In Her Tracks (Tracy Crosswhite #8)(9)

“I’m serious, Tracy. I worry about you pursuing cold cases. The one in Cedar Grove . . .”

“I know,” she said. “But that was an unusual circumstance.”

“Maybe. Look, I don’t know a lot, but I know the majority of homicide cases involve violence against women, young women. Am I right?”

“Most violent crimes are against young women, or gangbangers, and more recently, the homeless.”

“And the investigations are cold because no one was able to solve them.”

“And you think that because of what happened to Sarah I won’t be able to separate my feelings for her from the cases I’m working on, and I’ll have the nightmares, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Will you?”

“I’ve been able to separate my feelings from my active files.”

“Yeah, but the majority of those are either grounders,” Dan said, a term Tracy used for an investigation where the killer was obvious, “where you get a confession right away, or it’s a gangbanger, like you said.”

“I didn’t realize my job was so easy,” she said.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “What are you going to do when you come home night after night without making any progress?”

“Thanks for your faith.”

Dan ignored the comment. “What is that going to do to you emotionally? You spent two decades working your sister’s case. You didn’t date. Didn’t have a social life. You had Roger the cat.”

“If I take the position, I’m going to have to readjust my expectations. I talked with Nunzio about that.”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. And she didn’t.

“So, you’re going to take the position?”

“I’m contemplating it,” she said.

“Then contemplate this. Nolasco may be a reptile, but he’s not a complete idiot.”

“You’re underestimating him. He’s a complete idiot.”

“I’m serious. Don’t think for a second he hasn’t considered these same factors. He knows your background with your sister, and he knows how you work, your obsession with finding justice, especially when the victim is a young woman. He knows what you just went through in Cedar Grove, that you’re coming off administrative leave. Don’t think he isn’t hoping that by assigning you to cold cases, you’ll emotionally burn out and quit.”

“I realize that.”

“And?”

“And if that happens, then it happens.”

“Yes, but at what cost, Tracy?”

“I’m not going to quit and let him win.”

“That’s exactly the attitude that worries me. You never give in. You never give up. I’m afraid this is going to tear you up inside, take you down a dark road you once walked alone.”

“I don’t want to go down that road again, Dan, and I’m no longer walking alone.”

“Wanting and not wanting doesn’t make it so.”

“Now you sound like a philosopher.”

“At least talk to your counselor about it.”

“I have to give Nolasco a decision tomorrow morning, though technically I needed to do so today.”

“You know she’ll get you in if you call.”

Tracy checked her watch. “You’ve seriously screwed up our pace, O’Leary.”

“We have time. Therese will be another hour.”

She stepped toward him as if to kiss him. When Dan leaned in, she bolted past him, sprinting. “Beat me home and we still have time for sex before Therese and Daniella get there.”

“Always has to win,” Dan said, chasing after her.

“This could be a win-win for both of us.”





CHAPTER 5

Franklin Sprague pressed the button clipped to the van’s visor and waited for the garage door to rumble open. The racket was getting worse; either the engine was finally dying or the door rollers had worn out, both from decades of use. Just like the rest of the house. Franklin didn’t have the money, the time, or the interest to fix any of it, though he’d contemplated repairing the door, but only because he knew the noise acted like an alarm. Just once he’d like to catch his two lazy brothers sitting and watching television.

He pulled the van into the garage of what had once been his parents’ three-story home in Seattle’s North Park neighborhood. The right side of the garage overflowed with used appliances, newspaper and magazine stacks, boxes of videotapes, and other miscellaneous junk his father had hoarded. Franklin had to cram the shit on one side of the garage just to make space for the van. He pressed the remote-control button and waited for the door to rattle shut. He didn’t like nosy neighbors watching him.

He stepped out, slid open the van’s panel door, and grabbed two of the grocery bags, carrying them inside. He maneuvered down the hall, past more shit, filing cabinets, and an assortment of crap. His mother and father had both been hoarders. He’d seen a show on it once. People who couldn’t throw shit out and didn’t realize it took over their lives.

He stepped into the kitchen. Carrol stood with a glass in his hand, a bottle of Wild Turkey on the counter. Unwashed plates, glasses, silverware, and pots and pans still filled the sink and cluttered the stove. Enough shit for a dozen instead of just the three of them.