“I could not testify that they are consistent. His weight distribution, the tread wear, the wear on the sole. Look, his foot is a nine and a half and the sneakers are a ten and a half. So while he could easily wear them, the patterns and wear are all off.”
Boulder inhaled, then exhaled slowly, while Lynn tapped her pen.
“So the shoes we found at Cooper’s place under I-5 do not match the impressions from the murder scene?” Lynn asked.
“Correct,” Cataldo said.
“Yami,” Boulder said. “You’re up.”
Yamashita flipped through pages of fanfold graph paper that were punctuated with his neat notes.
“Based on my analysis, the subject was truthful in his responses.”
Grace concentrated on her notes.
“What about here?” She slid closer to Yamashita and read aloud.
“Did you meet a stranger at the shelter whom you saw argue with Sister Anne and cause her to be upset?”
“Yes.”
“Did you witness this stranger take a knife?”
“Yes.”
“Was it similar to the knife in the photograph shown to you today by the detectives?”
“Yes.”
“Yami, was there any problem there?”
Yamashita flipped through his graph paper and notes, checking and double-checking. Then he shook his head.
“All consistent with truthful responses.”
“We’ll be kicking Cooper free once his attorney arrives,” Lynn said. “Alert Media Relations to put out a release, clarify things.”
“But what if he hallucinates that this happened and believes it?” Perelli asked.
“You’re reaching, Dom,” Boulder said. “We have to face the fact that her killer is still out there.”
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 amp; 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
