” Orr said. “It must be important for you to travel all this way.”

  The most logical reason for a police officer to travel two states to talk to a relative of a presumed victim would be to tell them they had confirmed the person’s death. Orr looked anxious, but not as though she was awaiting devastating news.

  “We think it could be,” Tracy said. She wanted to take a slow approach with Orr, and build up to asking her about the birth certificate after laying certain groundwork that would make Orr less likely to deny her involvement. “We spoke to the Mount Rainier Search and Rescue ranger who conducted the search for Andrea. He’s convinced Andrea didn’t die on the mountain.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes. He thinks the odds of finding so much of her equipment, but not finding her body, is unlikely.”

  “Then what does he think happened to her?”

  A rhythmic thumping and metallic clang drew Tracy’s attention to the sliding-glass door, which was open a crack. Construction equipment worked in the vacant dirt lot next door. With all the construction in downtown Seattle, she recognized the sound of a machine pounding a pier into the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Orr said. “They’re building another apartment complex.”

  “That’s all right,” Tracy said. “As I was saying, the ranger thinks it’s much more likely Andrea walked off the mountain early that morning.”

  Orr didn’t immediately respond. Again, Tracy would have expected a relative to have some reaction to the news—elation, hope, greater concern. Orr finally said, “But you don’t know what happened to her?”

  “What the ranger is having a more difficult time understanding is how Andrea could have gotten off the mountain without any help.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he believes it’s certainly possible Andrea descended the mountain on her own, but if she did, she would have needed transportation to get away.”

  “But this is just speculation, right? He doesn’t really know.”

  “It could be,” Tracy said. “But he’s pretty certain she walked off the mountain.”

  “Then, perhaps she rented a car and left it someplace,” Orr said.

  “Unlikely,” Fields said. “Rental car agreements are easy to trace. We did a search for her name and the name Lynn Hoff, but didn’t get any hits.”

  At the mention of the name, which Tracy had not wanted to use this early in the conversation, she thought she noticed a flicker of recognition in Orr’s eyes, though it could have been recognition of the name from their earlier conversation. Wanting to retake control of the interview, she jumped back in. “Have you heard that name before?” Tracy asked. “Lynn Hoff?”

  “No, I don’t believe I have,” Orr said. “Who is she?”

  “The rang
er believes that to get off the mountain, Andrea would have required some assistance, someone with a car.”

  “And you think it was this Lynn Hoff,” Orr said.

  “No,” Tracy said. “Lynn Hoff was an alias Andrea used.”

  “An alias? What for?”

  “To get a Washington driver’s license and to open bank accounts.”

  “Maybe a friend helped her then,” Orr said, hands in her lap but picking at a fingernail.

  “We considered that,” Tracy said. “But Andrea didn’t have many friends. In fact, according to the people I’ve spoken to, including you, Andrea really only had one friend—a woman by the name of Devin Chambers.”

  “Have you spoken to her?” Orr asked.

  Again, Tracy watched carefully for any sign Orr was familiar with the name, but she did not get an immediate read. “We don’t think she would have been inclined to assist Andrea,” Tracy said.

  Orr seemed to be having difficulty swallowing. “Why not?”

  “We’ve learned some things about Devin Chambers in our investigation; she appears to have been having an affair with Andrea’s husband. She also appears to have tried to take the money in Andrea’s trust fund.”

  “That’s terrible,” Orr said. “She should be arrested. Have you located her?”

  “She left Portland around the same time Andrea disappeared,” Fields said. “She told her employer she was returning home to the East Coast, but that never happened.”

  “We traced her to a motel in Renton, Washington,” Tracy said. “She’d been using the name Lynn Hoff as an alias.”

  “I thought you said that was Andrea’s alias.”

  “It was,” Tracy said.

  “I don’t understand,” Orr said.

  “It means Devin Chambers knew about the alias and about the money,” Fields said. “She’d used some of the money to try and change her appearance. We think she was going to steal the money and run.”

  “Do you have her in custody? What does she have to say about it?” If Orr was acting, she was giving a plausible performance.

  “Devin Chambers was the woman found in the crab pot,” Tracy said. “The one we initially thought to be Andrea. You might have seen it on the news.”

  Outside, the rhythmic thumping continued. “No,” Orr said. She paused. After a moment she said, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You told me Andrea never really made any friends when she moved here,” Tracy said. “She didn’t have any parents, of course, and no siblings. We’re trying to determine who might have helped her.”

  “Maybe someone she knew from Santa Monica,” Orr said. “A girlfriend from back then.”

  “Maybe,” Tracy said. “But that’s a huge risk for someone to take for a friend she hasn’t seen or spoken with in years.” She paused, watching Orr. When Orr didn’t speak, Tracy continued. “We think it was someone Andrea was close to. Someone who would have understood all the tragedy Andrea had endured in her life. Someone who would have had sympathy for her, who would have wanted to help her, who felt an obligation to help her. We can understand that, Mrs. Orr; we can understand why you would have wanted to help your niece.”

  “Me?” Orr scoffed and shook her head. She looked at each of them. “You think I did it? That’s ridiculous. I told you I don’t know where she is . . . or even if she is still alive.”

  “I know that’s what you told me,” Tracy said. “And I understand why you told me, but Andrea was able to obtain a Washington State driver’s license in the name Lynn Hoff because she had a certified copy of a California birth certificate for a woman named Lynn Hoff, a woman who was born here in San Bernardino,” Tracy said. “You’ve worked at the County Assessor’s office in San Bernardino for many years, haven’t you?”

  Orr maintained her composure though she continued fidgeting with her fingers. “Yes.”

  “And the County Assessor’s Office merged with the County Recorder’s Office and the County Clerk’s Office to cut expenses. Didn’t it?”

  “So,” Orr said.

  “So, you would have had access to birth records,” Fields said.

  “Everybody in those offices would have had access to those records,” Orr said. Her voice shook.

  “Yes,” Tracy said, “but not everybody was related to a young woman seeking a new life.”

  “We can get a subpoena,” Fields said, “and find out when the certified copy of the birth certificate was obtained from the recorder’s office. Identity theft is a crime.”

  Tracy refrained from looking at Fields. She quickly added, “But we’re not interested in doing that, Mrs. Orr. Anyone in your situation would have done the same thing given the circumstances. What happened to Andrea is tragic. If anyone ever deserved the chance at a new life, she certainly did. We just want to find her and talk to her.”

  Tears trickled down Orr’s cheeks. She closed her eyes and dropped her chin to her chest, making no effort to wipe the tears away. Outside, the pile driver clanged a steady, rhythmic beat. Slowly, Orr shook her head. Then she spoke in a shaky voice that barely rose above a whisper.

  “Why?” She opened her eyes and looked at Tracy. “Hasn’t she been hurt enough? Why can’t people just leave her alone? She didn’t deserve any of the things that happened to her. Why can’t you just let her be?” She said the last words as if making a plea.

  “I’m sorry,” Tracy said, feeling no elation or even relief. “I wish we could. I’m sorry for Andrea, and I’m sorry for you. No one deserves what happened to her, especially so young. I know you were only trying to protect her, and that you believed in your heart you were doing what was best for Andrea, but there are other families now that also have to be considered.”

  “She couldn’t do it any other way,” Orr said, “not after her husband signed bank documents in her name. She was going to lose the only thing she had left, the only thing that she could use to get away. Don’t you understand? It was the only thing she had left that connected her to her parents.”

  “I understand,” Tracy said.

  “No,” Orr said, finding her voice and vehemently shaking her head. “No, you don’t understand.”

  “My sister was murdered when I was twenty-two,” Tracy said. In her peripheral vision she saw Fields glance at her. Orr looked stunned. “I lost my father shortly thereafter. He shot himself. The grief was too much for him.”

  “My God,” Orr said. “I’m sorry.”

  “My husband at the time also left me. I lost an entire town and way of life. So I do understand why you did it. But some things have happened because of Andrea’s disappearance. People have died. We have to find out why. That’s our job. We have to find out why for the families of those other victims.”

  “You think Andrea is somehow responsible?” Orr paused, looking to both of them. “That’s absurd. Andrea wouldn’t hurt anyone. All she wants to do is hike and read.”

  “We still need to talk to her.”

  For nearly a minute, Orr didn’t say a word. She sat looking out the sliding-glass door. A wisp of black smoke spiraled in the hot air. The machine continued to clang. Fields looked to Tracy, who slowly shook her head. She hoped he had the sense not to speak.

  “I want to be there,” Orr said finally. “I want to be there when you talk to her.”

  “Absolutely,” Tracy said, feeling a sense of relief but also excitement. “We just need you to take us to her.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Penny Orr had sequestered her niece in a family cabin in a town called Seven Pines. From what Tracy could determine, Seven Pines consisted of half a dozen houses at an elevation of more than six thousand feet in the eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains, a roughly three-and-a-half-hour drive north on US 395. Orr explained that the cabin had been in her mother’s family for more than sixty years. The family had used it to escape the city on weekends and for extended vacations. If a person was looking to get lost, this was the place to do it. The closest “city” was Independence, with a population of
fewer than one thousand. Orr said the cabin had no television, no Internet, no cell reception, and an outhouse.

  Tracy called Faz and told him Andrea Strickland was alive, and Penny Orr was taking them to her. Faz asked if she wanted him to talk to the local police. She told him she didn’t think it necessary, but she would call him back if something changed.

  They decided to take two cars, in case they needed to talk with the local police or seek an arrest warrant. Tracy drove Penny Orr’s personal car with Orr in the passenger seat. Fields followed in the rental. Orr said little during the drive, spending most of the time looking out the passenger-side window, fidgeting with her hands, and wiping away tears. At one point she looked over at Tracy and asked, “What will happen to her?”

  “It’s really too early to speculate,” Tracy said. “Until we talk to her and get a better idea of what happened and why, I can’t say. What’s her mental state?”

  “Her mental state? Fine. Why?”

  “Her counselor said it was possible Andrea had a break from reality.”

  “A break from reality?”

  “He said she could be prone to violent acts if she became desperate. Have you witnessed anything like that?”

  “No,” Orr said. “Andrea’s not violent. Is that what you think? Do you think Andrea killed Devin Chambers? Andrea couldn’t kill anyone. She doesn’t have it in her.”

  “Does she have access to a car?”

  Orr chuckled. “Yes. The family kept a Jeep there but it hasn’t been registered in years.” Orr seemed to give this some thought. “You don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?” Tracy said.

  Orr looked as if she were about to speak, then caught herself. “You’ll see,” she said. “You’ll see why she had to run.”

  As they continued northeast, the US 395 blacktop with its double yellow line cut a sharp contrast to the brown foothills and smothering pale-blue sky. They drove past dilapidated one-room miner shacks and abandoned towns of cement-block buildings set amid high-desert sage and rabbitbrush, cacti, stands of Joshua trees, and fields of jagged lava rock. As they neared Independence, the scenery again changed, the desolate Onion Valley looming, surrounded by the majestic, jagged peaks of the eastern Sierra Nevada. Mount Whitney, sickly gray and snowcapped, rose as the most prominent.