“Yes. I’m at the Sheraton downtown.”
Doug whistled. “Nice place.” He rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. “I’ll bet that costs some bucks.”
Bowden chuckled. It did, but this was his fifth night in Seattle, and he hadn’t slept in that bed yet. Vincent was paying. “There’s the car.”
Doug pulled past and backed up to it. He jumped out and a few minutes later he jumped back in, soaking wet. “Your car’s full of water.”
“It’s a rental.”
“Oh. You know it doesn’t always rain like this.”
“Really? I heard you guys once had 98 consecutive days of rain.”
Doug laughed. “We had 98 consecutive days where we had some precipitation. It didn’t rain like this.”
Chase only nodded. He didn’t feel like talking. He had too many loose ends that he had to tie together… and too many cases.
“Do you want to go downtown? I’ve got a lot down there, too. It will cost you a little more than stopping in Bellevue, but I could drop you off at the Sheraton.”
“Thanks.”
It was still raining when he jumped out of the truck and ran up to the doors of his hotel. A man in the hotel’s uniform opened them for him. The man pointed at a barrel with about six umbrellas in it. “You may take an umbrella next time you go out, sir.”
Bowden beat the rain from his coat and then flipped the hood back. His short hair had flattened against his head. He ran his hand through it and walked to the elevator, thinking that with the hotel issuing umbrellas, Doug’s claim somehow didn’t ring true.
Once in his room, he crawled out of his wet clothes. He set the plug in the bottom of the Jacuzzi and turned on the hot water, then wandered over to the phone and dialed it. It rang three times before it was picked up on the other end, but no one spoke.
“It’s Chase Bowden. I’m at the Sheraton….”
“In Seattle,” finished the person on the other end. “I know that. I just couldn’t think who we had out there.”
“Hi, Sandy.”
“Hello, Chase. What do you want now?”
He laughed. “What? What makes you think I want something?”
“You never call to ask me to dinner,” she said in a pouting voice.
“I’ve got reservations at nine if you can make it.”
She laughed. “What do you need?”
“I ran into something out here I didn’t expect.” He wondered how he should phrase the question. He decided to start with a little history. “Seventy years ago an FBI agent was killed here. A bullet to the head. I’d like to find out about that, and the case he was working on. His name was Sam Riley.”
“Sam Riley, FBI,” Sandy echoed. “Seventy years?” Her voice held a tinge of disbelief.
“That’s what I understand.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can find.”
“And Sandy?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be at this number all night.”
There was silence on the other end. “You want this tonight?”
“It’s important.”
“Chase. The case is seventy years old. It can’t be that important and, as if I have to remind you, you don’t work here any more.”
He sat silently for a moment. His next words were whispered. “I know, Sandy. Just as soon as you can, okay?”
“Sure. And be careful out there.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Chase.”
He hung up the phone. The water was still running in the Jacuzzi and he walked into the bathroom to check on it. It wasn’t full. A small fridge sat in the room and he opened it up looking for a beer. He found champagne, chardonnay, red wine and white wine. He kept digging. In the back he found a forty of Red Hook ale and a forty of Samuel Adams. He pulled these out and shut the fridge.
He stripped next to the Jacuzzi and slid into the hot water, punching a button to start the jets. He opened the Samuel Adams, closed his eyes, and took a sip.
Yeah, Sandy, he thought, I don’t work there any more. He reached over with his left hand and touched the circular scar over his right nipple, where a bullet from an AK-47 had missed his lung by a fraction of an inch and shattered his shoulder blade.
He was in Afghanistan when he was shot. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Not officially, anyway. No one wanted the CIA around. The Mossad rescued him, which was another embarrassment to his department. The CIA took the bullet out, and paid for a follow-up surgery to try to get more movement back into the shoulder. When that surgery failed they retired him on disability. It was their way of getting rid of an unnecessary reminder of their screw-up.
He opened the Red Hook. Thanks Sandy, he thought. Thanks for reminding me.
It was after midnight when the phone rang, waking him. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?” he muttered. His tongue felt like it was coated with cotton.
“Chase?”
“Hey, Sandy.”
“Hold on while I check the line.”
He waited patiently while she made sure that no one had patched into the line.
“Okay. We’re clear.”
“Did you find something?”
“Um…”
He abruptly sat up. “What is it?”
“The file’s covered.”
His mouth opened and he rubbed his chin. His heart pounded. A national security case? Seventy years old and still not closed?
She spoke softly. “Are you there?”
“Just thinking.”
“I have the cover story for you.”
“Hold on.” He turned on a lamp and opened the drawer by his bed. He moved the Glock out of the way and grabbed a notebook and pen provided by the hotel. “Okay.”
“Sam Riley was working on a case involving insider trading or fraud.”
He interrupted her. “It isn’t specific?”
“I’m reading between the lines, here. It actually says that he investigated a complaint filed against a member of the board at the New York Stock Exchange.”
“But it doesn’t give a name?”
“No. It says that Sam Riley died during the investigation. That’s all.”
“That’s it? It says ‘died,’ not ‘murdered?’”
“Chase, it says he died during the investigation.”
“But it was never closed.” He spoke out loud, rehashing the information as he tried to make sense of it. “Was another agent assigned to the case?”
“There’s no indication that it was turned over to another agent. Wait a minute. There is a CIA number associated to it.”
He could hear the clicking of the keyboard as she entered the information into her computer.
“What makes you think Sam Riley was murdered?” she asked as she waited for the file to come up.
He smiled knowingly, wondering what her reaction would be if he told her the truth. “It’s just something that came up; nothing specific, just a lot of unanswered questions.”
“Here it is. Nothing, Chase. It says that the case was returned to the FBI.”
“Does it give an agent’s name or ID number?”
“No. It just says, case returned to the FBI.”
He exhaled. No help there. It only indicated that someone thought this case might be international, and therefore the CIA’s. But they declined it. No. They returned it. What did that mean?
“You know what a covered file is, Chase. Please be careful.”
“Maybe it’s just been overlooked.”
“I checked on that. The cover was signed off again, only one year ago. It’s good for nine more years.”
“Whose name?”
“Blanket. NSA.”
His heart beat so strongly that he could feel the blood being pumped through the veins in his temples. This was not good news.
“Thanks, Sandy.”
“Hey, Chase? Really… Be careful.”
He hung up the phone and flopped back onto his bed. A seventy-year old case should
not be covered. He picked up the Glock and slid it under his pillow. A seventy-year old case should be closed. A suspect might still be alive in his late ninety’s, but that would leave the case open, and someone else would have been assigned to it. Why not?
His thoughts darted back to the most obvious reason. National Security.
6
Bowden’s thoughts wouldn’t let him sleep. Why would National Security still be an issue? He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. What had happened back then? The Stock Market crashed. World War II. The Great Depression.
He dressed, putting his gun in the holster under his left arm. There were too many questions and only one person who could provide the answers; the one person who had been dead for seventy years, killed while working the case. He pulled his heavy coat on and stepped into the elevator, punching the button for the garage before remembering that he didn’t have a car.
He hit the lobby button and asked the doorman there to call a cab. The guy picked up a phone and used a speed dial button. The cab arrived in less than ten minutes.
“To the airport,” Chase said as he climbed into the back seat.
“Do you have any luggage, sir?”
“What? No. I need a car…. Never mind. Just take me to the airport.”
Thirty minutes later, he slid behind the wheel of a black Ford Escape. It was a small utility vehicle and he’d never been in one before, but he didn’t have a lot of choice at the rental counter. He kept switching companies. He’d let Vincent straighten everything out.
It took him a moment to find the lights and a few more seconds to find the windshield wipers. He drove out to Issaquah and wondered at the stupidity of his actions. The plan in his mind didn’t make any sense. He was going out in the woods on a cold, rainy night to see if he could locate a ghost.
He backed the Escape into the clearing where he had parked his first night out. He shut off the engine and listened to the rain pound on the thin metal roof. He looked out at the rain and wondered how hard it would be to contact a ghost.
He put his thumb on the horn and pressed it down for a full second. He released the pressure and then pressed it again and followed it a third time. He looked around as he waited. He couldn’t see anything more than twenty feet from him.
The rain and darkness blurred the tree line. He could make out the round shape of a trunk here and there, but could see nothing beyond that. Glancing at his watch, he saw that five minutes had passed, so he honked three times again.
He cracked his window an inch to listen but all he could hear was the wind. He closed it quickly as water ran down the inside. As he reached for the horn again, he realized he wasn’t alone. Sam Riley sat quietly in the passenger seat.
He stared at him for several seconds. “How’d you do that?”
“What?”
“Get in here.”
Riley stuck his arm through the door, raised his hand above the window and waved.
“Very cute.”
Riley pulled his hand back in. “And what are you doing out here? Don’t you sleep either?”
He tugged at his ear, then let out a big sigh. “I had a friend check your file.”
Riley sat forward, his eyes blazing out from under the rim of the fedora. “What file?”
“The case you were working on, when you were killed.”
“How’d you find out I was with the Bureau?”
“A little girl told me.”
Riley’s eyebrows flicked upward.
“Tara,” Bowden explained. “She’s grown up now, but she remembers you. I think she would like to see you again.”
Riley slowly eased back into the seat. “Okay. So I’m with… or was with the FBI. And you?”
“Well, I was with the Agency.”
“Really? We aren’t supposed to cooperate with each other.”
Bowden grinned. “I thought you’d be interested in knowing the outcome of your case.”
Riley twisted so that his shoulders were square to the driver’s seat. “Did they solve it?”
“They never tried.”
Riley’s head dipped forward, then snapped back up. “What about my murder? Did they solve that?”
“I’m sorry,” he answered. “They never tried. They didn’t assign anyone to the case after you were shot. They, um—they didn’t even call it murder.”
Riley stared hard at him.
He went on. “The case you were working on was covered, so I don’t know much about it. I kind of hoped you might fill me in.”
“They covered my case?” Riley patted his pockets then stopped and looked at his hands. “Do you smoke?”
Chase shook his head. “I had to give it up with the Agency. They’ve got this thing about habits, you know? Habits get you killed.”
Riley nodded. “I haven’t had a smoke in seventy years, and suddenly I’m craving one.”
Having had the same thing happen to him, Chase could only smile.
“They didn’t call my death a suicide, did they?”
“It just states that you died.”
“But you want to know about my case?”
“Yes.” He noticed that Riley’s clothes were dry.
“Why?”
“I’m curious. I also wonder if it ties in to my case.”
Riley took the fedora off and ran his fingers around the rim, spinning the hat slowly in his hand as he thought. Bowden looked at the hole in Riley’s forehead and wondered what kind of condition other ghosts might be in, ghosts that had been run over by trains, smashed in cars or burned in fires. He grimaced as he thought of the last one.
Riley saw him and shoved the fedora back on his head. “Sorry about that. Another habit I have when I’m thinking.”
Bowden didn’t respond. The best way to solicit a response was to wait.
“You know the 1920’s were very good economic times for most Americans, and that nearly everyone invested in the stock market. In fact, rich and well-connected investors were buying stocks with little or no money down. Pierre Fonck was both of these.”
Chase took out his notebook and wrote the name down. “Who’s Pierre Fonck?”
“Kay’s grandfather. He was rich and well connected. On October 24th, 1929, over 13 million shares were traded.”
“Black Thursday.”
“Yes. Some bankers, under pressure from the Federal Government, put up money to prop up the market. Then on October 29th, 16 million shares were dumped. There were no banks left to bail out the market because they were broke, too. This plunged us into the Great Depression.”
Bowden’s eyes narrowed as he pictured the chaos. “Millions of people were broke, but a few made millions of dollars.”
The ghost nodded. “I was part of a task force to check out the few who made millions of dollars. The idea was to find out if insider trading had affected the stock market. I discovered that a small number of people with several million stocks between them, dumped their stocks on those two days. I was trying to find out if these people were connected to each other in any way.”
“A conspiracy theory.”
“A very simple one.”
“And Pierre Fonck was one of these men?”
“Yes. The trail led to him. He always had plenty of money, but I never could find it. The trail was a dead end, in more ways than one,” Riley said, pointing to his forehead.
Chase sat silently thinking. With that kind of money in the family’s history it made the theory about the painting’s value even more credible.
Riley watched him for a moment. “So what are you thinking?”
“It’s very likely that the two cases are related. I’m wondering if the money has been passed through the generations, and that when Vincent’s father died, he tried to pass the secret of the wealth to his children via the painting.”
“And now Adam is dead.” Riley wrinkled his brows. “If that money was reinvested in the market in 1940, how much would it be worth today?”
Bowden whistled. He
looked over at Riley and said, “I’ve got to find that painting. Maybe he taped some shares of stock on the back of it.”
“I don’t think so, but I never could look behind it. Any ideas where it might be?”
“I’ll talk to Detective Cooper and Andre Fonck today. Maybe you should talk to Tara.”
Sam Riley passed out of the rented Ford and stepped into a puddle. The rain fell through him and splashed onto the soggy soil. He watched as Chase Bowden drove away, heading for Andre’s house in Kirkland.
The Bureau had cut him loose, covered his case, and buried him without an investigation. The painting that he had looked at so many times without really seeing, could turn the whole case for him. Find the painting and work backwards. Riley smiled. After seventy years he finally had a break.
He stepped into the tree line and picked his way around the large trunks. He didn’t have to. He could have walked right through them, but that wasn’t natural to him, and so he went around as he had done all his life. His old habits manifested themselves again when he reached the house. He moved around to the front door and passed through it.
Riley floated up the stairs and paused outside of Tara’s bedroom. It had been a very long time since he had spoken to her. He hesitated, turned and moved away. A very long time.
He remembered her laugh and stopped. The little girl.
He returned to her room, stuck his head through the door, and saw that she was asleep. He passed through and watched her, wondering if Bowden had told the truth when he mentioned Tara.
She slept on her side with her knees bent slightly. Her blond hair piled up on the pillow behind her head. Her eyes were closed and she wore no makeup. The heavy blanket rose and fell with each breath.
Riley stepped closer and reached his hand out towards her cheek. His fingers curled as he thought about touching her soft, warm skin, but he knew that there would be no sensation. He sighed, shaking his head sadly.
He bent over, putting his lips inches from her ear, and called softly. “Tara.”
Her eyelids flickered and Riley stepped back. She smiled and pushed herself up to a sitting position, pulling the blanket around her.
“Hi, Tara,” he said gently.
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