“I’m the one driving in Los Angeles. You should be wishing me luck.”
She jumped on the I-10 east and settled into a steady stream of traffic. Ten years ago, she would have been dismayed at the sheer number of cars, but with Seattle the fastest-growing city in the nation, traffic had also become a way of life in the Northwest. So had a drought, all along the West Coast, and it had hit Southern California hard, especially with the recent heat wave. The hills had turned a dirt-brown and the sky a rust-colored haze. It reminded Tracy of the grainy images the Mars rover had transmitted back to Earth, and it looked like the slightest spark would cause everything to burst into flames.
Just under an hour into her drive, she merged onto I-215 north into San Bernardino, one of Southern California’s sprawling cities, which had become infamous in 2012 as the largest city in the United States to declare bankruptcy, and then again in 2015 when two radicalized Islamic losers killed fourteen innocent people.
She exited onto East Orange Show Road and turned right onto South Waterman Avenue. Her GPS directed her onto Third Street, and she slowed when the voice informed her that her destination, a beige stucco apartment complex, was on her right. She turned into the parking lot and pulled into a spot abutting a wrought-iron fence enclosing an amoeba-shaped swimming pool. Two palm trees towered over the pool but offered little shade.
She slipped on sunglasses and exited the car. As she ascended an outdoor staircase to the second story and made her way down the landing, she heard traditional Mexican music filtering out an open apartment window. When she came to the second door from the end, she knocked. Inside, she heard someone turn off the television and footsteps approach the door, followed by the distinct sound of a chain sliding from a lock and a deadbolt disengaging.
A woman answered.
“Mrs. Orr?” Tracy said.
“You must be the detective from Seattle. Call me Penny,” she said.
Tracy introduced herself. She estimated Orr to be early fifties. Though she was in good shape, trim, with defined arms, she had a heaviness to her that Tracy usually associated with someone who’d lived a hard life and felt the weight of it. Orr had “dark Irish” coloring—freckled, pale skin with dark hair that showed just a few strands of gray.
“Come in, please. You made good time,” Patricia Orr said. “Traffic must have not been too bad.”
“Not too bad,” Tracy said. She’d called the night before and spoken to Orr, letting her know the purpose of her visit.
She stepped into a modestly furnished but impeccably clean apartment with cream-colored leather furniture, a few bronze sculptures, and large framed prints. In one print, three Elvis Presleys dressed in cowboy garb aimed six-shooters into the living room. In another, multiple colorful images of a forever-young Marilyn Monroe winked seductively from behind the leaves of a potted fern.
“Andy Warhol,” Tracy said. “That Elvis is one of my favorite prints.”
“Are you a fan?” Patricia Orr asked.
“I’m a shooter,” Tracy said. “My sister and I competed in shooting tournaments all over the Pacific Northwest.”
“Do you and your sister still compete?”
“I still get out every so often,” Tracy said. “My sister passed away many years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Orr said. “Please, sit.” She motioned to the L-shaped couch facing a large flat screen. To the right, a sliding-glass door offered a view to the simmering foothills. Orr reached for a pitcher on the coffee table. “Can I pour you some iced tea?”
“That would be great, thank you.”
They made small talk, then settled in. “I’m very sorry about your niece,” Tracy said.
“I didn’t know what to feel when you called,” Orr said. “I’d already grieved Andrea’s death once. Then to find out she’d been alive . . .” She shook her head, as if confused. “And now she’s dead again. It just pains me to think that someone would be so cruel. I hope she didn’t suffer.”
“It doesn’t appear to be the case,” Tracy said, not really knowing, but knowing what Orr wanted to hear. The autopsy did not reveal any telltale signs of torture or abuse, and the bullet to the back of the head would have killed Andrea Strickland instantly.
“Do you know what happened?” Orr asked.
“We’re in the process of trying to find out,” Tracy said. “Obviously, Andrea did not die on the mountain. Somehow, she managed to walk off. What happened after that is not yet known.”
“Why would she do that?” Orr asked.
“There’s evidence she and her husband were having problems. He’d gotten them into some financial trouble and there are indications of infidelity.”
“He didn’t abuse her, did he?”
“We’re not aware of any physical abuse,” Tracy said, though Brenda Berg had indicated that Andrea Strickland hinted at it.
“The other detective said the husband was a suspect; is he still a suspect?”
“When was that?” Tracy asked.