Faint Trace Read Online Free

criminal accomplice. Over the last ten days he had appeared four times, slipping into the garage and emerging with a package, invariably traveling to the post office and then to an apartment downtown. We were able to track him down through the apartment, under his name, Daniel Ouyang. He was not a criminal but a community activist, which made no sense.
    Through my binoculars I watched as Taylor appeared in the driveway on a skate-­board—­his first class started in ten minutes and the high school was right down the street. He skimmed down the driveway at a speed that made me want to go outside and put a helmet on him.
    â€œWe’re up,” I said.
    Ernie and I raced downstairs past the Moorish benches and beveled mirrors that lined Professor Ginthner’s hallway. Despite the professor’s offer that we should feel free to use the whole house, we stayed in the attic, afraid of breaking some of the antiques or attracting the attention of the neighbors. We had a very short window between when Taylor left and the cleaning woman arrived, and we planned to get a good look at what was inside that garage so that if Ouyang made another appearance, we’d know what he was transporting.
    We jogged across a street lined with beautiful bungalows expensively landscaped with native plants, with several porches sporting peace sign flags. Ernie and I were wearing running clothes, but didn’t completely blend in, as most ­people in this neighborhood would be wearing space age fabrics that allowed peak exercise experiences instead of cotton shorts and hoodies with big pockets that hid our holstered SIG Sauers and let us carry keys, phones, and badges.
    Far down the street I saw Taylor carelessly propelling himself toward the high school entrance. While Oakland had more than its fair share of bad schools, Taylor’s was not one of them, with some of the best test scores in the state. We had approached school officials to see if they might let us take a look at Taylor’s records. They laughed in our faces, but I was surprised when the vice principal we spoke to agreed not to mention our inquiry to Taylor or his father, and even gave us a little background.
    â€œTaylor is a good kid,” he said. “Not popular, keeps to himself, and a bit socially isolated because his parents are quite strict about his time.” I managed to hold back a laugh, since the kid seemed to be raised by an elderly man and a housekeeper.
    â€œC’mon, Lyons,” Ernie said, looking down the street before sprinting up the driveway. We hugged the bushes that lined the property, bypassing the garage door and looking for a side entrance. There was one, but it was locked.
    â€œDo you smell smoke, Lyons,” Ernie asked, nose in the air and rattling the door.
    â€œDon’t give up on due process so soon, Aguilar.” I ran to the back of the garage, where we found a window propped up several inches.
    Once we dropped inside, I could understand why the window was left open. The room smelled of aftershave and nail polish remover, so strong I gagged before breathing through my mouth, a low burn in the back of my throat.
    â€œWhere’s the loot?” Ernie whispered. “I was expecting to find Dorothy’s red shoes and ten copies of the Shroud of Turin in here.”
    I was surprised to see that the room was outfitted like a normal garage. “I have to say, I was expecting something less . . . utilitarian.”
    A lawnmower was propped in the corner, hedge trimmers hanging next to the window. The whole far wall was taken up by a wooden workbench with a series of cabinets built in above. Inside we found rows upon rows of benzene and acetone, and in the next set of cabinets, bleach and ten bottles of Wite-­Out.
    â€œMeth?” Ernie asked.
    â€œWrong ingredients,” I said, and pulled open the last door. Inside were neatly stacked rows of passports, arranged alphabetically by country.
    I