Page 16 of High Velocity

A large pickup with a pissed-off guy behind the wheel, gesturing wildly, is riding my ass.

Great, I’m already pissing off the locals.

I didn’t realize there was anyone behind me, I was too busy scanning the numbers on the mailboxes, slowing down each time I passed one.

Edging the wheels on the passenger side of my SUV as close to the ditch as I dare, I motion for the guy to pass me. I hold up my hand in apology and receive an extended middle finger in return.

Charming.

The address I was given is on the north side of the river in Troy, it’s a more remote, wooded area I’m not familiar with. The houses are spread out, and sometimes not visible from the road or each other, a good portion of them no more than ramshackle trailer homes. I’m starting to wonder if, maybe, I should’ve let someone know where I was heading.

The only person who knows is Ben Vallard, and he’s back in Michigan.

I wasn’t going to get involved—I don’t owe Vallard any favors—but he knew damn well, calling me to let me know the police officer Mitchel Laine shot had died that afternoon, he’d have me hooked.

I work hard on any case, regardless of who the victim or victims may be, but when it involves a fellow law enforcement officer, things get personal. Enough so I find myself looking for Tracy Elliston this morning.

Mitchel Laine’s girlfriend.

I didn’t jump in with both feet, mind you. Still, Ben explained he had to testify in one of his cases that went to trial in the coming days and wouldn’t be able to get away. Then he mentioned he’d tried to get assistance from the Kalispell office but was told they were swamped. That was a direct hit, since the reason they’re swamped is likely because I’m not there to do my job.

Ultimately, he had some valid concerns once news about the officer dying got out, Laine could well aim straight for the Canadian border. After all, Troy is less than eighty miles from the border. It wouldn’t take much for him to disappear from our jurisdiction.

In the end, I caved and told him I’d look into it.

He was able to give me an address for the woman, 254 Waterfront Road, and the name of her employer, Cuts ’n Curls, a hair salon in town. But, as he pointed out, he couldn’t guarantee that information was still correct.

I’d spent some time last night lying awake in bed, trying to come up with a credible cover. There’s no way I’m going to invoke the FBI. Aside from the fact she’d clam up immediately, I don’t want to risk my job by flaunting the Bureau without the badge to show for it.

This morning I’d looked up the hair salon online. No website, but they do have a Facebook page, which I scanned, finding a comment under a post from a woman who raved about the cut she got from Tracy. I made note of the customer’s name and waited until nine to call the salon. When I asked for an appointment with Tracy, I was told she wouldn’t be in until that afternoon and was booked up, but had space tomorrow.

My plan had been to go in—my hair could use a trim anyway—and see what I could find out. Most hairdressers are Chatty Cathys in my experience anyway. But since I couldn’t get in until tomorrow, and I didn’t want to waste today, I decided to have a look at the address Vallard gave me.

It wasn’t until I turned down this road and happened to spot a for-rent sign on the mailbox of a dingy looking trailer a mile or so back, an enhanced plan formed.

Most of the number has flaked off the side of the brightly painted mailbox, but I’m just able to make it out. The driveway is little more than two ruts winding through the trees. I only get a glimpse of an equally bright-colored trailer from the road. Confident my cover will hold up; I turn on to the trail to take a closer look.

The house looks to be a double-wide trailer, and it’s in better shape than either the mailbox or the driveway. Nothing is blooming yet, but I can see someone loves gardening. There are planters on either side of the steps going up to the house, and the small clearing in front of the house has a couple of flower beds, filled with dormant plants.

A gray Pontiac Vibe is parked on the right side of the trailer. I hope that means she’s home.

No sooner have I turned off my engine, when the front door of the trailer swings open and a woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose and a mass of vibrant red hair piled high on her head steps outside. If this is Tracy, she’s changed quite a bit from the DMV image Ben sent through last night. She had blond hair and full makeup on in that picture.

“Can I help you?”

The question is friendly enough, but her tone has a sharp edge. This is not a woman to mess with.

“Yes, hi.” I plaster on my best smile as I walk up. From closer up I recognize her features. This is definitely Tracy, unless she has a twin. “I believe you have a place listed for rent?”

“For rent?” she echoes.

I pull out a scrap of paper and pretend to read something, squinting my eyes.

“This is 254 Waterfront Road, isn’t it?”

Her face registers confusion first, but then quickly relaxes.

“It is, but this isn’t for rent. There’s a trailer down the street a bit that is though. I think it’s 234 Waterfront, you must’ve written down the wrong number.”

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