She hailed the man from a few paces away—better to make her presence known than risk startling him.
“Mr. Seymour?”
He didn’t move.
“I’m Detective Benington with the SPD. Everything okay?”
Seymour casually stretched his arm across the back of the bench but made no response.
“I’m coming over, Mr. Seymour.”
Sophie entered the rhododendron grove.
From a distance, Seymour could have been any park patron stopped for a contemplative moment by the pond. In proximity, the red flags began to wave. His custom-made suit was soaked through, and his hair had long since lost its gelled structure. It would have taken hours for the light Seattle rain to do this level of damage.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Seymour?”
He looked over at her and blinked, a galactic distance in his eyes.
“Where have you been for the past three days?” she asked.
“Here.”
“You’ve been sitting on this bench for over seventy-two hours?”
“The gardens are beautiful in winter.”
“They’re also closed. You’re trespassing.”
“I didn’t realize. I apologize. I’ll leave.”
He started to rise.
“Wait a moment. Just stay where you are. Are you injured?”
He sat down, looked back at the pond. “No.”
“Are you on any drugs right now?”
“No.”
“Are you carrying any weapons I should know about?”
He shook his head.
“People have been looking for you. They’re worried.”
“That’s very kind.”
Sophie ventured a step closer.
The man was shivering imperceptibly.
“What are you doing out here, Mr. Seymour?”
“Thinking. It’s a good place for it.”
“What are you thinking about?”
He didn’t answer.
The wind kicked up.
A scrap of paper in Seymour’s right hand twitched in the breeze. In his other hand, he held a pen.
“What’s that paper, Mr. Seymour?”
No response.
Sophie edged closer.
“Could I take a look?”
When he didn’t respond, she slowly reached down and eased the paper out of his grasp. Sophie took several steps away from the bench and glanced back toward the main path. Silver had moved closer, now standing only twenty yards away, watching intently.
She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand—a receipt for a twenty-five-dollar pour of Highland Park at a downtown bar called The Whisky.
The time stamp was 5:11 p.m., three days ago.
She looked up at him again.
Seymour stared past her into oblivion.
Sophie flipped the receipt over.
In rain-smeared ink, the visage of an old man stared back at her. What the portrait lacked in artistic flair was counterbalanced by a staggering detail that reminded her of a facial composite. It was an expertly-executed sketch, but as impersonal as a mugshot.
“Did you draw this, Mr. Seymour?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see this man somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In my head.”
“Did this man hurt you?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
Sophie slid the receipt into an inner pocket of her jacket.
“What do you remember about being at The Whisky three nights ago?” she asked.
Seymour started to rise.
She took a step back and touched her gun.
Silver shouted, “Everything okay?”
“We’re fine,” she yelled, her eyes never leaving Seymour.
Seymour buttoned his jacket.
“I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused.”
“What happened to you?”
“The gardens are beautiful this time of year, aren’t they?” he said with an empty smile that was completely disconnected from his eyes.
He started up a slope of browned grass.
Sophie followed.
“Mr. Seymour, please. You need to go to a hospital.”
The man reached the path and continued walking toward the entrance gate.
“What happened?” Silver asked.
“I have no idea. Walk with me.”
“You’re letting him go?”
“What exactly would you propose we bring him in on?”
“Trespassing.”
“Please.”
“At least you’ll get a chance to talk to him.”
“He isn’t giving anything up. I got stonewalled.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“Nervous breakdown? Drugs? Some kind of trauma?”
“So we’re just going to watch him walk away?”
“Of course not.” Seymour passed through the entrance gate to the Japanese garden as Sophie dug her phone out of her purse. “I’m going to follow him.”
Chapter 20
“Don’t,” Paige said.
Grant touched his finger to the screen.
“We have to buy ourselves some time.”
Paige clenched her jaw.
“Fine. Put her on speaker.”
Grant swiped the screen, activated the speaker, and set the phone back on the island.
“Sophie,” he said.
“Jesus Christ, Grant. Wanger’s practically interviewing for your replacement. Where are you?”
“On my way home from the hospital.”
The words had left his mouth before he’d even given it a thought—a reflexive lie.
“Oh my God, what happened?”
The concern in her voice shot a hollowpoint of guilt through his chest. He felt it mushroom center mass. He’d never lied to Sophie before. Never had a reason to. Six months into their partnership, she’d had Grant down so cold she could have reconstructed him from junk parts. Now, after sharing a desk for two years, he could say as much. They operated on the same frequency, and that was the problem. Her bullshit meter was a finely calibrated tool. If his performance wasn’t Oscar material, she’d know it.
He glanced at Paige, her eyes gone wide, head slowly shaking like what-are-you-going-to-say-now?
“Let’s just say that the Spicy Italian is no longer my favorite sandwich.”
Something like a snort crackled over the speaker.
“Was that a laugh?” Grant said.
“No, I promise,” Sophie laughed.
“You are so cruel.”
“I just can’t believe you got food poisoning from Subway. That’s just … wow. Do you need anything?”
“Rest.”
“You should’ve called me.”
“Kind of hard when they’re pumping your stomach.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.”
Paige raised an eyebrow.
Grant rolled his eyes.
“Can I bring you something?” Sophie asked. “Your favorite sub? I’m sorry, that was too soon.”
“No, I’m drained. Just going home to crash. Might take the next few days off. “
“That’s not a bad idea. You sound awful.”
“Would you tell Wanger for me?”
“Sure, but you’re going to hate your timing.”
Grant looked up at Paige.
“What’s going on?”
“We found Benjamin Seymour.”
Porcelain and coffee exploded on the floor beside Grant’s feet.
Paige’s eyes filled with terror, hands still clutching the shape of the mug that lay in pieces on the hardwood.
Grant mouthed to his sister, What?
She shook her head and pointed at the phone.
“What was that?” Sophie asked.
“Sorry. Hit a pothole.”
The pool of coffee was expanding toward Grant’s socks.
>
Paige collected herself, grabbed the dishcloth from the oven handle, and began blotting the liquid.
“Alive?” Grant asked.
“Yes.”
“Where’d you find him?”
“At the arboretum. I’m here now. He’d apparently been sitting on a bench for days before a groundskeeper found him and called it in. I tried talking to him but the guy’s a space cadet. Virtually catatonic. Could barely respond. Just sat there staring at the water.”
“So he was on something?”
“I don’t think so. It was more like he was sleepwalking.”
“So you’re bringing him in?”
Thinking, He’ll lead them straight to me and Paige.
“No. I’m going to follow him. Something’s up. He was holding a drawing he’d done on a receipt. A hyper-realistic portrait of an old man’s face. I’ve got it with me. This thing is amazing, Grant. Our boy’s an artist.”
“Seymour drew it?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Who’s the old man?”
“He didn’t know. Said he’d never met him.”
“That sounds like eight kinds of strange.”
Paige had finished soaking up the coffee, now picking up fragments of the mug.
“Well, don’t figure it all out before I get back,” Grant said.
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. This is a weird one. Sure I can’t bring you something?”
“No, but you’re my first call if I change my mind.”
“All right, partner. Feel better. I’ll keep you looped in.”
Grant clicked off.
His heart pounding.
Paige had opened the cabinet under the sink and was dumping the broken cup into a trashcan. She closed the door and stood, looked back at Grant, her face as white as the porcelain shards.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Benjamin Seymour is one of mine. He came here three nights ago.”
“And it went down just like with the doctor last night?”
She nodded.
“Was a man named Barry Talbert also a client of yours?”
“Yeah, why?”
“He’s missing too. I’m sure you’re aware, but these are prominent, wealthy men in the business and legal community.”
“That’s who I service.”
“SPD is looking extra hard for them. The search for these men is what led me to your Facebook page in the first place. It’s going to be a matter of time before the entire investigative division—” Grant tapped the surface of the island “—knocks on the door.”
“So what do we do if it happens? If your buddies show up?”
“We can’t let that happen, okay? Think about what it would look like to a cop walking in here, finding Don upstairs. Now think about how it would sound if you and I tried to explain any of this. I wouldn’t buy it for a second.”
“You sound scared.”
“I am scared. Of whatever’s upstairs, and what could happen if the cavalry shows up. We’re in a bad spot here.”
Grant lifted his phone and stared at the screen.
The battery meter had dwindled into the yellow.
“So what do we do?” Paige asked.
“A Hail Mary.”
He scrolled his contacts down to stu.
Dialed.
A gruff-voiced man answered immediately, “G, what’s happening?”
“Stu, need a big favor.”
“Did I miss when you called for a little one?”
Grant hesitated, fighting through the pounding headache to pin down the best way to ask.
“I need everything you can dig up on an address.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“I need it in four hours.”
“Okay, that’s not even a rush job, Grant. That’s like—”
“I don’t care what it—”
“You know my rush jobs are double.”
“Aware.”
“We’re talking triple here. At least. I’m going to have to drop some high priority cases.”
“I don’t care what it costs.”
Through the speaker, Grant heard paper ripping, the murmur of a crowd, music, a distant, mechanical grinding that could only be espresso beans on their way to a small, white cup. An image materialized—Stu at his “office.” A coffeehouse in Capital Hill.
Stu said, “What’s the address?”
“Twenty-two Crockett Street.”
“Queen Anne?”
“Correct.”
“Give me your wish list.”
“Every owner going back twenty years. Every tenant going back twenty years. Background checks all around. And finally, assuming this property was sold in the last twenty years, I want a copy of the seller’s disclosure form.”
“That last one may be impossible, Grant.”
“Just try.”
“Those aren’t public records. I can’t just go down to the clerk and recorder’s office and pull that. Now I have contacts at two of the biggest title companies in town. Assuming there was a sale, and that one of those companies issued title insurance, it’s conceivable I could get my hands on the disclosure statement. Just don’t count on it. But look, regardless, there’s no way I’ll have all this information to you in four hours. There’s only three hours left in this work week. It’s an impossib—”
“Just get me what you can get me.” Grant pulled the phone back, glanced at the time: 1:55 p.m. “I need it by six tonight. I’ll be out of pocket until then. Call me at six exactly with whatever you’ve got.”
“Grant—”
“I understand. No warranty on you delivering all of this. But please just do what you can. I’m in a jam here.”
Stu sighed heavily into the receiver.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Six p.m. exactly.”
Grant axed the call.
Battery meter in the red.
He powered off his phone and looked at Paige. Already, she was tapping at her phone.
She brought it to her ear and faced the window over the double sink, her back to Grant.
It was the voice that took him aback, his sister transforming on a dime into this other person, her voice disintegrating.
From woman to girl.
Pitch rising.
Words drawing out.
It injured his soul.
“Hey sweetie, this a good time? … Nothing much. Just thinking about you, wondering how your week’s been. Almost over, right? … Look, I’ve got some time after six tonight if you wanted to swing by.”
Chapter 21
Sophie crossed Lake Washington and Mercer Island, blasting east on 90 toward the Cascades as she followed the white Lexus that Seymour was piloting twenty car lengths ahead.
It hummed along at a rock-solid sixty miles-per-hour.
Douglas-firs streamed past.
The cloud deck dropped.
Specks of mist starring the windshield.
She was sixty percent focused on the Lexus two hundred feet ahead, forty percent elsewhere.
More specifically: Grant.
My partner.
Are you lying to me? Just the thought of it hurt her more than she was comfortable admitting. Like it was a betrayal on some level beyond partner. Beyond friend.
A blinking right turn signal on Seymour’s Lexus snapped her back into the moment. He was already on the off-ramp.
Sophie pressed the accelerator into the floorboard and followed him off the exit.
• • •
Two minutes later, she was rattling over train tracks into downtown North Bend, a slice of Americana so well-preserved she felt her very presence threatened its legitimacy. She rarely left the city. So easy to forget that places like this existed just thirty minutes outside of Seattle proper.
The Lexus pulled into the near-desolate parking lot of Swartwood’s Diner.
Sophie turned into the alley that cut behind the building and pul
led her TrailBlazer to a stop beside a mural on the white concrete of the back wall.
Through the driver’s side window, she watched Seymour climb out of his Lexus and walk toward the entrance to the diner.
She couldn’t explain it exactly, but she felt jittery, like she’d just downed a quad-shot espresso concoction. Everything about Seymour felt wrong. He was uncharted territory, and it made her feel like a rookie again—those first days on the street and coming to grips with the utter inadequacy of textbook knowledge.
Sophie reached into her jacket and pulled her G22, checked the load.
More nervous tic than necessity.
She put the SUV back into gear.
Drove down the alley and around the block.
She parked at a better location in front of the entrance.
Seymour had taken a booth by the window. His back was to her.
Good visibility, lucky break.
She killed the engine, reclined the seat.
• • •
It got boring in a hurry.
A waitress appeared at Seymour’s table.
Left.
Returned with coffee.
Seymour never glanced out the window beside his booth. Never brought the steaming cup to his lips. He had cleaned himself up since their encounter at the park—presumably in his car considering she hadn’t let him out of her sight. But other than an argyle sweater, fresh pair of jeans, and immaculate hair, he was the same old catatonic Seymour.
The rain fell so lightly it took almost forty-five minutes to blur her view through the windshield.
When she could no longer see through it, she opened the car door and climbed out.
The smell of fir trees was overpowering.
A mountain loomed on the far side of town, faceless and void of detail, nothing but an ominous profile through the mist.
Sophie crossed the sidewalk and opened the door as slowly as she could.
A cluster of bells hanging from the inner handle jingled anyway.
Seymour didn’t look back.
Aside from Seymour and an old man eating pie at a table against the opposite wall, the diner stood empty.
A jukebox in back played fifties rock-and-roll at an unobtrusive volume.
Two waitresses chatted at the counter, and one of them—a short blonde no more than twenty—glanced at Sophie and said, “Sit anywhere you like.”
She slid into an empty booth just two down from Seymour’s. Didn’t like having her back to the door, but there was no way around it without facing the man.
He could have been asleep he sat so still, but his posture was rigid, on alert, staring straight ahead into nothing.
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