What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(11)

Don’t tell Frieda.”

“What goes on at Glendale stays at Glendale, Moss. Besides, no woman that good looking would spend time with your ugly mug unless she was handcuffed to the cart. No offense to Frieda.”

Moss laughed and directed Tracy to the cart with a single set of clubs and colorful clubheads. “This is us.” Tracy climbed in the passenger side, Moss hit the pedal, and the cart raced up the hill toward the first tee. The chilled breeze made her glad she’d worn a jacket. Along the way, four people made quips at the retired detective.

“You’re well known here,” Tracy said.

“I better be. I’ve been a member twenty-five years, play five days a week, and eat here a couple times a week.”

“You must be pretty good.”

“I’ll let you in on a golfer’s secret. Two guys and one woman here can golf. They’re in their midtwenties. The rest of us suck. It’s just different degrees of suck. My handicap is fourteen. Used to be seven but I got old, and I refuse to tee off from the old-man’s tees.”

He parked the cart alongside the first tee box and turned to her.

“Okay, first question and first answer. ‘Moss’ is a nickname.

Apparently, I never sat still, was always on the go, like a rolling stone. Get it?”

“A rolling stone gathers no moss.”

“It stuck. Hang on a second. I’m up.”

Moss departed the cart and grabbed his driver from the bag.

Tracy had been curious about Moss’s name, but it certainly wasn’t her first question. She deduced Moss liked to tell the story, and she wondered if he had perpetuated the name. Like he said, if you’re going to make a statement, make it loud.

Moss stepped to the tee box and placed the ball and tee in the grass. Tracy waited for the customary rituals that often took more time than the actual teeing off, but he simply rifled a shot down the fairway.

“Somebody is getting paid this morning, boys,” Moss shouted to his three companions as he picked up his tee.

When he returned to the cart, Tracy said, “Is this speed golf?”

“No sense overthinking it the way these guys will. We got a little time here. You asked about Lisa Childress on the telephone.”

Tracy had not spent any more time going through Moss’s file after getting Daniella down, sensing Dan needed companionship and comfort. “You recall her?”

“Reporter for the P-I. Went missing February 27, 1996.

Husband said she left to meet a source in the middle of the night and never came home or showed up at work. We eventually found her locked car in a parking garage with the keys inside, blood on the headrest and steering wheel, and a lot of clutter. Took the standby detectives days to clean it out and get everything inventoried and tested. We found a receipt from a convenience store on Denny Way that confirmed she went out that night around two a.m. She bought a liter of Coke—a bad habit according to the husband and those she worked with. No security camera, and the person working that morning didn’t specifically remember Childress coming in, but he did remember her as someone who came in frequently and said she always bought a liter of Coke. Never seen or heard from again.”

“You have a good memory.”

“And a file. I reviewed it last night.” He turned and looked to the tee box. “Hey, Johnson, is that a drive or did you use your putter?”

The man just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“You kept a file?” Tracy asked. She found it unusual for a detective to keep a file at home.

“Not a complete file, just my report and certain updates. Only case I never solved. It’s a pride thing, as I’m sure you can appreciate. I thought maybe in retirement I’d have time to take a look at it, but truth? I walked out the door and I never looked back. Not once. Bugged me at first that I didn’t retire with a perfect record, you know? But it was out of my hands. First time I opened the file again was when the daughter came to talk to me a few years ago. Second time was when you called last night. So what’s going on? You find a new lead or new witness? Did the husband confess?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Daughter asked me to take a fresh look.”

“Hell, you must have more than two hundred cold cases.”

“Three hundred.”

“Three hundred. Seems time would be better spent on cases with DNA left at the scene . . . with the advances they’ve recently made.”

“That’s definitely the trend.”

“We ran this down every which way we could and came to the conclusion that either the husband killed her, or she just took off.”

“You were the lead detective?” Tracy asked.

“I worked the case with Keith Ellis. He died a couple years ago.

Shame. Guy retires to spend time with the wife and grandkids, and he gets a bad cancer. Fought it but couldn’t beat it. Okay, we’re moving.” Moss hit the pedal, and they sped down the cart path to where his drive had settled toward the bottom of the sloped fairway.

“One minute, Detective.” He got out and, as before, grabbed a club, walked to where the ball lay, and drove it onto the green. Moss got back in. “So, what do you want to ask me?”

“Who were your suspects, other than the husband?”