Faint Trace Read Online Free Page A

gently picked up one from the top shelf. It was issued by the Republic of Georgia and had stamps from around the globe, the picture showing a young woman with bleached blond hair. I looked at others, documents from Latvia, Thailand, and Qatar. All were issued to women.
    â€œHe selling these?” Ernie asked.
    â€œNot much market for expired passports,” I said. I reached below to a stack on the bottom shelf. When I flipped through the pages they were pristine, crisp and clean, with expiration dates three years in the future, empty spots where the photos should be.
    I pointed to the chemicals. “Well, that explains the benzene and the bleach. He’s using those to create clean passports, ones he can sell.”
    â€œThere’s a lucrative business for you,” Ernie said. “And a pretty clear signal that Van lives here, at least some of the time.”
    Out front we could hear a car approach and then stop.
    â€œHousekeeper?” I asked.
    â€œToo early,” Ernie said, waving toward the window. The two of us hopped gently outside and lowered the window until it was open just a crack. We barely escaped: Huddled alongside the garage, we heard the door inside open, then slow footsteps across the cement floor. I wasn’t sure it was Ouyang, but the pace matched the shuffling gait of the old man. The hinges on the cabinet squealed as it opened, and then there was the sound of rustling paper. The steps retreated and the door closed, and a moment later the car started up.
    I was in motion, running down the driveway, Ernie one step behind me. I spotted Ouyang’s Honda driving up the street, then turning left at College Avenue in the direction of Highway 24. We hopped in the car, and Ernie called in the information to Stanzler as I drove, rolling through stop signs rather than coming to a full halt. Ouyang obeyed all traffic signs, and before long we caught up to the Honda. He certainly wasn’t acting like an outlaw. Relaying our position to Stanzler, with no other agents in the vicinity and no idea where we were going, we agreed to follow closely, calling in updates, not that Stanzler expected much excitement.
    Ouyang’s Honda merged onto the highway. I tapped the brake—­rush hour was past its peak but traffic crawled, slowing the closer we got to the Bay Bridge. I was happy when Ouyang exited towards downtown, and we followed, watching him pull into a handicapped space in a lot next to a bank, and hobble inside.
    â€œThink we’ll stand out in our workout wear?” Ernie asked.
    â€œIt’s California. We’ll blend in.”
    We entered separately, Ernie pulling a brochure on electronic banking while I filled out a deposit slip, writing in totals for checks I didn’t have. I watched as Ouyang approached a bank manager, who graciously led him to the back.
    Ernie appeared next to me.
    â€œSafe deposit boxes?” I wrote on the deposit slip’s signature line. Ernie nodded.
    I felt my phone vibrate against my hip. Glancing at it briefly I saw that it was Holly, Lucy’s sitter, a sweet psychology major from St. Mary’s College who threaded brightly colored silk through her dreadlocks and called Lucy “dude.” Lucy had always adored Holly, but this week and last she had been ignoring her, which Holly took with good grace.
    â€œShe associates me coming every day with illness and pain,” Holly said evenly. “The last time I babysat this often was when Kevin was getting the intensive chemo.” Holly had started calling when she arrived in the morning to let me know the fun plans she and Lucy had for the day and to give me an unofficial report on Kevin. I let this morning’s call go to voice mail.
    Less than thirty seconds later my phone vibrated again, followed by another call ten seconds after that.
    â€œAnswer it,” Ernie said, staring at the ground. “Ouyang should be gone for a few minutes.”
    â€œAguilar,