twenty-three, born in Omaha, Nebraska. His Social Security number showed a dozen past addresses all over the United States, with not one but two current residences. The first was a rental apartment in the university district, which he co-leased with a female named Abby Maddox, also twenty-three. The other was a house in Lake Stevens, ownership in Wolfe’s name only. No mortgage. He’d paid over half a million dollars for it.
Wolfe had been a ward of the State of Nebraska from age ten onward and had lived in several foster homes before he was released at the age of eighteen. His mother, Cheryl, had died in a house fire. There was no record of his father’s current location, but the man had spent a year in prison for assault and battery when the boy was two years old. His mother had been the victim.
Wolfe had attended three other colleges in addition to Puget Sound State, two in California and one in Oregon. Aside from his TA gig at PSSU, he’d never held another job of any kind. DMV records showed two speeding tickets in the last three years-both paid on time-and the ownership of one 1968 Triumph motorcycle.
There was also a sealed juvenile criminal record. There was no way to unseal it without a subpoena, and since Wolfe wasn’t under official investigation, Jerry wouldn’t be able to get one.
Not exactly the standard record of a twenty-three-year-old graduate student.
“Where do you think the money came from to buy the house?” Morris asked.
“Inheritance would be my guess.”
“What do you think he did to get the juvenile record?”
Jerry shrugged. “Could be anything. He grew up in a violent home, bounced around in the foster care system, couldn’t have been fun. Probably assault, or drugs. Those are the most common.” The PI yawned.
Morris was learning that investigating was not nearly as interesting as people thought. It wasn’t like it was on TV. Jerry had explained to Morris that a lot of the so-called investigating happened on the phone and over the Internet, and sitting in your car in dark corners waiting for something to happen. There were few face-to-face interviews, and almost no drama. Adultery tended to be more interesting than other cases since sometimes you got to take pictures of the action. But missing persons? Nope. Morris was disappointed to see that today was no different.
They had been following Wolfe on his ultracool motorcycle and it appeared to be a day of errand-running for the graduate student. Jerry, who knew nothing about motorcycles, was shocked to learn that the vintage Triumph Wolfe was riding-perfectly maintained with custom modifications-would have cost more than Jerry’s Honda Accord… if he had bought the car new.
Morris’s eyes were getting heavy, and he finally stopped fighting and closed them.
He woke up to Jerry’s elbow in his side.
“Up and at ’em. They’re moving.”
Morris sat up and looked at his watch. It was just after 6:00 p.m. He’d slept for an hour. Wolfe and his girlfriend were climbing onto Wolfe’s motorcycle.
“You have to admit, the girl looks good on the bike.” Jerry waited ten seconds before starting the ignition. “Could her jeans be any tighter?”
Abby Maddox had her slender arms wrapped around Wolfe’s slim waist.
“You know, I don’t get it.” Morris rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “The kid gets to come home every day to her. What did he want with my Sheila?”
Jerry snorted. “You know damn well men don’t cheat because the other woman’s better looking. We cheat because we can.” He glanced sideways at Morris. “Don’t sell your fiancee short. She’s attractive, and an authority figure. That bodes well for a young man’s fantasies.”
“You ever cheat on your wife?”
“Not this one. But I’ve had my share of temptation.” A funny expression crossed Jerry’s dark face. “I love my wife. Annie’s a good woman. Been married twelve years now and she still rocks my world, as my niece Keisha would so eloquently put it.”
“This is your second marriage?”
“Third, actually. It took me that long to learn that one woman really is enough for me.” Jerry smiled ruefully.
“Kids?”
“You’re a nosy dude.”
“Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
“She couldn’t have kids with her first husband, and it never happened with my first two wives.” Jerry’s voice held regret. “We’re too old now. It’s okay, some things aren’t meant to be.”
They followed the couple about a mile to a soup kitchen called St. Mary’s Helping Hands. Morris had read about this place in Seattle magazine. It had a great reputation, thanks to its tireless staff of volunteers who did everything from raise money and solicit food donations, to cooking, cleaning, and serving.
Wolfe left his motorcycle out front, and he and his girlfriend entered the worn building holding hands. Jerry parallel-parked on the other side of the street where they had a clear view of the entrance. It was a no-parking zone, but if Jerry noticed, he wasn’t deterred. He turned the engine off.
“What now?” Morris asked.
“We wait.”
“This is what I pay you for? To sit around in front of buildings?”
“It requires great instincts and superb observational skills.”
Morris snorted. “Hard to believe those two are volunteers.” He settled back in his seat and yawned.
“After thirty years as a cop, I’ve learned there are no rules when it comes to human behavior.” Jerry looked out the window at a group of homeless men hovering by the soup kitchen’s door. “You know those FBI shows on TV? Where they do the profiling?”
“Yeah.”
“Cops hate that stuff. While it’s all well and good to sit behind a desk and have assigned characteristics and fancy medical names for criminals,” Jerry said in a prissy voice, “at the end of the day, you just don’t know what anybody’s gonna do. You gotta prepare for everything. Human beings are unpredictable. After three decades with PD, I still get surprised.”
“Did you like being a cop?”
“Yeah.” Jerry’s voice was rueful. “Mostly I did, but the job was stressful and the money was shit. You like being a banker?”
“Yeah. Mostly I do, because the hours are good and the money’s fantastic.” Both men laughed.
Three hours later, they were still in the car, listening to sports talk on the radio and drinking the hot coffee that Morris had gotten from the street vendor down the block. Jerry wasn’t much of a football fan, and Morris was enthusiastically explaining the finer nuances of the game.
Someone rapped sharply on the driver’s-side window.
Startled midsentence, Morris jumped, splashing hot coffee into his lap. He cursed as Jerry rolled down the window slowly. A parking-enforcement officer was staring in at them through the tinted windows, her hawkish face against the glass.
Jerry got the window halfway down then stopped. “Hey there.” He reached into his breast pocket and flashed a Seattle PD detective’s badge. Morris was surprised-he didn’t think retired officers were allowed to keep their badges.
“And that means what to me?” The woman was not impressed. “Move on. You’re in a no-park zone. Or I’ll have to ticket you.” She tapped her clipboard to make a point.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Jerry snapped, but he put his badge away. “Go bug the tourists who park illegally in the shopping district.”
“So you’re saying you want me to write this up?” Her ballpoint pen was poised over a pad of yellow tickets.
Jerry finally gave a stiff nod and started up the car. He drove down First Avenue, grumbling under his breath.
“No respect,” the private investigator muttered. “If I’d been on active duty, I’d tell her where she could stick her motherfucking ticket.”
“They let you keep your badge?”
“It’s a replica.” Jerry sounded sheepish. “They let you order one when you retire, to keep as a memento.
