I refrained from laughing. “Our problem isn’t money,” I said. “It never was.”
“I know. I know. We need to get back to who we were before all of this.”
And there was my opening.
“I have something in mind,” I said, trying to sound hesitant.
“What?” He looked and acted eager to listen.
“What do you think about climbing Rainier again?” I asked.
“What?” he asked, sitting back, clearly perplexed.
Rainier had been more than just a blow to Graham’s ego. It had been a blow to his psyche. He’d failed to summit, and I had. He could blame it on an overcautious guide all he wanted, but we both knew he couldn’t physically do it. I had done it, and, to be honest, it had not been that hard. Maybe all those years growing up hiking in the mountains in Southern California had acclimated me.
“It would give us something to focus on, something not work related. It would help get our relationship back on track. I really believe that’s what we need, to get back to being the two people we were when we met, before all this stress changed us,” I said, even sounding sincere.
“You want to climb Rainier?” he asked, voice soft and doubtful.
“Remember the last trip? Remember how much fun it was and how it brought us together? We need to find hobbies that we can do together.” Unlike sleeping with your associate, I wanted to say, but didn’t.
“Well,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“I think you could probably do it this time,” I said, tweaking his ego. “You could train harder because you won’t be working so much.”
“I could have made it last time,” he said, and I could hear the indignation mounting. “It was the guide.”
“Well, this is your chance to prove he was wrong,” I said.
“The guides are always going to be overcautious,” he said.
“We don’t have to worry about that,” I said. “I was talking to someone who’s done the Liberty Ridge route and you don’t need a guide.”
“Liberty Ridge?”
“You do it early in the season when it’s cold and the snow isn’t melting. In fact, she said it’s not technical, just a grind, but if you take your time, it’s no big deal.” I could see he was still hesitant so I added, “You wouldn’t have to worry about some guide overreacting.”
His ego took the bait. “I could have summited last time. The guide was just overly cautious.”
“Well,” I said, “this time there won’t be anyone to make you turn back.”
“No guide?” He became thoughtful. “What if something happened?”
I waved it off. “Nothing is going to happen. The odds are, like, less than five percent.” I again sensed his reticence and added, “I also know I could afford to lose a few pounds. Bikini season is coming up.”
Graham smiled, but I could see the doubt in it. “Yeah. I mean, maybe we could at least train, you know, and see where we’re at.”
“We can begin tomorrow morning,” I said, figuring the sooner I made him commit, the less likely he could back out.
He picked up the book he’d brought and held it up so I could read the cover. “The woman at Powell’s said it was really good. She said you’d really like it.”
I’d already read it, and at the time I had liked it. But now I had a different view. The book was about a pathetic woman recently divorced, still pining away for her former husband. She was an alcoholic, willing to do just about anything to get back a guy who really wasn’t worth getting back, no matter how much he humiliated her.
I could no longer be that woman.
CHAPTER 13
Tracy knew Kins hated traffic, and with the explosion in Seattle’s population over the last decade, and resulting traffic nightmares, it had become his pet peeve. He voiced his objection frequently to her, and the focus of his blame was usually the DOT, which he said stood for “Dunces of Traffic.” Then he’d recite the evidence to support his diatribes—projects like bike lanes and free-bike programs had failed miserably, and designated toll-commute lanes had only made traffic worse. Tracy listened, though she considered complaining a waste of time and energy. It was like Stan Fields voicing his displeasure about the weather and Dan yelling at the television when a referee or umpire made a bad call. She figured it was a man thing and she humored them to keep the peace.
Kins’s pet peeve, however, meant they had been in the car since the crack of dawn. Tracy had protested the early hour, pointing out that the heavy commute along the I-5 corridor was in the opposite direction, north, into Seattle. That had not been Kins’s concern. “I don’t want to hit Portland morning traffic,” he’d said.
They hadn’t entirely avoided Portland’s traffic, but as they crossed the rust-colored Broadway Bridge spanning the Willamette River, Kins wore a smug expression that begged for a compliment.
“Go ahead,” Tracy said.
“What’s that?” Kins said, playing dumb, though not convincingly.
“Go ahead. Say ‘I told you so.’ We avoided the morning commute.”
“Did I say that?” Kins said.
Tracy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“We made good time,” he said. “I will say that. Not my best, but . . .”
“So sue me because I made you stop for a bladder break.”
“Did I say anything?” Kins said, his smile widening. “I don’t think I said anything.”
“Yeah, you didn’t have to. You’re smiling like you had sex this morning.”
Kins laughed. Then he said, “So you think this guy will talk to us?”
“He’d better if I’m up this early,” Tracy said.
She’d called Graham Strickland the prior afternoon when they’d learned they weren’t going to surprise him, not with Maria Vanpelt “breaking the story,” as she so often liked to proclaim. Strickland had directed Tracy to speak to his attorney, Phil Montgomery. She’d debated just showing up at Strickland’s residence. She didn’t need to go through his lawyer, but three hours was a long way to drive for nothing. So she’d played nice and called Montgomery, who’d agreed to make Strickland available.
Montgomery’s law office was located in a renovated brick building not far from Union Station. They found parking on the street. A cherry-red Porsche sat parked in a loading zone in front of the building entrance. The personalized license plate said “Genesis.” The car said “Ego.”
“Hang on.” Kins took out his cell phone and snapped several photographs of the car. “This would have been hard to miss if he showed up around that Renton motel.”
Inside the building lobby, Tracy noted software, investment, law, and design firms on the building directory. They took an elevator to the second floor and found the suite for the Montgomery Group. The reception area was what Tracy would call modern, with uncomfortable-looking furniture, low tables, and distinct prints hanging on brick walls. She informed the receptionist they had an appointment with Phil Montgomery. After a phone call, the young man escorted them to the conference room in the northwest corner of the building. Montgomery greeted them in the hallway. Tracy estimated him to be midsixties, with silver-gray hair and sturdy-frame glasses. Dressed in slacks and a black sweater, he looked more like an accountant than a criminal defense lawyer.
“Is my client a suspect?” Montgomery asked.
Most Americans were familiar with their Miranda rights; they’d heard the words recited so often on the plethora of police and detective shows populating television, they could recite their Miranda rights from memory. What most didn’t know was their right to an attorney was guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment, but only during a criminal interrogation, and only if the person was taken into police custody—the right was intended to prevent coercion and intimidation. Even fewer knew the Sixth Amendment embodied a second constitutional right to counsel when a prosecutor commenced a criminal prosecution by filing a complaint, or the suspect was indicted by a grand jury. The fallacy most Americans harbored was t
hat they could simply shout, “I want a lawyer!” when confronted by a police officer, and the officer couldn’t talk to them. Not so. In fact, in the absence of a criminal charge, and so long as they didn’t take Strickland into custody, Tracy and Kins could talk to him until the cows came home. For now, however, Tracy was content to humor Montgomery.
“Not at this time,” Tracy said. “We’d just like to ask him a few questions about his late wife.”
“As we discussed on the phone, I’ll allow him to speak to you, but you can’t record the conversation, and I won’t allow him to answer questions regarding the prior investigation. I think we can all agree that ship has sailed and not without considerable disruption to Mr. Strickland’s life.”
“We weren’t on that ship,” Kins said.
“Be that as it may,” Montgomery said.
“Your conditions are fine,” Tracy said, not interested in pissing on the furniture to establish dominance, though she wasn’t convinced the ship had sailed. If Strickland had formulated the intent to push his wife off a mountain, who was to say he didn’t shoot her and drop her in Puget Sound as crab bait? But she’d let others make that argument. Right now, she just wanted to talk to Strickland and determine what he knew and what she was dealing with.
They followed Montgomery into the conference room. Graham Strickland waited near two arched windows that afforded a view of maple trees and the brick buildings across the street. Strickland’s appearance looked affected. He was thin and no more than five foot seven. He wore his hair short on the sides and long on top, a day-old growth of beard, and a silver suit that, as Stan Fields had described, looked a size too small, the pants short enough to reveal cream-colored socks.
They sat on opposite sides of a cherrywood table.
“We’re sorry about your wife,” Tracy said.
Strickland appeared caught off guard by the sympathy. “Thank you.” His voice was soft and an octave higher than Tracy anticipated.
On the drive, she and Kins had agreed that she would take the lead. She had a softer approach and they suspected from Stan Fields’s description of Graham Strickland that he’d be more inclined to answer questions from a woman. “How did you find out?” she asked.
“A reporter called. It was . . . quite disturbing.”
“Maria Vanpelt?” Tracy asked.
“Yes, that was the name.”
“What did she tell you?”
Strickland leaned away from the table, though he kept one hand connected, middle finger lightly tapping the surface. “She asked if I knew that my wife was the woman whose body was found in a crab pot in Puget Sound.”
“What did you say in response?”
Strickland broke eye contact and looked away. Ordinarily, Tracy would have attributed Strickland’s reaction to being emotionally upset, but his movements seemed rehearsed. He reengaged Tracy and said, “I didn’t say anything at first. I was confused. I thought the reporter had to be mistaken. I said, ‘You’re mistaken. My wife died on Mount Rainier six weeks ago.’ I told her I thought it was a sick joke and I didn’t appreciate it.”
“Did she convince you otherwise?”
“I hung up and got on the Internet. I saw the picture of Andrea, the driver’s license photo.”
“How did that make you feel?”
Strickland’s brow furrowed. Again, he hadn’t expected the question and was thinking through his response, like an actor still learning his lines and making acting choices.
“Sad. Confused. Angry. It was a surreal experience. This entire episode has been a surreal experience.”
“I take it you had no communication of any kind with your wife since her disappearance?”
“Of course not.” Strickland bristled. “I believed she was dead.”
“And you were not aware she had obtained a new identity and was living in Seattle as Lynn Hoff?”
“No, I was not. It was a huge surprise.”
“Did your wife ever express any desire to change her identity?”
“Not to me.”
“Do you have any idea where she got the identity ‘Lynn Hoff’?”
“None.”
“You’d never heard that name?”
“No.”
“When you were married you were in considerable debt.” Strickland did not respond. An attorney, he was waiting for a question. “Did you and Andrea ever discuss, maybe in passing, changing identities and starting fresh?”
Strickland glanced at Montgomery, but the attorney did not voice any objection.
“No. I believe in paying my debts.”
It sounded rehearsed and likely had been.
“Yet you filed for bankruptcy, didn’t you?” Kins said.
“What’s the relevance of that question, Detective?” Montgomery said.
“I’m interested in whether any of his creditors might have been upset they were stiffed,” Kins said, doing his best to tweak Strickland, and in the process hopefully making him more willing to answer Tracy’s questions.
Montgomery nodded to Strickland.
“Yes, I filed for bankruptcy. I had little choice after Andrea disappeared and the Pierce County Sheriff named me a person of interest. It completely disrupted my life and my business. I had no way to make a living.”
“Did any of your creditors threaten you in any way?” Tracy asked.
“I let the attorneys handle all of that.”
“So you’re not aware that any of them would have been angry enough to go after you or your wife?”
“Go after?”
“For the money owed.”
“No.”
“The bank advised you that they were going to sue you for fraud, did it not?”
“I was aware of that threat, yes. Again, I left that to the attorneys.”
“So you were under considerable financial distress.”
“Yes. It was a difficult time.”
“Did you borrow any money from any individual who would have been unhappy about not being repaid?”
Strickland shook his head, looking and sounding bored. “No.”
“You were convinced your wife was dead?” Tracy asked.
“Yes, I was convinced, and I told the rangers and the Pierce County Sheriff I was convinced. I was the only one there. She left the tent and never came back. What else was I to think?”
“How come you didn’t get up with her that night?” Kins asked.
“No,” Montgomery said, head shaking. “We are not going there, Detective. Mr. Strickland has answered all of those questions before and they are now irrelevant. I suggest you speak to the Pierce County Sheriff’s Office if you have any questions regarding their investigation.”
“I was just following up on what he said,” Kins said.
“Do you know anyone who would have wished your wife . . . Andrea, harm?” Tracy asked.
“No one, but . . .”
Strickland paused, and again Tracy had the distinct impression he’d done so on purpose, the actor engaging in a dramatic moment. “But what?” she asked.
“Well, it doesn’t appear I knew my wife all that well, does it?”
“Were you having marital issues?”
“Again, Detectives, that investigation is over,” Montgomery said. “Unless you consider him a suspect in his wife’s death, in which case we won’t be answering questions.”
“It’s okay, Phil,” Strickland said. Even before he continued speaking, Tracy knew what Graham Strickland was going to say. “I have nothing to hide, Detectives. I told the Pierce County detective that Andrea and I were having difficulties stemming from my infidelity early in the marriage.”
“What do you mean by difficulties?” Tracy asked.
“I don’t understand the question.”
“You said you were having ‘difficulties.’ Did you ever strike her?” Tracy asked.
“Never,” Strickland said. “I would never strike a woman. We were just trying to get through a difficult time.”
“Wh
ose idea was it to climb Mount Rainier?”
“Andrea’s.”
“Not yours?”
“No. I really hadn’t had the time to even think of such things. We’d been so immersed in trying to make a go of the business that we had lost touch with each other. The stress was tremendous. We’d hoped that climbing, something we enjoyed doing together, would help us both remember why we’d fallen in love in the first place.”
“And was her taking out an insurance policy benefiting you also her idea?” Kins said.
Strickland shifted his gaze and gave Kins a smug smile. “Actually, it was, Detective.”
“And you had no idea your wife was planning on leaving you?” Kins said in a tone intended to get a rise out of Strickland.
“None. I’ve thought about it, obviously. I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Tracy wondered how that was even possible, given that Strickland had only learned the evening before that his wife had walked off the mountain. “And what did you conclude?” Tracy asked.
“Clearly, Andrea had to have planned this. At the very least she had to have a separate set of crampons and clothing to get off the mountain.”
“So she clearly didn’t think the climb was going to repair your marriage,” Kins said, ever the annoying fly.
Montgomery sat up, now poised to respond each time Kins asked a question, which Tracy knew was the reason Kins kept doing it. He was diverting Montgomery’s attention, and his displeasure, so the attorney would be less inclined to object to Tracy’s questions. “He’s not going to speculate about what Andrea thought or believed.”
“Seems self-evident now,” Kins said, shrugging and sitting back.
“Did your wife have any relatives?” Tracy asked.
Strickland shook his head. “No. Her parents were deceased.”
“How about friends who would have assisted her?”
“I’m not sure anyone did,” Strickland said.
“She had to get from Mount Rainier to Seattle some way,” Tracy said.
“Yes, but she could have rented a car and hidden it somewhere.”
“Did the Pierce County detectives indicate they’d found evidence she’d done so?”
The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4) Page 12
