Project Northwest

by C. B. Carter

  “And car. And with cameras, too.”

  “Hmmm, do you know where they are located?”

  “What do you mean? The cameras? Yes, but he’s made it clear that I can’t tamper with them.”

  “No, I mean the team. They have to be nearby for the devices to work. They’re obviously radio devices and they have a limited range. If you haven’t seen any wires, let me put it this way—has he warned you to not lose him, to stay close?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why. They have to be in range. How many devices have you seen?”

  “I don’t know, at least six and there’s at least a couple at the office.”

  Sylvia set out on the last stages of the reading. Apparently, James and Bridget were going to have a great life together, but there was something pending that had to be resolved. No shit, thought James.

  Shelly was still jabbing Mr. Wrong with short comments of guilt and karma. She could hear yelling coming from his earpiece and watched as he squirmed in the chair. She took some dark pleasure in the fact they were upset about something. Mr. Wrong was becoming more and more restless. Shelly could hear the earpiece voices getting louder and louder. They were now screaming.

  “And they have your computer, phones, and Bridget’s apartment bugged?”

  “Yes, they have eyes and ears on me and her everywhere.”

  “Then they are nearby, they are hard tapping your house phone and are on your ISP network. That’s a ton of data. My guess is they are in your building. Are the people in your building professional types, nine to five types?”

  “Yes, most of them are.”

  “Perfect, I’ll check the power meters at around two today. The one spinning fastest will be the one. I’m sure they are there. I’ll also look in the communications closets, but they probably have motion sensors so I will be careful.”

  “I would’ve never thought of any of this. Thanks for your help, Mark. But what does it get me? I mean, I now know who the guy is, but it doesn’t give me any power.”

  Mark placed his hand on James shoulder. “It gets us knowledge. I want to see if I can do to them what they are doing to you.”

  “You mean bug them?”

  “Something like that. You wouldn’t believe the devious things I’ve done to find cheating spouses. Okay, the personals are just too slow. I’ll leave you notes in the bathroom of the bottom floor in your building. The note will be in the last stall, in the locked toilet paper dispenser, there is a magnetic cover with rivets—it looks like part of the dispenser, the notes will be under it. Check it each day in the morning and before you leave. Here is the key for the dispenser. If the coast is clear, open it, read the note, and flush it. If not, leave it, okay? You can also leave me notes.”

  “Okay, thanks Mark,” James expressed as he took the key.

  “Not a problem. I owe you one. Get back in there and get dressed. That brute isn’t going to wait forever.”

  James and Mark were back in the reading room. James dressed as Mark collected the radio and tried to kiss Sylvia on the cheek. She shunned him and he made his way toward the back exit and turned off the hallway light before exiting.

  Suddenly, Mr. Wrong jumped from his chair and was yelling, “I’m going. I’m going.”

  His voice was loud and scared Shelly to the point that she looked away, pulling her knees to her chest. She wanted to scream out, to warn James when the bully stormed down the hallway, but couldn’t find the courage.

  Sylvia was closing the reading. “In conclusion, the pending matter will be over with quickly, well, before Mercury is close to the crescent Moon.”

  As soon as James slipped into his last shoe, he could hear someone outside checking the door handle, twisting it left and right.

  Suddenly the door exploded along the door jamb sending splinters of wood into the room and knocking off the door’s molding. A second kick broke the lock and the door was swinging back and forth on the only hinge left attached to the door frame.

  Mr. Wrong barged into the room, looked suspiciously at James and Sylvia, walked to the table, lifted the tablecloth, and peered underneath. He held his hand up with the palm out. “Don’t you say a single word to me,” he cautioned Lady Sylvia. “What is that door?” he commanded Sylvia, who refused to respond. He opened it and saw a darkened, empty hallway and announced to those listening that everything was clear.

  James was in a state of shock as he watched the remains of the door swing, but Sylvia was calm, cool, and collected. “Sir, I asked you to wait in the reception room. This isn’t going to help your dark aura. Who is going to pay for my door? Do I have to call the cops?”

  Mr. Wrong pulled his wallet, selected a hundred dollar bill and placed it on the table. Sylvia frowned and he placed another hundred dollar bill on top. “Not a word from you.”

  Mr. Wrong seized James’s arm and piloted him to the reception room. “It’s time to go, Mr. Spain.” He looked at Shelly. “We’re leaving now, let’s go,” he ordered.

  He escorted both of them with force back to the corner of Post Alley and University. “Time to go back to work and, Mr. Spain, if you ever go back there again, I’ll shoot you in mid-stride. I mean it. I won’t kill you, but you’ll never make it there unless you can crawl on two blown-out knees.”

  Mr. Wrong crossed his arms over his chest and watched as they headed back toward the bank.

  James and Shelly had crossed 1st Avenue, when Shelly commented, “Wow, he really didn’t like that place. Too much of a guilty conscience? I wanted to warn you, but couldn’t say anything. I was scared to death.”

  James said, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” He picked up his cell phone and began mocking those listening, “Don’t hold that against me. I had no idea your muscle was scared of ghosts and psychics.” They both chuckled.

  His cell phone rang.

  He answered without looking at the caller ID, “I’m serious, I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know what?” Mr. Stone asked.

  “Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  “James, when was the last time you saw Steven DuVall?”

  “I haven’t spoken with Steve since his promotion in December. I’m almost at the lobby now, just finished lunch. Want me to stop by your office?”

  “Meet me in conference room four. All OTS management will be there to talk with bank security. Standard operating procedure. James, Steven DuVall’s body has been found, apparent homicide in Belltown, looks like a car-jacking or something. Our concern are his files, they are a mess. His entire office is a mess and bank security found an empty digital camera. We have to determine the bank’s risk.”

  “Yes, sir, on my way.” James placed the phone back into its carrier.

  “I thought it was Mr. Wright, too, or Bridget. Is everything okay?” Shelly asked, holding the lobby door open.

  “One of the bank’s senior financial analysts has been found murdered in Belltown,” James casually responded. His mind was swimming, wondering if William Paul Wright had anything to do with the death of Steven DuVall.

  * * * *

  James entered conference room four and at once felt the somber mood of the room. It was like an odd funeral reception, except the guests weren’t talking up Steven DuVall and offering comfort. They were instead talking about secrets, deep, dark, dirty secrets. Mr. Stone, three other OTS supervisors, and a horde of bank personnel he had never seen had taken seats and they were all in deep discussion about Mr. DuVall and the situation. A Seattle police officer was guarding the door.

  The officer challenged James, “Who are you? ID.”

  James reached for his OTS credentials and started, “I’m James Spain, OTS—” before Mr. Stone came to his rescue. “It’s okay, he’s an OTS agent.”

  The officer did not give ground. He put his hand on James’s chest, looked at the OTS ID, and said, “Detective, an Agent Spain with OTS.”

  The Seattle police detective standing at the front of the confe
rence room waved James in. “Is Mr. Spain the last one?”

  Mr. Stone and the bank president said, “Yes.”

  “Perfect, we are ready to begin,” said the detective.

  The detective didn’t hold back a single gruesome detail and wasn’t afraid to point the finger. James found his lack of political correctness refreshing, but disturbing. “I’m Detective McCoy. Mr. DuVall’s body was found along Elliot Bay Trail at six A.M. by a bicyclist. He had a single kill shot to the head. The exit wound was the size of an apple. We suspect at least a .40 with a magnum-class round was used. The murder took place nine hours earlier at an abandoned warehouse in Belltown.

  “His vehicle, a 2007 Lexus LS, was pulled over by a patrol officer near Denny Park at eight A.M. The driver, a local crack addict, didn’t even bother to wipe down the interior of the car and was found with eight one-hundred dollar bills, all of them covered in blood, which we are certain will be Mr. DuVall’s. But there is a catch. The addicts name isn’t Mr. Wright. Does anyone know a Mr. Wright?”

  James’s heart jumped into his throat and tried to strangle him. In his mind he could see his coronary arteries acting as left and right hands slowly wrapping around and choking him with vigor. Everyone in the room shook their head and looked at the person next to them. James felt all eyes were on him, especially when the detective said, “Mr. Spain.”

  The detective stopped in mid-sentence, flipped his notepad, “Mr. Spain, you were in a car accident recently, correct?”

  “Yes, last Friday.”

  “Did you know Steven DuVall?”

  “I met him a couple of times. All of it professional, nothing social.”

  “How about Karl Brownstone, did you know him? He was an OTS agent, correct?”

  “Yes, but again it was more professional than social. Am I a suspect or something?”

  “No, you’re not. Sorry if I gave that impression. My point is there is something wrong with this bank. In a matter of what, four months, there are two dead bodies on my docket and at least one car accident that I know of. Let’s not forget the suicides. The last victim is especially troublesome because his office voicemail clearly captures part of the murder and seems to indicate a deal or something. Listen.”

  The detective turned a couple of pages deeper into his notepad, wrote something down and placed a digital recorder onto the table. “This is the recording. We think it is the start of the meeting.” He pressed play.

  “Where is Mr. Wright?”

  “He’s back there. Pull around and stay in the vehicle, turn on your interior light, and turn your headlights off.”

  “Driving to the north side of the warehouse on Western Avenue, it’s nine P.M. I’m meeting with Mr. Wright and an associate....Where is Mr. Wright?”

  “He’s coming. Let me see yo cell fone.”

  “Why?”

  “Ya know, in case ya recording.”

  The detective pressed stop and began dissecting the recording. “Firstly, this was obviously a pre-arranged meeting. Mr. DuVall knew he was going there and had the presence of mind to record it. No crack-head I know of would ever say, “Mr. Wright” or interact with a fellow criminal the way it’s portrayed on this recording. It’s just too formal. An addict certainly wouldn’t have the forethought to ask for the cell phone.

  “Of course, this recording, tied in with the murder, the mess we found Mr. DuVall’s office in, plus the empty digital camera, indicates to me, at least, that Mr. DuVall was dealing in bank material.”

  The bank president protested, “Detective, what you’re suggesting is an outrage. Mr. DuVall was a model employee. I will not stand and let you smear—”

  The detective cut the president’s speech short. “I disagree and you will let me smear. Model employees don’t end up dead in Belltown. They might show up dead from an accidental drowning off their yacht at the yacht club, but not in Belltown. So no one here knows a Mr. Wright?”

  Everyone was murmuring, but the clear consensus of the room was a collective no.

  “Look, what’s happening here at the bank, that’s your business. I’m sure you have security measures in place. My job is to find a killer and I will continue to do my job, but I’m just telling all of you on the front line to stay vigilant. There is something fishy going on at this bank. There’s a piece of paper on the table. I want each of you to write your name and address on it.”

  He looked at the bank president and Mr. Stone. “If you two will stay behind for a moment, I think we can let the rest go. I’d like to talk with you and your security team about protocol. No one from this bank found it concerning that an analyst didn’t come into work today. Not a single call to any of our precincts.”

  James made his way back to the office. He was sick to his stomach. He’d suspected Mr. Wright when he first heard Steven was murdered. The detective and the recording solidified it.

  Shelly was a nervous wreck. “What was that all about? Are we okay?”

  “We’re fine, I guess. Steven DuVall isn’t. Mr. Wright murdered him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard it on a recording. There is no doubt in my mind he did it.”

  “Oh, my God,” Shelly whispered, “I mean, I know he said he’d hurt me or my daughter, but it just hit home. He will actually do it. He has no problem doing it.”

  “It appears that way. We should finish up and try to put this behind us.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, as she rushed from the office.

  James fell into his chair and glared at the sleeping computer monitor. He used to daydream of quick getaways to the Caribbean with Bridget. Images of thatched cabanas, white sandy beaches, and the bluest water he could envision. Another favorite was him letting the Mustang grip the concrete on Route 66, windows down, listening to the hum of the engine and tires. Now he was thinking, I’m not going out like Steve. I have to get Mr. Wright before he gets me.

  He called Bridget, told her about the murder, and told her he loved her.

  Shelly returned, sat in the chair across from James, and was lifeless.

  * * * *

  Associate number three inside the bank lobby was chirping into Mr. Wright’s earpiece.

  “What is it?” Mr. Wright questioned, annoyed.

  “Sir, a plain suit officer and a blue suit just entered the bank lobby.”

  “So?”

  “I overheard the plain suit ask the receptionist about DuVall. Sir, he looked pissed.”

  “Is Spain still at the mystic house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Wrong, you on this channel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get your ass to the psychic’s house and pull Spain out, pull him out by the hair if you have to. I need eyes and ears back at the bank now!”

  “Yes, sir. On my way.”

  “Associate three, tail the officers and find out what floor they are going to. Try to stay in earshot. Send associate four outside to find the car the plain suit came in, it’s probably at the curb. I want to find out who he is.”

  Associate three attempted to board the elevator with the officers, but the plain suit officer stopped him, claiming, “This elevator is out of order, catch the next one.” The associate watched the elevator stop on the seventh floor and caught the next elevator up.

  Wright’s team was moving in three directions. One associate was on his way to the seventh floor, another had found the car and reported that the placard on the unmarked car’s dashboard showed Detective McCoy, Homicide, and Mr. Wrong reported he was about to enter the mystic house.

  The two associates at the bank were on the ball and had their assignments covered, but Mr. Wrong was unexpectedly silent.

  “Mr. Wrong, status please?” Wright asked.

  Radio Silence.

  “Mr. Wrong, are you in?”

  More radio Silence.

  “Mr. Wrong, are you in? Over!”

  More radio Silence.

  “Mr. Wrong you’d be
tter get your ass in there!” yelled Wright.

  More radio Silence.

  Wright was enraged and screaming, “Mr. Wrong, you have five seconds to get in there and extract Spain and Spenser. Don’t fucking piss me off!”

  Silence for four seconds then Mr. Wright could hear, “I’m going, I’m going.” Then the sounds of a door being kicked in and the conversation between Mr. Wrong and Lady Sylvia saturated the channel. Moments later Mr. Wrong reported, “Spain and Spenser on their way back to the bank.”

  “What took you so long?”

  Silence.

  Mr. Wright was on edge and was quickly becoming unhinged when he heard Mr. Spain mocking them. He picked up his cell phone and was about to dial when Cricket stated there was a call already coming in to Spain’s phone.

  “Who’s it from?”

  “It’s a number from the bank central office trunks, someone on the inside of the bank.”

  “Let’s listen.”

  Wright and Cricket listened as Mr. Stone notified Mr. Spain on what was going on.

  “If Spain doesn’t get in there in time, I’m going to consider this strike four.”

  Wright settled into his chair as he listened to the detective from inside the conference room. Good boy, James, he kept repeating to himself.

  “Cricket, how lucky is it the conference rooms are outside the data room security check? With Mr. Spain’s cell phone in place, we had a seat at the table.”

  “Sir, I think that was very close, too close. Mr. DuVall, although admittedly out of his league, almost fucked us.”

  “Yes, I agree. That was a little sloppier than I would’ve liked. We’re getting too comfortable. What the hell was going on with Mr. Wrong? However, you heard Miss Spenser and Mr. Spain afterwards. This certainly got their attention, so all is not lost. But you’re right, let’s buckle down on all of our procedures and double check all of our tracks.”

  Cricket was deeply concerned. This caused a number of problems from his surveillance point of view. “Sir, you know bank security is going to go into high gear now. Should we pull the mics in DuVall’s office?”