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 resume.
“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.
