I’m getting married.
Those might be the last words I thought I’d ever say out loud—but I am. I’m standing inside the lobby of the Multnomah County Courthouse in downtown Portland wearing—get this—a white dress. The shock is not that the dress is white—every girl wears white, regardless of, you know. The shock is that I’m wearing a dress. I didn’t even own a dress before I bought this one. I’ve never worn anything but pants to work, usually blue jeans. It is Portland, after all, which, translated, means, “casual.” People come to work in spandex. That’s not a joke. One of the insurance adjusters in our office rides his bike to work and likes to parade around in his tight shorts showing off his package, of which he must be very proud since he does it so frequently. He comes into my cubicle asking me some inane question to get a rise out of me. Yeah, that’s going to do it. If I could wash my eyes with disinfectant, I would.
But I’m digressing.
So cue the music . . . “I’m going to the altar and I’m . . .”
Except, I’m not going to the altar—or to a church for that matter. I’m going before a justice of the peace at 3:00 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon. I wanted to wait for the weekend, but getting married on a weekday saves thirty-five dollars, and Graham—that’s his name, Graham Strickland—said there’s no reason to spend the extra money for the same service.
No, it’s not exactly the wedding every young girl dreams about—walking down a long aisle draped on my father’s arm with the veil trailing behind me—but that dream sailed nine years ago. I was thirteen when a drunk driver crossed the center divider, went airborne, and landed on top of our car, killing both my parents. Something about being in the backseat saved me, the doctors said, like it was a good thing to be trapped alive in a car for two hours with your dead parents. Can you say years of counseling?
I went from Santa Monica, where my father had been a doctor, to live with an aunt and uncle in San Bernardino, which is where my mother grew up, but where I didn’t know a soul. I should clarify that I only lived with my uncle Dale for about nine months. That’s when I told my counselor that my uncle liked to climb in bed with me at night. My counselor told the police, and they called Child Protective Services, and a whole shit storm hit. Can you say more counseling?
In addition to not having a father to walk me down the aisle, I can’t fill my cubicle, let alone a reception hall, with friends and family. I also don’t think we could find anyone to give even a thirty-second toast about Graham and me. We’ve known each other less than four months.
Besides, I’m not a big cake fan anyway. I know. I know. Who doesn’t like cake?
Me.
We are, however, going on a honeymoon—of sorts. We’re going to climb Mount Rainier. I know what you’re thinking because I was thinking the same thing. Hiking at 14,000 feet and getting frostbite. Great . . . Don’t get me wrong. I love the outdoors. I spent much of my summers hiking in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The outdoors is one of the reasons I moved to Portland. That, and it rains all the time here, which means I don’t have to come up with an excuse to stay inside and read, which is my absolute, number one passion. In fact, it’s what I would have preferred to have been doing the night I met Graham.
We met at a party—not so much a party as a business function sponsored by the insurance company I work for. Don’t ask me why a lowly assistant needed to be there. I mean, if the company’s incredible and wide array of insurance policies (sarcasm) or free booze and free hors d’oeuvres (definitely not sarcasm) didn’t entice new clients, I failed to see how my presence would. My boss, however, who has taken it upon herself to be my surrogate mother, said my attendance was “nonnegotiable.”
Brenda Berg walked into my cubicle the afternoon of the function and asked why I hadn’t RSVP’d.
“Because I’m not going?” I said, though my voice rose so it sounded more like a question.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going,” I said more definitively, though not with any real conviction.
“Why not?”
I shrugged and resumed typing on my keyboard—rude, I know. “I don’t like parties. Most are boring.”
“More boring than going home and sticking your nose in a book?”
“Definitely,” I answered, though I’m certain she meant the question to be rhetorical.
“What, are you rereading Fifty Shades of Grey over and over again?”
“No,” I said, though again it was without force and I’m pretty certain I blushed. Truth was, curiosity got the better of me and I did read it. I ordered it online and had it sent to my post box, then smuggled it home in a plain brown bag like a fifth of vodka. Sure the writing was juvenile, but it’s like they say, “You don’t buy Playboy for the articles.” Not that I’ve ever bought a Playboy. I’m definitely not a lesbian.
“Then tell me what is so interesting at home that you can’t go to a party for a couple of hours?” Brenda asked, undeterred.
“It’s just not my thing,” I said. “I’m not good at mingling.”
“I’ll help you.”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“I can help with that also.”
I was quickly running out of excuses and racking my brain. The dog I don’t have ate my invitation. I’m actually Michael Jackson disguised as a woman, and I got too close to a pyrotechnic prop filming a Pepsi commercial and my hair caught on fire.
“You’re smart,” Brenda said. I know she meant it as a compliment, but it sounded kind of sad. “You pick up things faster than most of the people we hire who went to college and took our six-week training program. I’ve never seen anyone pick things up that fast, and you know more about computers than our IT guy.”
Did I mention I have a lot of free time on my hands?
“You just need to show a little initiative and you could have my job someday.”
Hooray! At least I’d have a window to throw myself out of when the boredom becomes unbearable.
“So you’re going tonight, and that’s final,” she said, sounding a lot like my mother used to. “You’ll never meet anyone going home and reading.”
“Fine,” I said. Why? I don’t know why. I have this aggravating need to be agreeable. I’m pretty sure there’s a medical term for it. Spinus Missingus—Of or relating to the lack of a spine.
“Good,” Brenda said, eyeballing me with distrust. “I’m going to call if I don’t see you.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“I’ll be looking for you,” she said. Then she smiled. “It’ll be fun. Trust me.”
I think Custer uttered those final words to his troops just before leading them into the Battle of Little Bighorn, but I was good as my word. I did attend. And I’ll be shit struck if I didn’t actually meet someone. Graham Strickland.
The gathering was in the ballroom of a luxury hotel called The Nines in downtown Portland. Since my loft was in the Pearl District, at least I didn’t have far to walk. I searched a table set up outside the room with name tags arranged in alphabetical order. Of course, I didn’t see my name, probably because I hadn’t RSVP’d. After the woman at the table asked me about a billion questions to confirm I wasn’t some freak looking to crash boring insurance parties, she grinned and said in a perky voice, “Well, I’ll just make you a name tag.”
I cringed. That meant instead of the preprinted name tags with the company logo and typewritten name everyone else was wearing, I’d be wearing a handwritten piece of paper slapped onto my sweater. “Why don’t you just brand my forehead with a big L for ‘Loser,’” I said.
I wish. I’d said that to myself.
I walked into the ballroom with my loser name tag looking like I had a big scarlet A on my forehead. The room was packed, which I also found really pathetic. Didn’t these people have anything better to do?
I didn’t see Brenda, not right away, and I didn’t really know anyone else, except in passing in the hallways, so I sort of just meandered until I found myself near the bu
ffet. Eating would at least give the appearance I was doing something. To my surprise, it wasn’t a bad spread. Swedish meatballs, chicken skewers, fruit and cheese plates, bread rolls, and a man cutting small pieces of prime rib. I mainly subsist on tuna fish and peanut butter and jelly, so this was a major score.
I was making my way through the food line when someone said, “You were last minute too, huh?”
It was the guy behind me, though I wasn’t sure he was speaking to me. Then he smiled and made it pretty clear he had been. Love at first sight? Not on your life. First impression? I thought Graham looked like something out of that television show, Mad Men, with his hair gelled and parted low on the side of his head, his suit a size too small, his tie too narrow, and his day-old growth too forced. Trying way too hard, pal.
“Your name tag,” he said, pointing. “You must have RSVP’d late also.”
That’s when I noticed his name tag had also been hand printed. Duh. “Oh, yeah,” I said.
“Me too,” he said, like that somehow made us brothers in arms.
I looked around for a moment. I didn’t know who this guy was or who was standing within hearing distance, but I threw caution to the wind. “My boss said if I didn’t attend, she’d fire me. I think she was kidding, but I wasn’t sure. So . . .”
He chuckled at that, and it actually looked and sounded genuine. “Mine said I needed to cultivate business opportunities if I want to be considered partnership material.”
He spoke the words with an affected, authoritative tone.
“You’re a lawyer,” I said.
“I work at Begley, Smalls, Begley, and Timmins.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “That’s BSBT, or Bullshit Big Time.”
I laughed. “You said ‘Begley’ twice.”
“Father and son. Old fart and heir apparent.” He rolled his eyes. “If he wasn’t the founding partner’s son, he’d be serving food in a soup kitchen. Guy has the imagination of one of those drones who sits in cubicles punching numbers all day.”
That would be me! I shouted inside my head. Can you introduce me?
“I think my firm and your company do some business together,” he said.
“So you’re a lawyer,” I said, stalling, while I mentally calculated his age—four years of college and three years of law school—Graham was, at a minimum, twenty-five. Turns out he was twenty-eight, six years older than me. “Sounds like you don’t like it much.” I suddenly realized I was holding up the buffet line, grabbed a couple cubes of cheese, and slid down the table.
“I don’t mind the practice of law,” Graham said, lowering his voice. “I just really don’t like the corporate environment. I’m an entrepreneur. I like to build things from the ground up.”
“Start-ups?” I asked.
“Exactly. Get the prime rib,” he said. “It might make coming here worthwhile.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” I said. Only I wasn’t and I had no idea why I said I was.
He stuck out his free hand. “I’m a carnivore. Nice to meet you.” He pointed to his handwritten name tag. “Strickland,” he said in a British accent. “Graham Strickland.”
My first thought wasn’t James Bond. It was crackers—Graham Crackers. You know, the kind you use to make s’mores. My second thought was pretentious. My third thought, however, was talking to anyone beat standing alone looking like a big loser, and that thought won the day.
“You want to sit?” Graham said, motioning to one of the round tables.
“Sure,” I said—per my earlier rationalization.
We made our way through the crowd to one of the white-linen-draped tables and banquet chairs. Graham set down his plate and asked, “You want a glass of wine or a beer?”
“I don’t drink,” I said.
“Don’t drink, don’t smoke. What do you do?” he sang. When I didn’t respond he said, “Adam Ant. ‘Goody Two Shoes.’ It’s a song.”
“Oh,” I said. Then, for no particular reason, I added, “Wine. I’ll have a glass of wine.”
That’s how the evening went, with me saying things I’d never said before, especially after I’d had a second glass of wine. Like when Graham said, “Do you want to get out of here?” And I said, “Sure.” Or later when we went to a bar and he said, “Do you want a drink?” and I said, “Sure,” again. And when he drove me home in his Porsche and parked and said, “Are you going to invite me up for coffee?” and I said, “Do you drink coffee?” and Graham said, “No,” and I said, “Okay.”
And just like that, I slept with him. The very first night! I know, pretty sleazy, right? Maybe it was the wine and the cocktails, or maybe it was reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Honestly, I thought I’d never hear from the guy again, but then he sent me an e-mail asking me to go out. I debated it for a day. I did not show it to Brenda. I did, however, show it to my friend Devin Chambers. Devin started at the company about the same time I did, though she worked for another adjuster. I told her about my night with Graham, and she was like, “What? No fucking way? You slept with him? Holy shit!”
Did I mention that Devin swears like a sailor with Tourette’s? Anyway, she thought I should go out with Graham again, so I did.
So I guess I have Devin to thank for me standing in the marbled entry of the Multnomah County Courthouse, waiting for Graham. I have to admit I am a bit nervous. I mean, we’ve only been dating a few months. I haven’t even met his family. He says I should thank him. His father is some CEO in New York, which Graham says is why he lives in Portland, as far away as possible without leaving the lower forty-eight states. His mother, he says, mostly stays in their Manhattan apartment, drinking. So, in a sense, Graham doesn’t have any family either, and in that we have a common bond. We’re orphans, and if that isn’t a reason to get married, then I don’t know what is (sarcasm, again).
I felt awkward just standing there in a white dress. I was sure everyone walking past was giving me pitying looks, certain I was about to be stood up. Truth was, I had the same thought. Sad, I know, but I never had figured out why Graham wanted to marry me—my counselor said I have a self-esteem issue. Really? And I would have thought every girl who watched her parents die and was molested by her uncle would be brimming with confidence!
Graham, however, seems to think we have a lot in common, but that’s because I pretty much say yes to everything he wants to do. I guess I’m afraid that if I said no, well, it would be like my boss saying if I didn’t go to the party she’d fire me. I really wasn’t certain what might happen.
“Hey.” I turned at the sound of his voice, relieved to see him hurrying across the rotunda’s terrazzo tile floor, slightly out of breath when he reached me. “Sorry I’m late. Something came up at work.”
“I thought you took the afternoon off,” I said.
“I’d hoped to, but something came up. Small fire. Nothing big. So you ready to do this thing?”
Do this thing?
“Sure,” I said, though I was pretty sure I smelled the faint odor of alcohol on his breath when he leaned forward to kiss me.
CHAPTER 5
Tracy called Faz after leaving Dr. Wu’s office. She provided him the name Lynn Cora Hoff, her date of birth and Social Security number, and asked that Faz run her through the National and Washington State Crime Information Centers as well as the Department of Licensing. She and Kins drove to the address Lynn Hoff had provided Dr. Wu, a motel in an industrial area of the city. Tracy noted from a billboard that you could rent a room for $22 a night or $120 a week. According to the woman working in the office, Lynn Hoff had rented the room for the month, paying cash.
“Was it unusual for a guest to stay that long?”
“It doesn’t happen that often, but it happens—you know, people in between leases or relocating from out of state, stuff like that,” the woman said.
The rental agreement consisted of boilerplate language. It asked Hoff to write down the make and model of her car and license plate number. Hoff had drawn lines through those sp
aces.
“What kind of tenant was she?” Tracy asked.
“No problems with her.” The woman led them from the office to the back of the building. She was dressed for the weather in shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. Tracy envied her. The heat coming off the asphalt permeated through the soles of her shoes. It now seemed all but a certainty Seattle would break the June record for the number of days eclipsing ninety degrees. All across the state, record highs were being set, with fires raging out of control in eastern Washington. For the first time in her life, Tracy heard people using the word “drought”—which seemed incomprehensible coming out of the mouths of Seattleites.
“You ever see any men coming and going from her apartment?” Kins asked.
“I didn’t,” the woman said, glancing over at him as she started up an exterior staircase to the second floor. “We really don’t get prostitutes. Mostly we get the Mexicans who work in the factories around here. They stay until they can get their papers and a paycheck. Then they move into an apartment. So what happened to her? Is she dead?”
“We’re just starting our investigation,” Tracy said.
The manager stopped on the second-floor landing. “Is she the woman they found in that crab trap? It’s been all over the news.”
It had been, generating local and national publicity. “We can’t provide any details about our cases,” Kins said.
“So she was the woman in the pot?” the manager said as if they were all sharing a secret.
“You said you have some residents who stay for as long as a month?” Tracy said.
“She was the woman in that trap,” the manager said to herself, sounding as if Lynn Hoff had been Princess Diana, and the room would become a tourist attraction. She continued down the landing to the northwest corner and the apartment door farthest from the parking lot and the manager’s office.
“Did Lynn Hoff say why she needed the room?” Kins asked.
“She said she was relocating from somewhere.” The woman scrunched her face in thought. “New Jersey, I think. I remember ’cause she said something about waiting for a vacancy in an apartment building she liked, and she didn’t want to enter into another lease.”
The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4) Page 4
