A Perfect Grave (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

T
he elevator stopped at the thirty-third floor of the Columbia Center.

The doors chimed, opening to the gleaming lobby of American Eagle Federated Insurance. The wings of a silhouetted eagle stretched over the company’s name above the receptionist’s massive wooden desk.

Henry Wade waited for Fiona,
according to her nameplate,
to take her sweet time deciding on a lunch spot with her friend at the other end of her headset phone, before getting around to helping him.

“All right, we’ll try Italian, but if it sucks, you’re paying,” Fiona ended her call with a sincere smile followed by a professional greeting. “May I help you?”

“Henry Wade, from Krofton Investigations. I have an appointment with Ethan Quinn.”

Fiona studied Henry’s card, pressed a button on her console, and in a hushed, honeyed tone repeated Henry’s information into her headset, then said, “Someone will be right out.”

“Thank you.”

Henry turned, passing the time standing near the sectional couch, taking in the floor planters, the palms, and the enlarged prints on the wall. Van Goghs. Henry was taken by the deep blue purple sky of
Thatched Cottages at Cordeville
, and what was the other one? It was mesmerizing. He stepped closer to read the caption:
Corridor in the Asylum.

“Mr. Wade?”

Henry turned to meet a man wearing a navy suit with an untucked orange shirt and no tie. His short hair suggested he’d just rolled out of bed. He had thick Elvis sideburns, a diamond stud in his ear, and a patch of hair under his bottom lip that expanded into a caffeine-charged smile as he extended his hand.

“Thanks for coming. Right this way, sir.”

Henry couldn’t believe the way people dressed these days—like they just didn’t care. Hell, even when he had been drinking, he’d tucked his shirt in.

They went down a long, spacious corridor that was lined with dark mahogany doors to executive offices and meeting rooms with floor-to-ceiling glass walls that offered views of Seattle’s skyline. Henry read the plates looking for Ethan Quinn’s office when they came to an open office area and a sea of low-walled workstations. They took a labyrinthine route through it before stopping at one cramped cubicle.

It was about eight by eight with fabric-covered walls reaching nearly seven feet. They were covered with calendars, schedules, regulations, snapshots of a Hawaiian vacation. A young woman, beaming while holding a baby in her arms. Another shot of a happy, healthy golden retriever. A flag with a peace symbol.

The computer’s monitor was laced with small yellow notes, the screen saver showed U2’s latest CD cover. Next to it, an assortment of well-used reference books on investigative techniques. The red message light on the phone was blinking. Stacked files teetered on the desk, threatening to bury the phone as the man began sifting through them.

“Excuse me,” Henry said, “but where am I meeting Mr. Quinn? In the call he said he had something to show me and wanted to meet here?”

“Oh, man,” he extended his hand again. “I’m Ethan Quinn.”

“You’re Ethan Quinn?”

Quinn nodded and began removing files from the chair at the small table.

“Yes. And this won’t work. Let’s duck into an empty meeting room. Can I get you a coffee?”

After stopping at the staff kitchen, they went to a spacious boardroom, with a view of Seattle’s business district, Elliott Bay, and the mountains in the distance. They set their mugs at one end of the polished table and Quinn plopped down the bundle of files he’d toted.

“Mr. Wade, let me explain a bit,” Quinn said. “I’m a subcontractor, a loss-recovery agent, and I specialize in forgotten, written-off cases.”

Henry nodded.

“It’s not news that with the emergence of DNA and breakthroughs in technology, a lot of old criminal cases are being pulled out of the archives and cleared.”

“Cold cases.”

“Exactly. Now, I’ve got one that goes back a bit.” Quinn slid a page with the date and a summary to Henry. “An armored car with U.S. Forged Armored Inc. had just completed a sweep, picking up receipts from supermarkets and retail outlets at malls. In all, it had a load of some $3.3 million.

“The crew’s last scheduled pickup was at the Pacific Consolidated Savings & Financial Bank at a strip mall in Lake City. At the time, U.S. Forged Armored Inc., was using routine route scheduling which was easy to learn, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wade?”

Henry nodded.

“Well,” Quinn sipped from his mug, “as you know, the truck was hit at the bank. Armed robbers overwhelmed the two-man crew, wounding both guards. The guards survived but couldn’t offer any details on the suspects. I know those were different times, but quite frankly it’s beyond me how U.S. Forged Armored Inc. secured armored-car cargo coverage with such a serious cash-in- transit risk. Crazy, huh?”

Henry shrugged.

Quinn continued. “A Seattle police car was within four blocks when it got the call and responded to the heist in progress. One of the suspects panicked, took a bystander hostage, and engaged in a shoot-out with two Seattle officers just as others arrived on the scene. Unfortunately, the bystander was killed. The medical examiner’s final report seems to have gone astray due to a flood in the records room. However, a draft was inconclusive. I’m checking with King County Court archives.

“In any event, the other suspects fled with the cargo. The hostage-taker, Leon Dean Sperbeck, was arrested, admitted guilt to second-degree murder to avoid the death penalty, yet he had refused to divulge who his accomplices were. There was no jury trial. The judge gave him a twenty-five-year sentence.”

Quinn flipped through his notes.

“Virtually no details were obtained on the other suspects. The FBI and Seattle robbery had no substantial leads. Nothing emerged. It’s believed two others were involved and they got away with the $3.3 million. Now, American Eagle paid out on the claim. It also reached an out-of-court settlement with the family of the victim for $1.8 million. So all in all the company took a wicked hit of some $5 million.”

Quinn took another sip of coffee.

“That’s a huge pile of money for back in the day. For any time, really. We’re talking some serious cash. That’s where I come in. I comb through files like these in an effort to recoup the loss. I get paid a basic daily rate and a percentage of any funds I recover. And while it could come into play, the reward for information leading to the recovery of any funds still stands.” Quinn steepled his fingers and looked hard at Henry. “I think you know where I’m going with this, don’t you, sir?”

A bead of cold sweat rolled down Henry’s back.

Henry and Vern Pearce were the two responding officers.

This kid—with his Elvis sideburns—was good. He’d done his homework. Henry swallowed. It was all coming at him full bore.

“Sure, that was our call, Vern Pearce and me.”

“I know. And from what I understand, sir, it’s taken a toll.”

“It has.” Henry looked at the skyline. “It was a lifetime ago. So what do you think I can do about it now?”

“The fact that Sperbeck never rolled on his partners suggests to me that he took the fall for his cut when he got out, right?”

“I suspect he’s due for release soon.”

“That’s the thing, he’s already been released.”

“What?”

Quinn passed a folder bearing the Washington Department of Corrections seal to Henry. “Here’s his DOC file. Seems Leon behaved himself inside, paid his bill in full. He was released several months ago.”

“Really? But he’d still have a Community Corrections Officer. Besides, the FBI would be your best bet to help you with your theory. They’re the lead jurisdiction.”

“The FBI did help me.”

Quinn slid a photocopy of another document. A single page. Handwritten and signed by Leon Sperbeck. An evidence tag indicated it was from National Park Service Rangers.

“It’s a suicide note.”

It was short, printed in block letters, conveying Sperbeck’s despair, his loneliness, his inability to find work, feeding his isolation and shame over his crime.

…NO FUCKING POINT IN GOING ON I’LL CLEANSE MY SOUL IN THE RIVER AND START OVER IN THE NEXT LIFE…

After Henry had read it, Quinn said, “Sperbeck left it nailed to a tree near Cougar Rock at Mount Rainier National Park, then disappeared into the Nisqually River. Although his body still hasn’t been recovered, the FBI and DOC verified that Sperbeck wrote it.”

Quinn slapped a glossy photograph on the table.

All the spit dried in Henry’s mouth. His heart pulled him back through time as he stared into the face of his nightmare. The demon his shrink had urged him to confront all those years ago was staring at him.

You must face him, Henry, or you’ll be consumed by what happened.

There he was.

Leon Dean Sperbeck of Wichita, Kansas. Staring back from his arrest photo, taken over twenty-five years ago. Coal-black eyes burning with defiance. Another photo slapped on the table. Sperbeck’s recent offender- release photo.

Sperbeck had barely aged.

“I get the feeling that you doubt that Sperbeck is dead?” Henry said.

“In this job you do a lot of research on suicide notes. In some studies, experts were unable to distinguish between genuine suicide notes and fabricated ones.”

“But the FBI and DOC both say Sperbeck wrote this.”

“I’ll buy that. But is it genuine? No one’s found his corpse.” Quinn leaned forward. “Sperbeck spent twenty-five years in prison without uttering a word about a $3.3 million heist. He served all his time without applying for early release, probably because there are fewer strings attached once you’re out. So, I think that if he was despondent, he would have been found hanging in his cell, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. What do you want from me?”

“Help me.”

“Help you how?”

“I started on this file in anticipation of Sperbeck’s release, thinking he’d be a strong lead to the money.”

“Well, it looks like it’s all dead-ended.” Henry slid the documents back, checked his watch. “I really can’t help you. I’ve got a lot on the go.”

“I appreciate your situation, but please hear me out.”

Henry waited.

“Shortly after the heist, the armored-car company went out of business. It was a small company founded by two ex-Seattle cops. They’ve since passed away, one from cancer, the other from a heart attack. The guards have passed away, too. Your partner is dead and now the only known suspect is maybe dead. So that leaves only you.”

Henry took a moment to absorb matters.

“What the hell are you saying, Ethan?”

“I need your help. I believe that the money’s out there somewhere.”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“I think Leon wants us to think he’s dead and is out there looking for his share of the money. I’d like you to consider helping me on this case.”

“That case cost me a piece of my life.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t know, let me think about it,” Henry stood. “Before I go, can I get a copy of the files and his picture?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

B
runo Stone’s eyes took a slow walk over Rhonda Boland.

She was in her best outfit, a form-fitting JCPenney number, nervously sitting beside him on a stool in the Twisted Palms Bar at the Pacific Eden Rose Hotel.

Bruno ran the Twisted Palms.

He had dyed, gel-slicked hair. His tattooed forearm propped his head and he tapped his teeth with his pinky ring as he went back to reading Rhonda’s résumé.

“It says here you worked in Vegas a long time ago.”

“For several years, yes.”

“You know what I think about Vegas?

How would she know?

“Vegas is like LA. It’s a magnet for dreamers.”

Rhonda nodded slowly.

“Well, this place is where people bury their dreams. You get what I’m saying?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Come on, honey. You gotta know that the Twisted Palms is a dive bar. It’s respectable. But it’s a dive bar. That’s all there is to it. And working here, you’re going to get come-ons, get grabbed, sworn at.”

“Ever work a supermarket cash register, Bruno?”

A gap-toothed smile escaped from his face to signal that he liked her. He tapped his ring to his teeth to help him think some more.

“Look, my reading of this tells me you don’t know much about tending bar. But you could probably waitress. The tips are good and I usually need waitresses.”

Rhonda’s hopes soared. She needed a second job.

“The thing is, I don’t need any waitresses for the time being. So I’m going to keep your number handy and…”

Rhonda stopped listening after that.

It was like her two other interviews. Strikeouts. When she got home, she checked her machine for any callbacks. Nothing but a message from her insurance company confirming that she was not covered for the type of “experimental” surgery Brady was going to have. And Dr. Choy’s office had called confirming the date for Brady’s appointment.

She didn’t have the money for this.

As Rhonda stood alone in the living room, her breathing quickened. She had to do something.
Maybe she could sell the house?
She didn’t know if she wanted to sell the house. It wouldn’t hurt to get an appraisal from a real estate agent. They were always offering free ones.

She headed for Brady’s room and switched on his secondhand computer. As it warmed up, she glanced into Brady’s wastepaper basket, noticing a crumpled sheet of paper and the fragment of a letter he’d written. She retrieved it and flattened it out. It was addressed to the circulation manager of the
Seattle Mirror.

Dear Sir or Madam:

I am writing to enquire if you have any jobs for newspaper delivery boys in my neighborhood. I am twelve years old and know my neighborhood pretty well and therefore would make a good person for the job. Also, my mom and I really need the extra money so I would be very responsible.

Yours truly,
Brady Boland

Rhonda blinked back her tears.

At that moment the door opened and Brady called down the hall.

“Hi Mom! Going to the park with Justin and Ryan, be home in time for supper, okay?”

Rhonda swallowed hard to find her voice.

“Did you take your medicine today?”

“Yes. And I feel fine!”

“Be home in one hour, kid!”

“Okay. Bye!”

She heard him leave then the phone rang in the living room and hope fluttered in her stomach.

Maybe a job? Or an overtime shift at the supermarket? Or maybe Dr. Hillier to say there’s been a
huge mistake with the tests and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Brady? Oh please let it be good news.

“Hello?”

Her answer was swallowed by silence at the other end. Her caller ID showed the incoming number as “Blocked.”

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Nothing. No breathing. No background noise. Just absolute silence.

But Rhonda sensed someone was on the other end.

“Who are you calling, please?”

Nothing.

She hung up.

This was the third time someone had called to give her the silent treatment. She waved it off as kids playing on the phone, or some crank.

What else could it be?

Rhonda brushed it off and went to her bedroom to change.

As she undressed, a tiny wave of unease rippled through her just below the surface of her consciousness.

Something’s not right.

She stopped breathing and studied herself in the dresser mirror.

What was it?

She couldn’t put her finger on it. But damn it, something felt wrong. Rhonda went to her closet, searched through her clothes. Nothing. She went to the bathroom, checked behind the shower curtain. Nothing.

What is it?

Her scalp prickled and an ice coil rushed down her spine.

Had someone been in her home?

Rhonda went to the window at the end of the small hall at the back of the house. What was that? She detected the faint hint of a foreign smell. A trace of a fading scent that she just couldn’t identify.

Did it even exist?

Maybe she was smelling the Twisted Palms bar on herself?

Maybe it was nothing.

Like the garage. Like the calls. Was she losing her mind?
This is stupid.
She couldn’t handle this right now. Rhonda went back to her bedroom and resumed changing.

You must be losing your grip, she told her reflection, because this is just stupid.

In the kitchen Rhonda began taking inventory to get supper ready. That’s when she stopped and put her hands on her hips.

At the far end of the counter, near the refrigerator, all of her files for Brady were ever so slightly askew. As if someone had picked through them.

Did Brady do that? But he wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.

Did she do that? Did she forget that she’d done that?

She inspected them. Brady’s school file was out of order and she had not touched this one for at least a week.

Had she?

Rhonda bit her bottom lip and took a few deep breaths. It had to be her imagination. Right? What else could it be?

What the hell else could it be?