His father came out of the bedroom with a neatly folded page from the travel section of the Seattle Post- Intelligencer. He showed it to Jason.
A feature on Wolf Tooth Creek.
“Looks like he’d been giving this a lot of thought,” his dad said, then went to the trash can in the kitchen and examined its contents. Atop the beer cans, junk food wrappers, cigarette packs, he focused on a yellow paper ball. It was a page ripped from a phone book and balled up.
Henry flattened it on the counter. It concerned businesses. Cottage and cabin rentals. One was underlined in ink. Wolf Tooth Creek Cabins’s display ad put its location near the Mount Rainier National Park Area.
“You said you saw Sperbeck leave this morning with sleeping bags and groceries, like he was going camping?” Henry asked.
“Yup.” The mechanic was holding the door open. “Time’s up.”
“Thanks.”
When they got back into the truck, Henry turned the ignition.
“I think he went to Wolf Tooth Creek. That’s where we’re going.”
“Dad, I have to get to work soon. I can’t be away from the city.”
“It’s only an hour to get there and its early. Call in. Say you’ll be late.”
“How about we go later, after my shift?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for twenty-five goddam years, Jay. We’re going now.”
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“Sperbeck does not get to walk out of prison, start a new life, and leave me behind in hell. Today, I’m going to bury all my shit with that fucker!”
“Jesus, Dad!”
Jason grabbed the armrest and the dash as the pickup growled and Henry Wade’s tires squealed until they raised smoke from the pavement.
Chapter Sixty-Two
A t the takedown off Market, the SWAT team rushed from the aftermath with a suspect.
A white male, early twenties, about five-ten, 175 pounds, faded jeans, AC/DC T-shirt. Clean-cut, doubled over vomiting and coughing from the tear gas. His hands were handcuffed in front of him. Somebody spritzed water in his irritated eyes.
“Where’s the boy?” A SWAT cop shouted under his Darth Vader gas mask.
“What boy? What’s going on!” he coughed, spit, tears streamed down his inflamed face.
Inside, SWAT members searched the living room, the bathroom, the bedrooms, kitchen, halls, closets. They tapped the ceilings, walls, floors for body mass. No immediate sign of another person. After clearing the residence, crime-scene people went in while detectives dealt with the suspect.
“What’s your name, sir?” Grace Garner asked.
“Darrell Stanton. What’s this?”
Grace examined the contents of his wallet.
“I’m a student at the University of Washington. I’m from Canberra, Australia. My passport’s in my desk. Shit! My eyes are burning!”
Perelli dispatched a SWAT member to get the passport.
Stanton was spritzed again, handed a towel to pat his face, then Leon Sperbeck’s photo was held in front of him.
“Do you know this man?” Grace said.
“Albert Crawley.” Stanton coughed then looked. “He used to live here.”
“Where is he?”
“How the hell should I know?” Stanton coughed. “Haven’t seen him for weeks ever since I sold him my car. The bastard owes me money. Shit, my eyes!”
A uniformed officer sprizted Stanton.
“He leave a forwarding address?”
“No, he’s an asshole.”
“Describe the car you sold to him.”
“A 1995 blue Chrysler Concorde. I told him it’s got problems and let him have it cheap. He owes me six hundred bucks. Is he the guy you want?”
Perelli had his cell phone pressed to his ear when he held up Stanton’s passport, nodding to Garner, Harlan, and Boulder.
“Stanton checks out. He’s not in the system,” Perelli said.
As Boulder stepped away to take a call, Detective Gilbert Bailey took Grace aside. “Just talked to the guys at the Boland home with the mother.”
“Any more calls from Sperbeck, any demands?”
“Nothing. She’s going through hell,” Bailey said. “The FBI and KCSO said the two other addresses DOC had for Sperbeck are washouts.”
“Sperbeck’s likely aliased up the wazoo, Gib. Can you help us prepare an alert to blast out ASAP, the vehicle and photos of Sperbeck and Brady.”
After Boulder finished his call, he pulled Grace and Perelli from Stanton for a private moment.
“We’ve got press. The national networks are threatening to go live. And we’ve got word from the Command Post that Ethan Quinn’s arrived. They’re bringing him up now.” Boulder indicated the marked car roaring toward them.
Ethan Quinn got out carrying a briefcase. Grace, Perelli, and Boulder walked him down the street to talk quietly.
“You’re investigating Sperbeck’s original crime?” Grace said.
“Yes, the robbery-homicide. My client is the insurance firm that paid out.”
“Why are you investigating after all these years?”
“The stolen money never surfaced. We had most of the serial numbers. We suspect the cash is still out there, largely intact.”
“Exactly what do you know, or suspect?” Perelli said.
“I don’t want to jeopardize my investigation.”
“This is our investigation, Slick,” Perelli said. “If you think you’re going to collect some sort of finder’s fee on this, think again.” Perelli jabbed a finger into Quinn’s chest. “If you possess material information relating to this child’s kidnapping and two homicides, you’d be wise to cooperate right now. So let me ask you again, what do you know?”
Quinn surveyed their faces.
“There were a lot of cops there the day it went down and the money vanished,” he said. “It’s unusual that Sperbeck, the only person convicted, never named the others involved. Most of the players are dead, including the ex-cops who owned the armored-car company.
“Several units responded to the heist and it’s my belief that, whether it was planned, or a reaction to the child’s death, maybe officers took the $3.3 million, and covered up the shooting of the little boy. You may recall that the autopsy and ballistics reports were inconclusive on the shooting victim.
“I think Sperbeck worked a deal, pleaded guilty, avoided the death penalty, and expected to be rewarded with his cut in exchange for his silence and his time. Maybe they tucked it away in some interest-bearing off-shore account.”
“It’s an insulting theory,” Perelli said. “And it doesn’t fit because there are other pieces at play here.”
“What pieces?”
“Nice try. Fuck you.”
Grace looked hard at Quinn. “What else do you have to support your theory?”
“Henry Wade was one of the many responding officers.”
