by Rick Mofina
Jason looked at Grace, who looked away, her expression cold.
“By the way, you’re going to be in tomorrow’s paper.” Spangler nodded to the newsroom.
The group turned to face the photographer taking pictures of the exchange through the glass walls of Spangler’s office.
“Just so you know,” Dupree said, “you’ve hampered the investigation into the abduction of Dylan Colson.”
“How so, Agent Dupree?” Spangler folded his arms. “We’ve given you a lead.”
“You’ve most likely given us a bullshit lead in order to boost readership, and you know it. Your presentation of this ‘tip’ gives it unwarranted credibility.” Jason lowered his chin and smiled to himself as Dupree continued. “You’ve diverted attention from the first solid piece of evidence to emerge in this case. We’ll be inundated with calls from every nutcase who thinks they have psychic abilities, or thinks they can identify this phantom in the sketch. There’s no detail here. This could be you, me, or an alien. We’ve already put resources on this thing which are being drawn away from following up solid evidence on the suspect’s shoe.”
“If our tip is such a bogus one, then why are you here, huh?” Spangler asked.
“Unlike you, we confirm our information before deciding to make it public.”
At that moment, Jason noticed Nate Hodge in the newsroom standing next to Danny Kwong, the photog shooting the police.
It puzzled Jason why Hodge was waving this morning’s front page of the Mirror and his camera.
Then it started coming back to him.
The thing he’d forgotten.
Yesterday morning, before heading to Sunset Hill Park, he’d called Hodge to ask him to get there in advance of his secret meeting and set up. Jason wanted him to take pictures from a distance with the same powerful lens he used to shoot Seahawks games.
It was an ass-covering thing some reporters did whenever they met with sources in public places.
Since Jason hadn’t actually met anyone at the park, he’d forgotten to ask Hodge if he’d actually shot anything.
Now he could see Hodge nodding to him, holding up the Mirror and his camera and nodding big nods, confirming that Christ yes, he had something to show him.
Right now!
24
Axel didn’t have a lot of time to pull it off.
Forty-eight hours.
If he was lucky.
The way things stood, he was jammed tight by the situation—guaranteed to go down for it unless he tried something.
Anything, man.
His plan was his only chance.
Nadine was still in the shower when he returned to the house. He took her shoes and the other items into the room they used for storing stuff. He hid it all there among some sheets and blankets.
Then he sat at the desk in the room, a sheet of finished plywood atop two two-drawer file cabinets. He switched on his laptop computer, used his secret password to log on to the files he kept hidden on his hard drive.
As his computer beeped, he accepted that the FBI, with that shoe evidence and other stuff, would likely find Nadine. It was just a matter of time. But he could erase himself from the picture, or at least complicate the trail leading to him. He’d learned about police procedures from other inmates at Coyote Ridge.
His mind raced back to the store. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? That she was lying about a kid, that she was a psycho? She had to be nuts. He couldn’t believe the kid was hers. The whole time they were hauling ass from the store with the thing bawling he kept drilling her.
“Nadine, is this baby really yours?”
“Yes!”
“Bullshit! I want the truth, Nadine!”
“He’s mine, I swear, Axel. The services people took him from me and gave him to the Colsons. When I got better they wouldn’t give him back to me.”
“Why not?”
“They didn’t think I was well enough to take care of him. But they’re wrong. Tell me that they’re wrong, Axel!”
He glared at her in disbelief.
“Is this the truth, Nadine?”
“Yes, I swear. I had to rescue him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything, Axel. I needed your help.”
Oh, he was going to help her.
He seethed as he worked on his laptop. This psycho bitch was not going to pull down his life’s work, the grand plan he’d begun building inside for the last three years of his life.
It had gone well after he got out. He found a job at a wrecking yard. He had limited supervision, worked his own hours, and was paid in cash. He got the van through a friend of a friend through a side deal with a repo guy. He got a safe plate and a motorcycle. Neither the van nor the bike were registered to him.
He’d established his relationship and “ties to the community” with a single mother. However, on paper, Axel had passed off Nadine to the community corrections officer as Ms. Jane Carruthers, a secretary at a daycare center. He gave Axel a thumbs-up for taking the correct rehabilitative path with such an upstanding and pretty young lady. More important, his CCO, an absentminded white-haired guy, kept pushing back residential visits because he was being treated for some kind of cancer.
It didn’t matter because Axel had listed three different addresses. All of them wrong. He kept promising his CCO that he would update his residential address as required.
The address thing was all part of living smart outside. In prison, other inmates taught you to stay out of all databanks. No credit cards. Never list a real address; use postal boxes, general delivery. It was what he and Nadine were doing with this place they were renting.
Axel had tried to be certain nothing tied them to the property. And he always ensured his fingertips were cut up with deep scrapes, or he wore bandages or gloves, something he could pass off to the work he did on wrecks. Keep yourself invisible, don’t make it easy for anyone to find you. Keep your number unlisted, or use a public phone.
They must’ve done it right, or Nadine’s stunt would’ve had the FBI on their doorstep by now. It must’ve bought them a little time.
Until now, the real deal Axel had been working on involved an upcoming job meticulously planned by some guys inside. He was part of the project team. He had to first set himself up as being clean, then they would get him a new identity and a job repairing armored cars in Los Angeles. When the time came, he’d help the team pull off one mother of a heist.
Axel’s cut was going to be $2.5 million.
Then he’d dump Nadine and her kid and head off to one of the South American or Caribbean countries that had no extradition deal with the United States and he would enjoy the rest of his life on the beach.
That was Axel’s dream plan.
Nadine’s move threatened to send him back inside. He could not allow that to happen.
The shower stopped.
He heard her hair dryer going as he continued working online with his files. The best thing he took out of prison was an extensive network of friends on the outside.
Axel could get expert help fast on just about anything he needed: forged passports, stolen credit cards, counterfeit cash, drugs, stolen plates, guns, advice on how to leave no trace evidence at crime scenes, how to make bombs, plot a bank job. He could contact brokers who handled every stolen item on the planet: cars, diamonds, art, guns, computer programs, postage stamps, trading cards, university exams, even plutonium.
Axel needed help now.
“Here’s a scenario,” he began an e-mail to a friend he trusted with his life. When he finished, he sent off two more to other trusted sources, seeking their help on his plan to turn Nadine’s act around. The floor in the hall creaked.
“What do you think, honey?”
Axel closed his files and looked at Nadine standing in the doorway.
“My new look for our new life.”
She grinned, buffed her head with her hands. Her hair was short and dyed a completely different color. She didn’t look a thing like the woman
who’d stepped into the bathroom.
He nodded.
“Whatcha working on, there?”
“Just keeping an eye on things.”
“I saw you at the fire by the drum.” She nodded to the back. “You get rid of everything?”
He nodded. “Everything we needed to get rid of.”
“Good. I’m going to check on my baby. He’s still asleep.” She turned, then stopped. “I’m hungry, and I’m going to have a tomato sandwich. Can I fix you anything, hon?”
He shook his head.
After she left, he checked his e-mail inbox. One response already. Good. “Friend,” it began, “the answers you seek will soon be on their way.”
Good.
He closed his files, cocked an ear to the radio news in the kitchen where Nadine was humming again. The stupid bitch. Satisfied no new developments were being reported, Axel left his desk, went down the hall to the room where the kid was.
He entered.
The shade had been pulled down, washing the room with soft light.
Axel liked the sweet smell, the serene calmness. Tranquil like a funeral chapel during a wake, he thought, gazing down at Dylan Colson, who slept in the crib.
The light over the baby dimmed as Axel drew closer.
He stood there in silence, knowing that soon he’d have the information he needed to take the action Nadine had forced him to take. He looked at Dylan Colson, thinking it was too bad but it was out of Axel’s hands. He was not to blame.
It was Nadine’s fault.
25
Everett Sinclair couldn’t let it go.
The bastard in the van who had cut him off had to pay.
But how?
Vengeance had consumed Sinclair during his business flight to Detroit. After landing, it was all he could think of during late-night meetings with executives and engineers in white hard hats. It was all he could think of as he inspected the retooling of the company’s Canadian plant, which was a short drive across the Detroit River in Windsor, Ontario. And it was all he thought of now, during his first real break since leaving Seattle for this pain-in-the-ass emergency project.
Dammit.
The fact he had been diverted from pursuing restitution on his terms for the asshole’s affront—the marring of his beautiful Jasper Blue Mercedes and the destruction of his $900 tailored charcoal suit—pissed him off supremely. He refused to wait a moment longer. He was launching a counterstrike now.
As his laptop beeped to life, Sinclair took stock of his Windsor hotel room, his clothes strewn everywhere along with key reports. Was that the Tokyo file mixed with Boston and Pittsburgh? Sinclair’s counselor had warned that he would experience aggression, disinterest, depression, and erratic behavior to compensate for the wound of the divorce.
This is the wisdom $200 an hour gets you. A bartender is cheaper and you can get hammered at the same time.
Sinclair had buried himself in work; on this trip across the continent, he had been disconnected from current events in Seattle, let alone the world. Hadn’t watched any news. Unread copies of USA Today, the Detroit Free Press, and the Windsor Star were piled in the hall next to his room-service trays from a late-night dinner and a half-eaten breakfast. Why should he care about the world? The world didn’t give a damn about him.
You’re a lone wolf, Ev. Take care of yourself.
He looked across the river at Detroit, then began formulating his retribution strategy. He studied his laptop screen and the evidence he’d gathered. He clicked onto his pictures of the damage to his beloved 450SL, his suit, and began checking his summary of the incident, and spelling out his plan.
Now, by resolving things on his terms, he stressed in his e-mail, meant that he did not want police involved. And he did not want insurance companies involved either. Those pricks would find some way to blame him and jack up his rates, given the fact he had that old drunk driving record from his college days and that he also had a recent speeding charge and a red light charge against him. His life was stressful, but no one seemed to appreciate that.
So, no cops and no insurance.
Hell, he’d been beaten up badly in the settlement with his bitch ex-wife, he didn’t want her getting wind of anything else she might use against him someday.
Nothing to make her suspect he’d hidden a large chunk of change in a numbered account in Aruba—the same place he’d tucked the cash he’d finessed through subcontracting side deals he’d arranged over the years.
Relax, he told himself. No one would find his “vault,” as he liked to call it.
He was too smart to get caught. He was a guy who demanded respect. That was why he couldn’t tolerate the insult of his wife cheating on him, or this asshole in the van.
He wanted the jerk responsible to pay. He wanted $1,000 for the suit, $5,000 for damage to the car, and another $2,000 for his anguish and costs. So, $8,000 total for the incident. All in cash, Sinclair wrote.
“I want you to track this mother down ASAP and shake the cash out of him. Tell him I’ll sue his ass. Tell him that I’m going to see a doctor for a possible back injury related to the collision. Attached is all the evidence. Should be a slam dunk and take you less than two hours.”
Sinclair gave one last check of the photos: his car, his suit, the time, street, location, and, oh yeah, the tight blurry shot of the van’s rear bumper, showing some sort of custom artwork and the Washington State license plate. He had the plate for sure.
The bastard probably thought he’d gotten away with it. Sinclair hit the Send command on his laptop, instantly dispatching his e-mail to Don Krofton, the Seattle private investigator Sinclair had hired to successfully catch his whore wife banging that ex-Seahawk used-car salesman in Tacoma.
Just wait until the bastard in the van sees a hard-ass ex-Seattle cop on his doorstep with the evidence.
Oh, you’re going to pay, asshole.
Big time.
26
Dental magazines were still arriving at the office of Don Krofton’s private investigator agency.
No matter how many times she wrote to them, the magazine people still didn’t get it, Michelle, the office manager, thought as she shuffled through the mail. The agency had moved in when the Vorax Brothers dental team moved out. It had been two years now and Michelle could still detect the antiseptic smell throughout the lavender rooms of the second-floor office.
Located in a south Seattle strip mall, the P.I. firm shared the same address as a pet store, Bandito Supremo Tacos, and Eternal Solace, a business that offered cut-rate classes for aspiring funeral directors. The building featured a carnival of smells, of which Michelle preferred Don’s cigars. It also had its share of weirdos, like Bill, the white-faced operator of the funeral school. “You know, Michelle, I’m the last man in your life who would ever let you down.” Bill’s tired joke was always accompanied by his yellowtoothed smile.
Michelle went back to her computer when it beeped with a client e-mail.
“Oh God, not you again.” She read quickly through Everett Sinclair’s tirade slash investigation request, then shook her head before bumping it to Don’s private e-mail address. She wondered how the boss would handle this one from Sinclair, the client who believed the world was out to get him and wanted “to sue the ass off of every bastard” who looked sideways at him.
Sinclair just had never gotten his head around the fact his wife awoke from her prolonged state of stupidity to realize he was not a human being, but a jerk posing as one. Why he felt entitled to take out his problems on everyone was baffling.
Michelle resumed filing invoices, hoping Don would pass on this one, counting on the fact that he was vacationing in Las Vegas with Lola, a twenty-four-year-old showgirl who found Don, a sixty-two-year-old ex-cop, a fascinating man. Maybe it was the fact he had just undergone a face-lift.
Michelle caught the phone on the second ring.
“Shell”—Don always called her that—“just read that one from Everett Sinclair.”
/>
“That was fast. Are you in Vegas, still?”
“Yeah, was checking my e-mail when this one came in.”
“So you want to pass?”
“No. Give it to Henry.”
“Henry?”
“Yes. I want to give him more time toward his P.I. license. File it as a claims investigation, run the background for him. Call him and tell him I said to contact the subject and take a soft approach on the client’s request for direct restitution before hinting at litigation, insurance, or police involvement. The evidence is strong and should help.”
“All right, boss. How’s Lola?”
“Tanned and energetic. I’m taking her to a Shania Twain show tonight.”
“You’re a dirty old man.”
“Got to live life while I’m alive. Help Henry get going on this one.”
Michelle hung up and sighed. She responded with respectful courtesy to Sinclair’s e-mail, then went to the agency’s more powerful computer, which was linked to a number of federal and state databanks, and worked up the background.
Washington’s Vehicle/Vessel Inquiry System held records on nearly seven million vehicles registered in the state and some four and a half million licensed drivers. Michelle studied the grainy photo of the license plate and Sinclair’s notes. She’d say one thing for him—he was good at getting the goods on people. What was that plate number?
After scrutinizing her blurry printout showing the Washington State plate of the van that had damaged the Mercedes, she entered “575 QIO” to query IVIPS and waited for the response.
Don was a retired Seattle police detective. He started as a young beat cop, then worked up the ranks. Now he operated a small, private agency where he farmed out investigations to some two dozen former law enforcement types he knew.
After her husband passed away, Michelle, a retired Seattle PD clerk, joined his operation.
Her computer screen flashed.
IVIPS showed no records for her query. The first version of the plate didn’t exist. Oh, she must’ve made a typo. She rechecked, right, then typed “575-QID” and, bang, her response came up with the name of the registered owner, address, remarks on the vehicle, title, and miscellaneous other data. She simply glanced at it without giving the data any consideration. She never took note of the details. After processing thousands for the agency, they pretty much all looked the same. She just passed them to the investigator.
