Chapter One

Within ferry boat distance of Seattle on Puget Sound were Vashon and Bainbridge islands. While Bainbridge was reserved primarily for wealthy hermits, Vashon had its own cultural boundaries. At the northern tip was Vashon Heights, featuring condominiums, gated subdivisions and chic eateries serving empty plates at full prices.

Claiming the southern tip of the island was Magnolia Beach Bay, a small port community skirting the thin waterway of Colvos Passage where, tucked within its splintery docks and rusting tie posts were a number of fishing boats, bait shops and a gathering spot known as Sam’s Chowder Nook. Serving the best chowder on The Sound, The Nook was chic — Magnolia style. Resting along the far end of the wharf was Colvos Cove, a quiet inlet of fisherman-owned houseboats littered with as much tackle as there were empty beer cans.

Among them was the stark contrast of a neatly kept vessel that was home to Shane McPearson.

A private investigator, Shane had begrudgingly become an early riser out of necessity rather than choice. He’d made that realization within the first week of living in the cove. Ben Spears owned the houseboat next to him, and the old fisherman’s day always started with a piss over the stern at sunrise, followed by cursing and flatulence that eased into the morning like crickets at nightfall. Soon after, Ben, along with Flip Marlo and the other fishing boat captains, would noisily gather on the dock before grumbling and shuffling their way to The Nook with empty coffee mugs. Sam, the owner, described it as her ritual of “giving alms to the poor.”

After a few steaming cups and a quick check over the rigging, Ben would lead the procession of trawlers into Colvos Passage, stirring the quiet waters into a series of wakes that rocked the bow of Shane’s houseboat, making it impossible to sleep.

“That’s why they call them ‘wakes,’” Sam had told a bleary-eyed Shane.

This sequence was repeated each morning, along with a Thermos of hot coffee brought by Sam after the wharf had cleared. 

Shane was wriggling into a pair of boots when he spotted her traversing a plank onto the dock, Thermos in hand.

“Hey Sailor,” she said, hopping onto the rear deck. “They almost sucked it dry but I saved you bit.”

Shane pulled the jeans down over his boots and held out a mug. “Modern chivalry,” he said, watching the steaming black liquid fill his cup.

“Hmmm, creased pant legs. Must be official business,” said Sam.

Shane nodded. “City hall. I need some information from public records. They always treat me nice when they know I dressed up.”

The two of them reclined in matching oak barrel chairs, watching the sun edge across the bay while sharing a few moments of simplicity before rousing a day of complications. With or without words, they enjoyed each other’s company and had forged a relationship that was uniquely… confusing to both.

Within days of his arrival in Magnolia Bay, Shane had been declared “okay” by Sam and the two rapidly became friends. But from the beginning, Sam observed the way he sidestepped his past, avoiding it like a minefield strung with emotional tripwire. The one — and only — time she pressed him occurred on the same spot while sitting in the same oak barrel chairs a couple of months into their friendship. After a few beers had relaxed them one night, she tried opening the door to his past.

“This isn’t a fishing boat,” he’d said. “Please don’t cast any lines.”

She never pressed him again. It was clear he was a man back to square one with his life. At the time, he was new to investigation and business in general — couldn’t afford an office, worked through pay phones and a cheap pager — yet he exuded a confidence and determination that she admired.

And also found herself immediately attracted to.

For the last year, she had become part of Shane’s business, keeping track of his books and accounting, as well as taking messages through a separate line at the restaurant. Somewhere along the way, they had also become occasional lovers — something that neither of them acknowledged beyond morning-after conversations that still included certain boundaries for Shane.

He was never rude, always sensitive in his request to avoid discussing the past. But it bothered her that the door to that conversation remained as tightly sealed now as the day he’d arrived.

With a mental shrug, Sam shook away those thoughts and offered more coffee and a smile before tightening the lid on the Thermos. “When are you heading in?”

“I’m going to catch the 7 o’clock ferry from the Heights so I can beat traffic downtown. Maybe kill some time in Lincoln Park until nine.” He took a sip. “Feed some donuts to the ducks or something, anything to stay out of that mess.”

“You wanna have dinner tonight?” Sam asked.

“Who’s cooking?”

“You are — it’s your turn.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, and finished the last of his coffee. “Remember the cioppino? That was me. Nice try though.”

“Okay, it’s my turn.” Sam thought a moment, then offered “How about chowder?”

“Seriously? I eat so much chowder I shit clams.” Shane set the mug in the small deck sink and reached for a tan, canvas jacket. “You think on it. Come up with something good and we’ll talk dinner.”

After checking for his keys and pager, Shane climbed onto the dock. “Thanks for the coffee. You’re the best.”

He crossed the gravel parking lot and climbed into the driver’s seat of a slightly dented — but otherwise immaculate — 1981 Jeep Wrangler.

“How about lasagna!” Sam yelled from the houseboat.

“Now you’re talkin’!” he yelled back, then twisted the ignition, pumped the engine to life and headed to catch the 7 a.m. ferry to Seattle’s waterfront.

* * * * * * * * 

Shane sat among the Beamers and fancy town cars being freighted across Puget Sound, straddling the hood of his much-less-fancy Wrangler. All around him from behind tinted windows, wealthy men and women were planning deals, mergers and exchanging Poupon while Shane masterminded a way to hold the Metro section of the Seattle Times in the open breeze. The wind was racing through The Sound as gulls squawked overhead and targeted the nice, shiny cars.

He loved taking the ferry and seeing those movers and shakers barricaded in their vehicles, tethered to their offices and getting crapped on. To him, they all shared a common debt: The price one pays for grabbing — and keeping — wealth. His own decisions earlier in life, mostly mistakes, had set a different course for him. And while that course had brought him to a very dark place, he had come out of it on his own terms, with the fine print of those terms leaving him with absolutely nothing. But it was “nothing” that allowed him to truly and completely start his life over again. Though he didn’t have a lot, what he did have was real, with no strings, no guilt and no hidden price tag.

Folding the paper, he caught sight of a police-involved shooting and skimmed the article: High-speed chase. Unidentified woman. A shootout and drugs. Justifiable homicide. Both officers expected to be cleared.

Chalk one up for the good guys, he thought.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

But he would.

Before Ben Spears would take his next morning piss over the stern.

Chapter Two

Seven hours had passed since an officer-involved shooting dragged Roy Hollins from his bed a little after midnight. He had driven up the mid-section of Seattle to the seedy West Industrial District near Highway 99, where “Circus of the Stars” was well underway when he’d arrived. Acting as ringmaster had been Capt. Bill Whitmore, shining the spotlight on the appropriate stages while amazing feats of speculation drew gasps from the crowd. Two clowns — one from homicide and the other from Internal Affairs — separately questioned the two patrolmen involved in the incident.

In all the hoopla, the main event was practically forgotten.

Lynda Bettington was still lying under a damp canvas blanket when Hollins began his initial walkthrough. As lead crime scene technician, he’d been with the department for sixteen years, the last ten of which he’d spent picking through ransacked apartments, trash-strewn back alleys, blood-soaked front seats and mucky bay flats that occasionally revealed the dead at low tide. He still attended every seminar he could and lectured at a few of his own. Police shootings always required his presence. He was thorough, unblinking and unbiased in his investigations.

Except for Chief Hammond and Internal Affairs, he answered to very few.

Every movement over a crime scene was deliberate. In his eyes, the area was a collection of evidence, each with an expiration date; items about to expire received first priority. He immediately removed the .38 revolver from the subject’s hand and placed it in a brown paper sack. Both of the hands were swabbed, as well as those of the officers, with the subject’s hands bagged in plastic. Both 9mm Glocks and their clips were collected from the patrolmen and bagged. A preliminary tape lift was done over the body to gather any fiber or hair on the victim’s clothes, followed by a lift from the car seats. Shell casings were tweezed into gauze and sealed in plastic. Video was shot and photos taken, recording the scene and his observations.

Hollins had then returned to the lab and began the real work: figuring out what it all meant. He finished up his last few tests slowly shaking his head.

He didn’t like what he was seeing — or in some cases, what he wasn’t seeing.

A handgun, especially a revolver, always blew primer residue back over the hands when being fired. Only a faint trace amount of blowback was found on Bettington. He even checked the swabs taken between her fingers and found practically nothing. It was as if her hand was covered during the exchange of gunfire. While it was possible the damp weather might’ve destroyed some of the residue, it wouldn’t have washed away every trace. Especially since her body had been covered and he’d made sure to bag the hands upon arrival.

Also, along with the finger prints, he’d found some kind of talc or baby powder on the grip of Perkins’ firearm — hands, too. And though both his and Taylor’s stories matched, the trajectory of things didn’t fit their account of the incident.

Lynda Bettington was on her side when Perkins’ bullet entered her brain. He was almost certain of it; Perkins’ version had her firing over the hood.

This all only added up to speculation, however. None of these things were conclusive of anything. Tomorrow, he’d perform a rod test with the M.E. to check the exact pathway of the slug to chart precisely where it entered and exited. He would also recommend an acid test to restore the serial number on the revolver, which had been filed off.

All of this would be in his report.

Russ Braden knocked, entering the lab before Hollins could answer. “Morning, Roy. How’re things going?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

It took a beat for Hollins to respond.

He knew someone from Internal Affairs would come calling. He expected Bill Parnelle since he had been at the crime scene interviewing the two patrolmen. Having the captain of I.A. show up instead was more than unusual; it was unheard of.

“Almost done,” Hollins managed. “Just another hour or so. I still need to type it all up and have someone file the property records.”

“You must’ve worked straight through, huh Roy?” 

“Started a little after 1 a.m.,” Hollins answered, now feeling more curious than surprised. “Nice thing about working at that hour is fewer butts in the way.”

Braden joined him at the table, arms crossed. “What did you find?”

Hollins reached for his notes and flipped through them, recapping them to emphasize his findings. “Obviously, it’s too early in the process to confirm any suspicions, but I think – ”

Braden slowly, deliberately removed the legal pad from Hollins’ grasp, stopping the seasoned crime tech in mid sentence. Laying the pad on the table, Braden guarded it beneath a thick forearm. 

“Roy, we need to talk,” he began, then waved it away. “Actually, I’ll talk. You listen.”

Hollins absently eased onto a tall metal stool, its wheels squeaking loudly across the linoleum as he pulled it under him.

“Roy, no one sees this report. As soon as it’s finished, bring it to me. No copies. No supplemental reports. No memos. Everything in one file, in my office, in one hour.” 

Hollins nodded, brows furrowed above a questioning gaze. “What about Chief Hammond? He’ll want a copy. So will detective Parnelle. I can’t just — ”

Braden firmly tapped the notepad. “No one sees this report but me. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes… sure. But I have to file something.” 

“And you will. Something thorough, by the book…”

He handed notepad back to Hollins with a thin smile. “…And squeaky clean.”

Hollins slowly took his notes back.

Braden read the expression on Hollins’ face and gave his shoulder a firm pat. “It’s in our hands now, Roy. Just finish up and I’ll see you in an hour.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door before opening it. “I’m sure I don’t need to say it but I’m going to anyway: this conversation stays between us. In fact, it never happened.”

**********

The Vashon Ferry airhorn blasted into the crisp morning air, echoing against the waterfront that hugged 98th Street near Lincoln Park. Shane folded the newspaper and tossed it into the front seat of his Wrangler as the ferry began its approach. The 20-minute crossing left him plenty of time to grab fresh-baked crullers and some more coffee from Jensen’s Donuts off Henderson Street before heading to the park. There, he could kill time feeding the ducks before the records office opened at 9 a.m.

The ferry emptied quickly, with commuters on foot and in cars spilling onto Fauntleroy Way. Traffic was already getting thick in both directions as Shane headed north for a quick stop at Jensen’s before making his way to the park, leaving him about an hour before the King County Recorder’s Office flipped its sign to “open.” He found an empty picnic table and opened the pink and white paper sack, lifting out a chocolate-frosted cruller and dipping it into black coffee. Straddling the wooden bench seat, he watched as a dozen Mallards waddled toward him, heads bobbing, looking for a handout. Reaching back into the sack, he grabbed a handful of donut holes he’d purchased for the ducks and tossed them into the grass. 

He envisioned the pandemonium downtown as thousands of office-bound commuters coursed through the arteries leading to the heart of Seattle. He was glad to be in the park, sipping coffee, feeding himself and the ducks. Once the dust settled, he’d scoot into the records office and hopefully get copies of good news for his client.

It wasn’t until hearing the cough that he noticed a small boy had seated himself several yards away in the grass. Dressed in a soiled windbreaker with matching sweatpants, he broke eye contact with everything but the donuts. Shane gave a quick glance around looking for a parent or older sibling.

No one but a few joggers and a guy on rollerblades who looked as if he’d teleported in from the 1970s. On the hill behind him was a set of brick public restrooms. 

Whoever was with the kid must be there, he thought.

A little perturbed, Shane decided to keep an eye on him until someone returned. With the boy’s eye line still locked onto the sack of donuts, Shane’s first instinct was to offer one to him. But he hesitated; he could see himself being arrested as a park pervert, “enticing young victims with donuts, huh? Cuff him!”

No thanks.

The boy gazed at the donut holes, then back over to the sack on the tabletop, straining to see without being seen.

Shane looked around again.

Still nobody.

“Screw it,” he mumbled to himself and held out a donut. “Hey kid, you want one? I’m getting full.”

The boy appeared startled, then answered, “I’m not supposed to.” Then, as an afterthought, “My mom said.”

So, it was Mom up there, Shane concluded. “I tell you what. Are you a good catch?”

The boy hesitated. “Mostly.”

“Good. I’ll toss one to you. But you have to be quick. These ducks show no mercy,” Shane said. “And if your mom gets mad, I’ll take the heat.”

And I’ll grill her for leaving you here alone in the first place, he thought to himself.

“Well… I guess so.” The boy climbed to his feet, ready to catch.

Shane folded the sack closed over the remaining donut holes and underhanded it. The boy caught it in his chest and immediately ripped the sack open, shoving donut holes into his mouth one after the other, hardly pausing to breathe. Shane guessed the child to be around seven or eight. His blond hair was matted from the dampness, sweat or both. His ruddy cheeks offset a fair complexion, suggesting he’d been there for a while.

“How long have you been here, kid?”

“I don’t know,” the boy answered between gulps. “I’m waiting for my mom. She’s coming back for me.”

“When?” asked Shane, keeping his questions short, encouraging the boy to carry the bulk of the conversation.

“I don’t know. Pretty soon I guess.”

“Where is she?”

The boy shrugged.

Shane had had enough. It’s one thing to leave a child alone for a few minutes while you take a leak. It’s another thing to leave them with no idea of where you’re going or for how long.

“I’m coming over there and we’re going to find your mom,” Shane said.

In the middle of the park, the boy looked especially small and vulnerable. He could be a lunatic cuddling up to this child for the price of a few donuts. The more he thought about it, the madder he became. Damned if he wasn’t going to return this boy without giving the mom a piece of his mind.

“My name is Shane,” he told the boy, coming to a stop a few feet away, allowing some space between them. “What’s your name?” 

The boy thought a moment, eyes darting back and forth, then up to Shane. 

“Jacob,” he answered, his voice just above a whisper. He cleared his throat and repeated it. “My name is Jacob.”

“Jacob what?” Shane asked.

The boy clasped his hands together against his chest, uncertain, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I shouldn’t tell you that.”

“You’re a smart kid, Jacob.”

Shane surveyed the area, looking for the mother.

Only the rollerblader again, performing crossovers as he made another loop.

“I have an idea…” Shane began. As he spoke, Jacob avoided eye contact, looking around nervously. It wasn’t until the term “police officer” was mentioned that his eyes darted upward, meeting Shane’s. It was then that Jacob broke into hysterics in the middle of Lincoln Park — rousing the day’s complications just after 8 a.m.

**********

A patrolman escorted Richard Bettington down the hallway of the King County Medical Examiner’s building and through a set of double doors lined with plastic. There was a distinct temperature drop; a wall of cold separating the living and the dead. Det. Parnelle and the medical examiner greeted him with somber, icy handshakes. Behind them were rows of steel drawers making a wall resembling a human filing cabinet, each with a numbered index card.

One of them matched the form on the examiner’s clipboard.

After a brief exchange, they moved to a drawer that wobbled as it rolled out, revealing a sheet-covered body. Pulling it back, number “1994-227” officially became Lynda Bettington.

Wife.

Silently, Richard took a seat across the room as the drawer was rolled shut with a metallic thud.

Parnelle folded his hands, watching the examiner showcase a practiced look of sympathy as he exited. After a few minutes, Richard took a deep breath and stood.

“What about my son,” he blurted, the words reverberating in the room. “He was with her. So… where IS he?!”

Parnell’s hands drifted apart. A transformation had occurred.

“We weren’t aware of — ”

“Don’t you play fuckin’ games with me! Where’s JACOB!”

During the next 10 minutes, a door broke, orderlies were called, a mop bucket flew the hall, and Richard Bettington was eventually wrestled to the floor. Soon after, Parnelle made a phone call.

And an eight-year old named Jacob Bettington was officially declared missing.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Three

Detective Bill Parnelle’s black leather shoes and white tube socks mounted the stairs as he entered the squad room. During lunch, he’d accessorized his tie with ketchup and was personalizing it with a napkin when he saw Det. James Kazad from the missing persons division waiting for him. “I figured you’d get the Bettington case,” said Parnelle. “When did they call you?”

“About an hour ago. Apparently, they had to calm the father down before they could be sure about the boy and get more info,” Kazad said. He moved around to what appeared to be the front of Parnelle’s desk. Except for the chair, Kazad couldn’t be sure; piles of paperwork, candy wrappers and condiment-stained napkins made it a toss-up. “You got anything for me?”

Parnelle licked his fingers and then tossed yet another stained napkin onto his desk. “A little, but not much,” he said while shuffling through papers and wrappers. “My part of the investigation is over.”

“Already?” said Kazad. “It just happened last night.”

“I know, I know,” said Parnelle, still rummaging. “But I.A. was all over it and both the crime scene and medical examiner’s reports were like Windex — not a streak.” He stumbled onto the file. “Ah, here. Take a look. It was a clean shoot.”

“Still. Just one day?” said Kazad, flipping the file open.

“Jim, it’s not like 10 years ago. Nowadays, guys like Hollins can smell a bad shoot in a couple of hours. This one was wearing perfume.”

“All the statements were taken?”

Parnelle nodded. “I did mine on scene. Internal Affairs chatted with them this morning.”

“They seen the psych yet?”

“Went in a few minutes ago,” Parnelle answered. “If she checks all the boxes, they’ll be back on duty as early as tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“Any burn marks?”

Parnelle looked at Kazad, confused. “Burn marks?”

“On your hands. The way these guys rocketed through here…”

Parnelle gave a half smile. “Listen, I didn’t say I agreed with it. But when I.A. says I’m done, I’m done.”

Kazad shuffled through the file, scribbling down names and addresses from the face sheet, then fingered through the supplementals. Statements from each officer were there, along with references to the area they were patrolling and what time Lynda Bettington’s yellow 1984 Dodge Aries was first spotted. No mention of the boy in the vehicle. Heroin found on the passenger floorboard. The next report was an interview with Richard Bettington, stating he believed his wife had run off with Jacob after he left for work. According to him, she was always doing crazy things. He was unaware of her apparent drug habit. She had a sister, Sharon Reese, who lived near Lincoln Park.

Kazad copied down the name and address. He knew the place. Nice condos.

He then noticed there were no copies of the I.A. interviews of the patrolmen in the file.

Typical, he thought.

Next, he studied the crime scene report: Her prints on the gun. Weapons trace impossible. Trajectories matched the officers’ account. Tape lift from passenger seat revealed fibers and hair from a source other than the mother.

Maybe Jacob’s, he thought. But who knew how old they were?

Fingerprints on the dash. Child sized. Lack of smudging suggested recent occupation of the vehicle. Possibly made three to four hours prior to the incident.

If the husband’s suggestion was accurate, the mother had been driving around all day with the boy. Then, for some reason, he was either let out or ran away.

Or was traded away.

He hated the thought, but it was possible he’d been traded for the heroin. If the print analysis was correct, he disappeared between 8 and 11 p.m., which were prime dealing hours.

The last report was from the medical examiner essentially underlining what was already known: Lynda Bettington’s death was the result of a single gunshot to the forehead, resulting in massive brain and tissue damage. The examiner went on to describe her weight, height, race, blue eye color and general physical condition: tan complexion, early thirties, slight birthmark on her left shoulder, thin scar on the left palm near the wrist, and a discoloration — presumably from a wedding band — on her left ring finger.

Approximate time of death was 11:55 p.m.

Closing the file, he handed it back to Parnelle. “Thanks Bill. I think I might have a few leads here.” He checked his watch. “The father ought to be here soon. I should get downstairs.”

“Hey Jim,” Parnelle called from his chair. “Watch him.”

Kazad slowed his stride and looked back at Parnelle. “Possible suspect?”

“No. Hair-trigger temper. The guy just ignites.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Kazad.

“Better keep two on him. Something’s not right there.”

Kazad nodded over his shoulder and began descending the staircase.

In the last two years, he had located many children and juveniles. The exact number was tallied on a small chalkboard tacked to the side of his desk. A white chalkline separated those found living and dead. While other detectives described it as a scoreboard, Kazad saw the numbers differently.

Wins and losses.

His compulsive nature and eye for detail had always given him an edge when it came to finding people. Something told him he would need all of that and more to find this child.

Reaching the main floor of the station, he turned left, passing the soda and junk food machines. As he walked down the hall to the interview rooms, he was unable to shake two things about the medical examiner’s report that bothered him. 

One was the scar on Bettington’s left hand.

The other was something not mentioned in the report at all.

**********

Only thirty minutes earlier, callused and sun-broiled hands were ripping soft garlic bread as fishermen packed The Nook before heading out for the day’s second run. When it was over, “The slurp and blow hour,” as Sam called it, had claimed seventy-seven bowls of chowder — two of which had been eaten by Jacob. A slice of peanut butter pie with a milk chaser was now in front of him.

As the boy ate and grinned, Shane motioned Sam outside where the two leaned against the dock rail overlooking the bay. Shane crossed his arms and looked back at Jacob through the large oval windows.

The boy had an infinite stomach it seemed.

Sam joined Shane’s gaze. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, absently tapping the heel of his boot against the dry planking. “I know I should let the police handle it. But you didn’t see his reaction. He was terrified, almost hysterical. More than just a kid who’s not comfortable around cops. This was… different.”

“Did anyone notice?”

“A couple of people. There’s probably an A.P.B. out for a child molester with cowboy boots and donut holes.”

They chuckled together in the breeze.

“How’d you settle him down,” she asked.

Shane hesitated, then let out an audible sigh. “I promised I wouldn’t take him to the police.”

“You what?”

“It was the only way to calm him down.”

Sam thought for a moment, looking at Jacob then back at Shane. “Do you think he might’ve been faking it?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“People can fake lots of things,” Sam said.

Shane saw her giving him a wry smile. 

“Maybe so,” he said, reaching up and gently squeezing her shoulders. “But reactions of that magnitude — from extreme fear or extreme pleasure — just can’t be faked.”

Sam smirked. “So what now? Hire him as a dishwasher under an assumed name and keep him until he turns 18?”

“First, I have to finish what I started this morning,” he said. “I promised Patricia Collins I’d bring information from public records today.”

“What about your promise to Jacob?”

“On the ferry, I coaxed the last name from him. It’s ‘Bettington’ with two t’s. After I finish with Collins I’ll find out what I can. An address or something.”

During their conversation, Jacob had admitted to spending the night alone in Lincoln Park, waiting for a mother who promised to return. Though he’d recounted the night in the park vividly, Jacob offered nothing about the events prior to that. Further inquiry brought a clear reaction: Back off. 

Looking at him now, the story was hard to believe. But until he knew for sure, Shane would keep the boy safe.

Inside, Jacob set his empty glass on the table and wiped his chin with his wrist, then spotted Shane and Sam in the window. He waved across the empty dining room.

Shane waved back, studying the kid with the peanut butter mustache.

No more nights in the park, Shane thought. No more broken promises.

He hoped he was making the right decision.

**********

  

The 8th Precinct resembled a hive most hours of the day, suspects, victims and police swarming over and around each other, pausing only to make contact with the desk sergeant before scurrying into catacomb hallways. Kazad entered the squad room and slipped through the buzzing activity to meet up with a well-dressed, Black detective named Walter Aames.

Only recently promoted, Aames possessed an eagerness Kazad regarded as an essential — although at times annoying — quality that had earned him a spot as the youngest detective in the precinct.

It also made him Kazad’s first choice for a partner.

“We need a bigger squad room,” said Aames.

“No, less crime,” replied Kazad, hurrying out the doors and down the steps with Aames. “The father wasn’t much help in the interview. I don’t think he’s telling us everything.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I’ll explain in the car.”

Crossing into the garage, Kazad tossed the keys to Aames as they approached a two-tone Mercury Sable. Kazad didn’t drive when he had a partner; a benefit of seniority. 

Aames knew this and took the driver’s seat, backing up the Sable. “So, what’s the father’s story?”

“His account of the events, which were mostly speculation, matched his first statement verbatim,” said Kazad. “Figured she ran off with the boy after he left for work. She did a lot of crazy things, etcetera, etcetera. I’d read it all before so I tried a different line and asked what might’ve set her off.”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing at first,” said Kazad. “He just started fidgeting with his belt buckle. Some gaudy rodeo type thing with a Texas flag on it.”

“I heard he freaked out at the M.E.’s office. Tore the place up,” Aames said.

“Not this time. Just when I thought he was about to crack and offer something, the guy remembers his cue, offers up the drug theory and becomes Mr. Cool. Says he heard about the heroin found in the car, that he didn’t know she was a user but that it explained why she went nuts sometimes. I told him it looked like she was running away from something.”

Aames smiled, visualizing Kazad verbally circling his prey. “What was his reaction?”

“He got real shifty. Crossed his arms and closed himself off. I don’t think he realized his fingers were digging into his elbows. That’s when I knew he was hiding something. Still is. I’m just not sure what.”

“Well, while you were playing 20 questions with him, I looked for any priors and found some interesting things,” said Aames, speeding through a yellow light. “He’s had a couple of DUIIs and a disturbing the peace charge filed against him by a neighbor. What if he got ahold of the kid, accidentally killed him in a rage and the wife panicked?”

Aames was on his way to solving the case. “She loads her stuff, buys a dime bag of trail mix for the road and becomes a victim of circumstance. Meanwhile, our man here has a brainstorm and reports a missing kid he knows will never turn up and uses his dead wife as a patsy?”

He looked to Kazad, eyebrows raised.

Kazad nodded, faintly impressed. “Only three things wrong with that theory,” he began. “One, this guy isn’t that smart. Two, I’m not convinced she was a user.”

Aames’ expression grew quizzical. “Why not?”

“The medical examiner didn’t mention anything about drugs in the toxicology report. Also, no marks of a user either. Nothing.”

“You think the drugs belonged to the husband?” Aames asked.

“I think it’s a possibility. Could be another reason he’s holding back information.”

Aames thought about this. “But if the drugs weren’t hers and she wasn’t a user, why the shootout?”

“Good question,” said Kazad, although he had his suspicions, which turned his stomach. But he kept them to himself for now.

“You said there were three problems with my theory,” said Aames. “What’s the third?”

Kazad pointed left toward Lincoln Parkway. “When looking for a missing child, never assume they’re already dead.”

Aames slowed, cruising one of the more recent developments in Seattle. High-rise apartments and condominiums dotted a two-block radius of spotless sidewalks lined with evenly spaced maples, all centering a large duck pond and jogging path along Lincoln Park.

“There it is,” said Kazad, pointing to a set of condos. “Reese lives in A-2.”

Aames pulled to the curb, switched off the ignition and peered up through the windshield at ten stories of glass-front condos painted mint green with white trim. “Life looks a little different for Lynda Bettington’s sister. You really think she knows anything?”

“Bettington was killed between here and the West Industrial Park. If she was leaving town yesterday, there’s a chance she visited her sister,” said Kazad. “If the boy was with her, we could narrow the window of when he disappeared.”

“And where it might’ve happened,” Aames finished.

Kazad tapped his nose. “Stick with me, and you’ll become the youngest, Blackest and second-best detective on the force.”

“Uh-huh, and you’ll always be the oldest and whitest.”

They took a quick pace over the narrow sidewalk and up the steps to the foyer where a brass panel housed a series of labeled buttons, each with a speaker. Kazad pressed “A-2.”

After a pause, a woman’s voice answered. “Yes?”

“I’m Sergeant James Kazad with the Seattle Police Department. I called earlier. Detective Aames and I would like to ask a few questions.” He lifted his finger from the button, waiting.

“Sure, let me buzz you in.”

The doors leading inside hummed, and Aames quickly pushed them open.

After a brief climb up a covered staircase, they found A-2. Matching ferns were suspended in macramé on either side of the door. As Kazad began to knock, the handle turned and Sharon Reese greeted them through a six-inch gap held by a small brass chain.

“You guys have I.D.?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Kazad, producing a badge from his inside jacket pocket. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

The door closed, a chain rattled, and the door re-opened as Reese stood holding the top of her robe together. “Come in.”

They followed her through a tiled entry and into a spacious living room with black leather sofas, beveled glass tables and a panoramic view of Lincoln Park. Reese motioned toward the sofa, taking the loveseat directly across from it. She brushed the silk robe aside and brought her legs onto the couch, then lit a cigarette. Taking a long drag, she exhaled then sat back, resting one arm along the top of the loveseat. Both men were momentarily taken by her long auburn hair and hazel eyes, and the way the turquoise silk robe accentuated her tan skin.

Kazad could tell she was used to the attention. “Ms. Reese, we’re trying to narrow down the time of your nephew’s disappearance. Did Lynda visit or contact you at any time yesterday?”

“No. We hadn’t talked in weeks. Maybe a month.”

“I see. She didn’t call, drop off a note or give any indication she was leaving,” confirmed Kazad. “No contact whatsoever.”

“That’s right.” She took another drag as the folds of her robe shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of deep, tan cleavage. “She had a family. My job keeps me very busy. We got together when we could but sometimes months would pass between calls or visits.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, I get the picture you two weren’t particularly close,” said Kazad.

“Well, yes and no. We cared about each other. We just had our own lives.”

Kazad nodded. “I see. Did Lynda ever confess having a drug addiction or involvement with drugs in any way?”

Reese shifted, causing the leather to whine. “Yeah, Linda was involved with drugs. Dealing a little here and there. Sometimes using it herself. I told her to get help. Pleaded with her, actually.” Reese drew from her cigarette. “It was one of the things that kept us apart.”

A red flag went up for Kazad. “You say she was an occasional user. Any idea how often?”

“It’s hard to say. Once or twice a month? Maybe more?”

“Did you ever see her using? Or high?”

Reese thought carefully before answering. “Uh, yeah. Once or twice.”

Based on the examiner’s report, she was lying. And Kazad knew it.

“What do you do for a living, Ms. Reese?” he asked.

The sudden shift in topic threw her. “What? Oh, I’m a legal secretary.”

“Do you mind if I ask for whom?”

“Actually, I do.” Reese’s answer was abrupt.

“Are you usually off in the middle of the week?” asked Kazad, who was now leaning forward.

“I didn’t feel well today,” said Reese, eyes moving between the two detectives. She brought her legs off the loveseat, planting her feet on the floor in front of her. “What does this have to do with finding Jacob?”

“I checked your file, Ms. Reese. Two arrests for solicitation, one as recent as last year. And it wasn’t for selling magazine subscriptions,” said Kazad. “I suspect you’re lying about your occupation.”

Face reddening, Reese closed the folds of her robe and clenched it tightly at the neck with her free hand. 

“I also suspect you’re lying to me about Lynda’s drug habit,” Kazad continued. “This makes me a bit curious.”

Reese jammed the tip of her cigarette into a jade ashtray. “Well, you know what they say about curiosity,” she said, exhaling a final puff of smoke.

“Is that… a threat, Ms. Reese?”

She took a deep breath, composing herself, then smiled as she brushed her thick hair back over her shoulders. “Of course not. But I’m telling you everything I know and you’re calling me a liar.” She propped her elbows on her knees and rubbed her temples. “Do you have any more questions? Because I really need to get back in bed.”

“Just one for now,” said Kazad. “Lynda’s car had a lot of bags in it, like she was running away from something. Or someone. Any ideas?”

“Probably Richard, her husband. They had their problems.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“He’s got a bad temper. It got out of hand a few times. Maybe one too many and she got fed up,” Reese said, then looked at them both. “Is he a suspect? He should be.”

Kazad placed his business card on the coffee table and rose from the couch. “Until we find Jacob, everyone’s a suspect,” he said, heading toward the door with Aames. “We’ll be in touch. If you think of anything else, you have my card.”

Reese outpaced them, opening the door and ushering them out. As she was about to close it behind them, Kazad stopped just outside the doorway. “Just one more thing, Ms. Reese.”

She stopped the door just inches from the jamb. Her graciousness was becoming a struggle. “Yes?”

“Lynda had a pretty deep scar near her left palm. Any idea how she got it,” Kazad asked.

“In a fight.”

“With her husband?” Aames suddenly chimed in.

Reese sized him up, smirking. “No, Chip Conway. He bullied her in the seventh grade until she beat the hell out of him one day. He wasn’t ready for a southpaw, especially from a girl. Lynda’s first punch was a bit off and she sliced herself on his braces.”

She eyed them both from the doorway. “Is Chip a suspect too?”

“Not officially,” said Aames. “We’ll keep you posted.”

He and Kazad turned and descended the stairs as the door closed behind them.

“I tell you. This thing gets weirder and weirder,” said Aames as they reached the foyer. “We’ve got a missing kid whose mother dies in a shootout with police, apparently over drugs like some thug momma. Then we have a father who’s likely an abusive husband and seems more interested in keeping secrets than finding his kid.” He checked the street then crossed to the driver door. “And we have a sister who is definitely lying about her career pursuits. What’s the tie-in? What are we missing?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Kazad, buckling up.

Aames checked the rearview mirror and pulled from the curb. “You probably hate to admit it, but my theory’s sounding pretty good about now. The abusive husband fits Reese’s testimony. It doesn’t explain why she lied about her sister’s drug use, but that’s minor. The drugs could’ve been Reese’s. Lynda could have been selling the dope for the cash she needed to run away. The father could’ve done something to the boy, which would mean Jacob was never in the car to begin with — and our window of fifteen hours would widen.”

“That’s right,” said Kazad, “except the prints in the car place him there sometime yesterday.”

“Which leads us back to the mother,” said Aames, accelerating through another yellow light. “If the heroin was hers, it might explain where she got it. A street trade for the boy.”

“Maybe,” Kazad replied. “There’s just something that shuffles the deck for me. It could be nothing, but…”

“What?” asked Aames.

“Chip Conway.”

“The poor kid she beat up in seventh grade?”

“Yeah. The one K.O.’d by southpaw Bettington,” said Kazad.

“What about it?”

Kazad fingered his lip. “Bettington’s gun was found in her right hand.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Four

By the time Shane was kicked out of the records building, the sun was a lick of fire on the horizon but he’d gotten most of what he wanted. He’d spent the entire afternoon following a paper trail through birth certificates, deeds, utility bills and voter registrations. At 5:30 p.m., he called his client, Patricia Collins, with good news. After eleven months of waiting, Collins was the proud daughter of a new mother.

The biological one she never knew.

He gave her the last known address and, thanks to some help from a contact at Pacific Bell, had tracked down a recent phone number. No guarantees but it was a start. Though he wished her the best and was glad to provided a chance to fill what she had described as a life-long void, he slid the pay-phone receiver back into the cradle with mixed emotions.

It had been the search for his own parents that spurred him into private investigation years earlier. And while that decision had changed his life’s trajectory for the better, there was no small irony in the fact that it was the same void Collins felt that had set his early life on a much different, self-destructive path. As a young man moving from foster home to foster home, he had struggled finding a sense of identity or belonging. He filled the void with anger one bitter shovel full at a time, eventually burying himself deep enough that no one could reach him. Deep enough that he didn’t need to feel anything. 

For anyone. 

It made him ripe for making the wrong decision — the worst decision. The kind of decision that, if not for being a juvenile and drawing a merciful prosecutor, could’ve meant a decade in a California state prison for negligent homicide. Instead, he got 36 months and was out in 18 because of counseling and good behavior.

The day he was released was the loneliest day of his life. No place to go and he knew no one would be waiting for him. When he saw the prosecutor, Robert Keedy, waiting for him outside the gates, he didn’t know what to think.

“You’re one bad decision away from a lot more time in that shit hole,” Keedy had said. “You need to decide whether your next decision will be the right one or the wrong one, son.”

Shane instinctively tried to stare the man down. Show his toughness. Instead, he felt himself beginning to cry — then wept for the first time he could remember.

“That’s a good start,” Keedy had said, and put a steady hand on his shoulder. Over the next week, he helped Shane find a low-rent studio apartment and a dishwashing job at a small diner where he could get all the hours he wanted. But most importantly, he helped Shane turn the anger that had sent his life spiraling downward into something productive and a way up. 

To this day some 20 years later, he still had nightmares about prison and the events of the night that sent him there. As a reminder of what it took to get to out — and of the man who helped him — was a tattoo script that ran the length of his right forearm.

It read: One Bad Decision.

Climbing into the Jeep, he took Route 16 and caught the Ruston Ferry, which would would take him directly to the south side of the island and into Magnolia Bay. In the time it would take to cross the bay, Shane knew he would have to reach a decision about Jacob. The work for Collins had taken longer than expected. The sun was gone and so was his opportunity to gather more information. Someone, somewhere had to be looking for this boy and was worried sick. As much as he wanted to keep his promise to Jacob, Shane knew there was a strong possibility he would have to break that promise and contact the authorities.

If the boy was a missing child, he’d be reunited with his parents; if he was abandoned, the parents would get the consequences they deserved. In either case, Shane would be there for Jacob every step of the way. He would never let this boy feel the kind of abandonment or lack of belonging that he had felt.

He sighed and shook his head, looking out over Puget Sound as the ferry slowly edged toward the southern tip of Bainbridge Island.

Ordinarily, he was decisive. Quick to form a plan or approach and follow through without second thoughts or second guesses. Yet here he was, guilty of both today. He knew it was because he felt a connection with Jacob; they were kindred spirits in a way.

The caution lights of the Ruston Ferry strobed yellow and white as the vessel nudged itself into the docks and was secured in place before slowly lowering its large metal ramp onto the vehicle exit landing. Shane twisted the ignition, easing the Jeep forward. 

Tonight, he and Jacob would talk things through and Shane would call the police. On the short drive between here and The Nook, he’d have to come up with a plan for how to approach that conversation.

********** 

News of Jacob Bettington’s disappearance quickly became the top story throughout Seattle and Tacoma. Calls from reporters wanting details flooded the phone lines of the 8th Precinct. Realizing the need for a press conference, Chief Hammond had all chairs removed from the press room.

Uncomfortable reporters were easier to control and less likely to linger.

Hammond confidently entered the press room in a few long strides as camera lights converged on the podium. He leaned forward slightly to accommodate the cluster of microphones jutting toward him. “Good evening everyone. Let me preface things by saying that this is not a press conference in the traditional sense,” he began. “Because of the ongoing nature of this investigation, there will be no Q and A.”

Murmurings of disapproval swept through the gathering of reporters, prompting Hammond to raise his voice as he continued. “We still do not know the circumstances surrounding eight-year-old Jacob Bettington’s disappearance. He was last seen yesterday morning by his father. We have good reason to believe he was with his mother who, as you already know, was unfortunately killed in a shootout with police officers late last night. Jacob was not in the vehicle at the time of the incident. Currently, we are investigating this as a missing person or possible runaway situation.”

He paused, then added, “However. We can’t rule out the possibility of an abduction.” 

**********

Shane led Jacob to one of the wooden benches on the patio outside of The Nook. A thumbnail moon marked the horizon, its light catching a few whitecaps suspended in the darkness as the surf filtered between pilings under the pier. The two of them sat, Shane on the tabletop and Jacob straddling the bench in silence. Shane gave a quick glance over his shoulder at Sam, who was leaning against a counter inside the restaurant, hand on her hip. She gave him an encouraging nod and then headed into the kitchen.

“We need to have a talk,” said Shane. “Man to man.”

“Okay,” said Jacob, who looked up at Shane, then down at his palm and began tracing it with his finger.

During the ride home, Shane had crafted an approach to this talk. “I need your help with a big decision.”

Jacob looked at him. “What kind of decision?”

“Well, I made a promise I realized I shouldn’t have. Now I need to break it in order to do the right thing. Do you follow me?”

Jacob squirmed a bit. “Sort of,” he said, looking back down into his palm. “You mean about calling the police, don’t you?”

“Yeah. That’s right.” Shane braced himself for a possible meltdown.

After a long pause, Jacob got up from the bench and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I sort of knew this was gonna happen,” he mumbled.”

“I’m sorry, Jacob. But for your own good, the police need to be involved in this.”

Jacob slowly nodded.

“So do I have your okay to break the promise I made?” Shane asked.

Jacob’s small shoulders gave a quick shrug.

A seagull observed them from the top of The Nook, standing one-legged and resting. As Jacob began to answer, the gull dropped its second leg.

“If I say okay, can we wait until morning before you call?”

Taken aback by Jacob’s calmness, Shane stammered a bit. “Uh, s-s-sure. Absolutely.”

“Okay, permission granted,” said Jacob. “Promise broken.”

A screech from the patio door caught their attention as Sam opened it, causing the seagull to take flight. “You guys want some hot chocolate?” she called from the doorway.

“Sounds great!” Shane called back, giving her a subtle thumbs up. “You got marshmallows?”

“Of course I do! What kind of place you think I run here?”

Sam returned carrying a tray with three steaming mugs of dark chocolate topped with fluffy, white whipped marshmallow topping. Wedged beneath her left arm was some folded clothing. They each took a mug, spooning at the gooey mounds of marshmallow and sipping.

Jacob managed a few mouthfuls before his curiosity kicked in. “What’re those?” he said, pointing his spoon at the clothing still pinned under Sam’s arm.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she said and set her cup on the table. She unfolded an extra-large blue T-shirt imprinted with a bushel of clams and the slogan Hooked by the Nook. “This is for you to sleep in tonight. It’s yours.”

Jacob held up the shirt, the bottom dropping past his knees. “Thanks!”

“I figured you guys could stay with me in the apartment tonight,” offered Sam. “You can even have your own room, Jacob.”

“Cool! Can I have the big room?”

Sam shook her head. “Sorry, that’s for grown-ups.”

“I tell you what, Jacob,” said Shane, “why don’t you finish that up then head inside and change. We’ll come tuck you in.”

Jacob gulped the rest of his chocolate then tossed the shirt over his shoulder, heading for The Nook. “Thanks, Sam!” he hollered, then disappeared inside and up the stairs to the apartment.

“So how’d it go,” she asked, taking a sip of chocolate.

“Better than expected. Much better. No fits. No crying. He just listened, thought about it and went along with it.”

“He trusts you,” said Sam.

“Maybe so,” said Shane.

The two of them got up from the table and began a slow walk to the door when Shane asked, “So, about those sleeping arrangements…”

“I just figured a 40-something-year-old man — ”

“You mean 30-something,” Shane clarified.

“ — sleeping on a boat with an eight-year-old boy in nothing but a T-shirt is how rumors get started.”

“I see,” said Shane, offering a wry smile. He turned to Sam and placed his mug on the pier railing.

Sam immediately snatched it up. “Hey! Do you know how many of those I lose over the side? The hermit crabs have started wearing them instead of shells.”

Setting their cups down, she pulled out the second shirt still tucked under her arm, innocently sliding the curve of her hip against his. She unfurled the shirt and held it up. “I wasn’t sure if you had something to sleep in, so I brought you this,” she said, smirking.

Shane studied it. “Looks a little short.”

“Nope, just right.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t really given much thought to sleeping arrangements or attire,” he said.

“Not to worry, because I have,” said Sam. She let the cotton shirt fall to the deck and weaved her fingertips through Shane’s hair, bringing him closer. “In fact, I’ve given it hours of thought.”

She brought him closer still, her lips stopping a whisper’s distance from his.

“And your conclusion?” he asked softly.

She smiled and met his lips. His hands found their way to the back of her jeans, navigating her curves. She walked her fingers down his chest before coyly stepping back, ending their slow kiss with a teasing suck on his bottom lip. “As for my conclusion, it’s laying at your feet.”

She knelt down and grabbed the cups, then headed inside, leaving him alone with his T-shirt.

Shane tossed the shirt up with the toe of his boot. He didn’t need to read the slogan. 

He already knew he was “Hooked by the Nook.”

And especially by the woman who owned it.   

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Five

On Saturday mornings, Ben Spears and the other captains slept late, not shuffling into The Nook until 8:30 a.m. Sam had grown accustomed to this routine and remained in a fetal position next to Shane as the sun began a lazy stretch across the hardwood floor toward the foot of the bed. He watched the sunrise, concluding that the view from Sam’s place was probably the best in Magnolia Bay. Originally a large storage area above the restaurant, Sam converted the area into an expansive living space complete with two bedrooms, a full bath, office and an oversized living room with bay windows from end to end. The contractor had suggested adding a kitchen during the remodel. Sam contended that they were standing on it.

Her bedroom overlooked Colvos Cove with its collection of grubby houseboats and trawlers resting along the mouth of the harbor. Another hour or so, and Ben Spears would take his morning position over the stern.

Shaking the thought from his head, Shane slipped out from beneath the covers and brought his feet to the throw rug beside the bed. He looked back over his shoulder at Sam nestled among the sheets and blankets, her long hair a beautiful mass of tangles.

He grinned.

Last night while changing, she made him sit on the end of the bed with his eyes shut. When he opened them, the first thing I saw was the back of her long, smooth legs rising up into a blue T-shirt that was stretched nicely over her rear. She peeked over her shoulder, meeting his gaze with a suggestive smile. Biting her bottom lip, she slowly turned around to reveal her newly customized sleeping attire. Across the front was the familiar slogan, altered with a black marker to read Hooked by the Nookie.

Chuckling to himself, he slid the blankets back over her bare shoulders and paused to stroke her hair before heading to the restroom to wash up. It was while pulling on his boots a short time later that the thought of vanilla crullers hit him and he decided to make an early run to Vashon Heights. In the living room, he grabbed his things from the coffee table, stopping to check on Jacob as he headed out. His door was cracked, providing a glimpse of the bed. He could see Jacob’s outline beneath the covers, the top blanket pulled over his head.

He was safe in his little cocoon; Shane hoped today would allow the boy to emerge into a more secure world.

Leaving down the back staircase, Shane climbed into the Wrangler and nursed it to life, then rumbled over the split gravel lane to the main road en route to Vashon. A knee-high fog drifted over dunes and clumps of tussock grass, reflecting colorful hues that would eventually burn away with the rising sun. It was a perfect morning. Fresh ocean air whipped through the cab and out the open back, causing a plastic tarp to flap noisily over his jack and small collection of tools behind the back seat.

He’d need to cinch the tarp down once he reached the donut shop in Vashon.

Bill’s Donut Hole was wedged stubbornly between Gibran’s Furniture and an Office Depot. Bill had once told Shane that, when he was finally tired of making donuts, he’d retire and sell the land. Eleven years later, he was content just being an eyesore to his neighbors. The 18-foot-high donut on his roof had them stopping by weekly with blank checks. This refusal to conform, along with the fact that Bill had the best crullers on the island, kept Shane coming back.

It wasn’t long before the giant brown donut was in view, its top laced with what Bill called “bird-drop frosting.” The stores on either side were still hours from opening, leaving a vast area of black asphalt in front. It made Bill’s tiny donut shop seem microscopic.

As Shane pulled in front, he could see Bill waving from inside. Shane came to a stop out front and held up eight fingers, prompting Bill to start loading crullers into a paper sack. “You’re donut’s looking better and better,” he said as he came inside. “Someday I’m going to buy that sucker.”

“Someday, I’ll give it to you. The frosting will be extra, though.” Bill wrapped the last cruller in tissue and placed it in the sack. The cash register chimed. “That’ll be $4.50.”

Shane laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. As Bill made change, a small television babbled from somewhere in the kitchen. It wasn’t until the name “Bettington” echoed over the stainless steel prep tables that Shane took notice.

“…it isn’t known whether the eight-year-old is simply lost or is the victim of a kidnapping. Again, if you have any information, call the number on your screen…”

“Is this a tip?”

Bill stood holding out change.

“Uh… thanks. Keep it for now. I’ll probably be back for more tomorrow,” said Shane.

He exited quickly, leaped into the Wrangler and pulled out of the parking lot.

It was time to make that call.

**********

From beneath the overhang of Gibran’s Furniture, Jacob watched the Jeep race onto the two-lane road. 

An airhorn blasted in the distance and Jacob knew it came from the ferry they’d taken to the island — and that it would bring him back to Seattle. He scanned the highway in both directions before running across it, following the sound of the ferry whistle down side streets until he could see the red stack through the trees. The pavement sloped to the bay, where a small line of cars waited, along with a group of joggers and skaters catching the ferry to Lincoln Park. A wooden sign straddled the divider:

Cars — $2.00

Adults — $ 1.00

Children under 10 — Free

As the dockworkers tied the ferry off, Jacob made his way into the crowd. With his windbreaker and sweatpants now clean thanks to Sam, he figured he could pass as a jogger’s kid. The trick would be to stay close enough to “belong” to someone without them knowing it. Studying the crowd, he picked a fat man with an outfit that kind of matched his.

The cars and the crowd edged forward as Jacob tailed the fat man like a caboose.

**********

It was 6:45 a.m. when James Kazad entered the detective squad room and sprinted to the phone ringing on his desk. “Sergeant Kazad.”

“Are you working on the Bettington case?” a voice asked.

“That’s correct,” Kazad answered, pressing the record button. “You have some information?”

Shane wedged the phone between his neck and jaw. “Yeah. I have good news. He’s with me and he’s fine.”

“Could I get your name please?”

Shane thought about this. The last thing Jacob needed was a mob of police descending on The Nook. “I’d rather not give my name. You’ll understand later.”

“No, you need to understand something now,” said Kazad. “Unless I get a name, you’re going to become the prime suspect in what is now a kidnapping. Do you understand?”

Aames entered the squad room and saw Kazad point to the phone, then touch his fingers together, signaling him to have the call traced. Aames snatched a phone and buzzed downstairs.

“Are you clear on what I’m saying?” asked Kazad.

“Detective, this isn’t a ransom demand,” said Shane. “I just want you to know he’s alright and I’m bringing him to you later this morning.”

Kazad heard a pager begin shrieking in the background; he made a mental note of the sound.

Aames was motioning for Kazad to stretch the conversation.

“How do I know this isn’t a crank call?” asked Kazad.

“Listen, just tell the father his son is okay and we’ll see you in an hour.”

The phone line clicked and Kazad looked to Aames, who shook his head.

**********

Shane checked his pager and saw Sam’s number displayed with a 9-1-1 area code. Fumbling for more change from his pocket, he fed it into the payphone and called The Nook. “It’s me. What’s up?”

“Where are you?” Sam asked nervously.

“I’m down the road from Bill’s. What’s going on?”

“Jacob’s gone. I can’t find him anywhere,” said Sam, her tone uncharacteristically alarmed. “I looked all over the restaurant and along the docks. He’s completely disappeared.”

“Sam, I just saw him in bed less that 30 minutes ago.”

“No, you saw a row of pillows and a fishing buoy he got from the hall closet,” she said.

“What?”

“I found it a few minutes ago,” Sam said. “There’s no telling how long he’s been gone.”

“Terrific. I just got off the phone with the police. I said I’d bring Jacob to them in an hour. I just found out there’s a massive search going on for him. So, as of now, I’m a kidnapper. I think they might’ve traced the call.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You keep looking,” said Shane. “Maybe Ben or Flip saw him. I’ll head back and meet you at the dock — Hey, did you check my houseboat?”

“Nothing,” Sam replied.

“Keep looking. Page me again if you find him.”

Shane tossed the receiver into the cradle, ran from the booth, fired up the Jeep and tore onto the highway. He knew their talk had gone too smoothly. Jacob probably started planning his escape the minute his butt left the patio.

The tarp began flapping again.

His eyes suddenly widened. He hit the brakes and the Wrangler skidded to an angled stop. Throwing aside the tarp, he could see the tools had been moved. In the center was a small set of sneaker prints. Jacob must’ve been hiding there the whole time.

Tires squealing, he circled back in the direction of the donut shop. Unless Jacob leaped from the vehicle at 60 miles an hour, he had to have gotten out at Bill’s.

But why there? He wondered. Why would he… 

The realization hit him with sickening force.

Cutting right on Puget Avenue, he floored the accelerator and raced in the direction of the ferry. Within minutes, he could see the entrance. The Jeep slid to a stop as the ferry pulled away, announcing its departure into Puget Sound.

Dock workers stared as Shane leaped from the cab and sprinted through the gates, calling after Jacob.

**********

Jacob peaked from behind the fat man.

He couldn’t hear what Shane was yelling. It didn’t matter anyway. Even though he felt bad about lying to him and Sam, it was like Shane had said: Sometimes you have to break your promise in order to do the right thing.

There was no way he was going to the police. Not after what he’d heard them say to his mom and Aunt Sharon.

And he wouldn’t ever go back to his father, either. He was the reason they ran away in the first place.

The right thing to do — the only thing to do — was to find his mom. She was out there, driving her yellow car and looking for him. If they could find each other, they’d leave like she planned and things would be okay.

Looking across the bay, he wondered where his mom might be in the growing Seattle skyline.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Six

A white-jacketed man in his mid fifties held out a tray of assorted colognes, pointing a well-manicured finger at one fragrance in particular. “Started carrying your favorite, Mr. Sparlo.”

A nod of acknowledgment, and Sparlo lifted the slender bottle from the tray before slapping the bold, musky scent between his thick palms. He applied it to his face and neck, finishing with a trip over his slick hair as a crisp, white hand towel was handed to him. He promptly soiled it with remnants of cologne and hair oil.

“See you tomorrow, Benjamin,” he said, tipping the man a twenty. He then shifted his tie and left the exclusive spa frequented by wealthy lawyers, doctors, political gamers and businessmen like himself.

His business was commodities: heroin, cocaine and the leasing out of desirable women to the financial elite. It was an enterprise that afforded him a lifestyle attained by those who were either incredibly lucky or incredibly deceitful.

And luck had never played a role in the life of Richard Vincent Sparlo.

Glossy Gaziano alligator wing-tips galloped over white tile as he passed through the spa entrance, oblivious to the assortment of fresh-cut flowers, reflecting pools and instructors who were all young and obscenely in shape. He caught the stare of a 20-year-old with “Dangerous Curves” printed over the tight swell of her breasts. He exchanged an appreciative grin and passed through large double doors that parted on his approach, quickly making his way into a dark limousine that was waiting to take him to his daily brunch reservation at Le Pichet — a small, 32-seat restaurant in the Pike Place Market District. The restaurant’s French cuisine was as exquisite as it was expensive. And its limited seating assured the level of service and anonymity he required.

Mornings began the same way each day: Up at 7 a.m. with the newspaper and coffee, a workout at the spa from 10 to 11 a.m., brunch by 11:30. After brunch, his days were devoted to phone calls, business visits and strategic planning to assure the continued growth, profit and expansion of his Seattle-based empire. 

His mission statement was that of Caesar Augustus.

Festina lente; Make haste, slowly.

A cold bottle of mineral water topped with a lime wedge sat next to him, jutting from an ice bucket. He squeezed fresh juice onto his tongue and took a swig from the bottle. Things hadn’t always been this good. He’d clawed his way up, peddling cheap rocks and asses until the days of street dope and runaways were forgotten. He believed the fastest way to guarantee his expansion of power and influence wasn’t by utilizing aggressive tactics made in fits, false starts and newspaper headlines, but rather through decisions assuring any move he made was done right the first time. That philosophy had proven itself over the years, slowly but steadily allowing him to acquire the types of resources, connections and influence — through payoffs, blackmail, sexual favors and the drug-addicted elite — he’d needed to ascend to a position that was now practically untouchable.

Heroin and coke were smuggled in from South America because the stuff here was crap, plain and simple. His escorts were grade-A porn-star quality attained through recruitment that rivaled most college football programs.

And the lack of conscience with which he protected his empire was woven into street lore.

Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.

As the limo entered the historic district heading toward First Avenue, Sparlo held his next sip, thinking of Taylor and Perkins, and how they had royally fucked up a simple task. What was supposed to be a warning to Sharon Reese regarding a unsatisfied client had somehow resulted in the two of them killing her younger sister. And now there was the possibility of an eight-year-old eyewitness dropping out of the sky.

He swallowed, twisting the cap back onto the bottle, then reached for the car phone in the console.

“Mitch, it’s Sparlo. Tell ‘Starsky and Hutch’ I want their asses in my office at one o’clock. We need to have a little chat about what we’re going to do. And make sure they know I’m not happy. Not one Goddamn bit.”

He slammed the receiver hard enough to spook the driver, who veered slightly. In the distance, Sparlo could see the small outdoor tables of Le Pichet. His was waiting for him inside; a corner table at the back of the restaurant with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a plate of chilled fruit.

He’d probably order the Raclette savoyard ou vegetarienne; broiled mountain cheese with yellow potatoes, cold cuts, fresh apples, pears and braised walnuts.

He reached for his chilled mineral water once again.

No way in hell I am giving any of this up, he thought to himself.

**********

Setting a small pair of binoculars on the dash, Shane drank cold coffee and checked his watch for the dozenth  time; it was just before noon. Parked next to a phone booth on the far side of the pond, he’d been watching the playground from the cab of his Wrangler for nearly three hours with no sign of Jacob.

Lincoln Park was only three blocks from the ferry. A child lost on the streets — especially in a large city — would typically seek familiar ground. Then again, it didn’t help that Jacob wasn’t your typical eight-year-old. Surely if he could devise a plan back from Bainbridge Island, Jacob could find his way a few blocks to Lincoln Park if he wanted. 

But it seemed familiar ground wasn’t part of Jacob’s agenda.

So what was his plan? Shane wondered. Where was he going?

It struck him how little he actually knew about the boy. He could describe Jacob’s general appearance, the fact that he loved donuts and peanut butter pie, had a slightly chipped front tooth, didn’t wear socks and was obviously crafty. As to his home, family and other details?

Shane knew practically nothing.

He switched on the radio while surveying the activities across the pond through high-powered lenses. He could see a handful of children climbing, swinging and throwing handfuls of sand at each other while mothers chatted nearby, stopping occasionally to administer a finger warning.

“Coming up, fifty minutes of commercial free country favorites,“ the station promised. “But first, local up-to-the-minute news from Charlie Shey at the KKWF news desk.”

Without taking his eyes from the binoculars, Shane felt around between the seats for the edge of his coffee cup.

“Good afternoon, everyone. In what continues to be our top story, police are still searching for clues in the disappearance of and eight-year-old Seattle-area boy…”

Shane lowered his binoculars, eyes on the radio.

“It is still unclear what — if any — connection there is between the disappearance of Jacob Bettington and the death of his mother, Lynda Bettington, who was fatally wounded in a shootout with two police officers late Wednesday night…”

The paper cup slipped from Shane’s fingers and into his lap, spilling cold coffee down his pant leg and onto the floorboard. It took a moment for it to register.

“Investigators are saying they have several leads, including one as recent as this morning. Anyone with information in the child’s disappearance is being asked to call a special toll-free hotline at…”

The reporter rattled off a number then turned to other news as Shane absently wiped his jeans with a napkin.

Tossing it aside, he reached into the back seat for the newspaper from Thursday morning’s ferry ride from the island and found the article about the shootout. No names given or mention of Jacob. The reference to drugs, skimmed easily the first time, now caused him to pause out of concern for Jacob.

It was a good 18 miles between the park and where the shooting occurred. It would have been nearly impossible for him to witness his mother’s death and end up somewhere almost 20 miles away. Plus, Jacob had said his mother was coming back for him.

Shane folded the paper, recalling how they’d spent Thursday morning in the park waiting for a mother who had been shot to death the night before — killed around the same time he had been brushing his teeth before turning in for the night. Somewhere among the streets of Seattle, Jacob was trying to find a mother who no longer existed. It was possible Jacob witnessed something that occurred before the shooting. Maybe near the park. That could explain why he didn’t come back.

An even darker realization passed through him; someone could be after Jacob because of what he saw or heard.

Shane crossed his arms and looked out over the park, exploring his two options. The first was to turn himself in and tell everything he knew to police. The media would go crazy. The police would lock him up and things would be out of his hands. The plus side would be the amount of heat generated by the media.

On the other hand, there was a chance the spotlight could make matters worse. If someone were after Jacob because of what he knows, the hype could leave them no choice but to eliminate him completely.

His second option was to continue searching on his own. The problem in that scenario was obvious: He was now a suspected kidnapper. The longer he eluded police the more guilty he looked. 

He’d need information quickly, with his best bet being to obtain copies of the incident reports on the shooting. That in itself wasn’t a problem since the reports were public record and available to the press for the price of copies. All he had to do was walk into the police station, stroll past fifty to sixty officers, pose as a reporter and ask for a copy of the most sensitive report in Seattle without drawing attention to himself.

“Piece of cake,” he muttered to himself as he fired up the Wrangler.

**********

“Boys, let me clarify a hard reality for you,” said Sparlo, his thick index fingers poised like twin cobras on his mahogany desk top. “If this goes south, I won’t risk my investments. You both will either be ‘killed in the line of duty’ or just dead and never found. It’s really that simple.”

Officers Taylor and Perkins exchanged nervous glances as Sparlo leaned back and settled between the wings of his leather chair, hands folded. He allowed a long, awkward silence before continuing. “Explain to me how a simple rough-up turned into a homicide possibly witnessed by some kid who’s now running the streets?”

Perkins shifted uncomfortably and looked to Taylor, who avoided eye contact by looking at the desktop. Realizing he had been elected spokesperson, Perkins cleared his throat and leaned forward on his elbows. He began to speak but was cut off.

“And HELL,” Sparlo continued, “the one you capped had nothing to do with any of this! I want to know exactly what, how and why this shit happened.”

Perkins sat back and crossed his legs, trying to look confident, unaware of the foot bouncing nervously from his right ankle. “Wednesday night we paid a visit to Sharon like you asked. We were on patrol and stopped by around 10:30. We called dispatch for a dinner break, then Sharon buzzed us upstairs. She sounded nervous over the intercom, so we figured she knew why we were there.”

Next to him, Taylor nodded silently in agreement, eyes still on the desk.

Perkins continued. “Once we were inside, I told her about the call you got, and that you’d sent us to make sure she understood that an unhappy client wasn’t acceptable. That’s when I shoved her onto the couch and all hell broke loose.”

Another nod from Taylor.

“I was just going to rough her up,” Perkins continued. “No bruises. Nothing to the face. Then out of nowhere comes the sister, yanking my arm and telling me to get my hands off.”

“What was she doing there?” Sparlo asked.

“Not sure. Just visiting, I guess.”

“So you decided to kill her,” said Sparlo matter-of-factly.

“With all the commotion, we wanted to wrap it up fast,” Perkins said. “I warned Sharon about not complying with clients’ requests and made it clear it better not happen again. We thought we should scare the sister into keeping her mouth shut. Told her it wasn’t any of her business and that we could find her at any time. Then we left.”

Sparlo thought about this. “What about the kid. Where was he during all this?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Where did he come from? The bedroom? Bathroom? Kitchen? Down the fucking chimney?!?”

Perkins took a deep breath, feeling the heat radiating from Sparlo like a solar flare. “That’s just it. We never actually saw him.”

“You mean the whole time you were there, he never showed his face?”

“That’s right.”

Sparlo took a deep breath. “So, when did you see this kid?”

“Never. That’s why we figured the shooting was a done deal. Clean. No witnesses. Then the husband starts asking about his kid, saying the boy was with his wife and — ”

“First things first,” Sparlo said, cutting Perkins off in mid sentence. He loosened his tie and collar, composing himself. When he continued, his tone was precise, measuring every word. “What happened after you left Sharon’s condo?”

“We were still on dinner break, so we walked to the corner and grabbed a couple of hoagies from Mick’s,” Perkins said. “On the way back, we see the sister in a car packed full of stuff. She spots us and takes off in a panic. We thought she might be on her way to tell someone about what happened, so we ran back to the car to chase her down. We caught up to her just as she was leaving Lincoln Park heading onto Highway 99. We were going to force her off somewhere and rough her up as a warning but she lost control and hit a barricade. After that, things went sideways.”

“The accident was real,” said Sparlo.

“Yeah. We had to cover our tracks, so I made it look like a drug bust gone bad.”

Sparlo locked his fingers together, lifting them up and down as he spoke. “What about this kid? None of this explains where he came from or what he knows. I’m beginning to wonder if there is a Jacob Bettington.” 

“There is definitely a Jacob Bettington, sir,” Perkins said. “The case was assigned to Detective Kazad in missing persons yesterday. He and his partner, Walter Aames, got a lead this morning. Supposedly an anonymous call from the kidnapper.”

Sparlo’s face appeared to turn an unnatural shade of red. “KIDNAPPER? Where the hell did HE come from? Is there a ransom demand?”

Perkins swallowed hard. He could feel perspiration pooling, trickling down the sides of his rib cage. “I don’t know. The details are being kept hush-hush. But so far, no sign of FBI. My bet is no ransom demand. At least not yet.”

“So, out of all the people looking for this mystery child, apparently only a kidnapper has actually seen him but there’s no demand for money,” said Sparlo. “The two of them are just skipping around, eating hot dogs in the park and playing hide-and-seek with half of Seattle.”

Perkins began to respond but thought better of it, choosing instead to bite his lower lip in silence.

“You two need to find …this …fucking …kid,” Sparlo said, his tone more a threat than an order. “Reach out to whoever you have to and make him disappear. There’s no time to worry about what he does or doesn’t know. I’ve got too much at stake. We all do.”

Seeing their uneasy expressions, Sparlo slammed his palm against the desk. The sound was like a gunshot. “Let me make this crystal-fucking-clear. That kid is the link to Bettington’s murder and you. And YOU are the link to me. You either take care of that first link or I’ll take care of the second. Do you understand?”

The air conditioner whirred on, blowing cold air into the room as both officers nodded, then stood to leave. Hesitating, Perkins turned back to Sparlo. “What about this kidnapper? More than likely the kid is with him. Take them both out?”

Sparlo walked to a small refrigerator behind a fully stocked wet bar and removed a bottled water. He took his time, letting Perkins and Taylor hang in limbo while he popped the top. “Think for a minute. That person is the prime suspect in the kidnapping. Eliminate the kid and who gets the blame?”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Seven

Shane fed three dimes into the parking meter, buying his Jeep 30 minutes around the corner from the 8th Precinct, just two minutes — or if necessary, 30 seconds — from the entrance. In his top shirt pocket was a five-dollar bill for copies.

There would be no fumbling through his wallet.

The main entrance was a constant relay of police officers and court-appointed defense lawyers, along with a cluster of reporters gathered beneath a large oak and waiting for a break in what was currently Seattle’s biggest story. 

Shane took the granite steps two at a time, climbing past an attractive female reporter he recognized from one of the local TV stations. She caught his eye, smiling as he went by.

Shane averted her gaze and plunged himself into a steady stream of uniforms and business suits, riding the current through a revolving door that resembled a turbine. Pushing through, he was immediately surrounded by leather briefcases, holstered weapons, handcuffs, gaudy ties and nightsticks, all ebbing and flowing around an island inhabited by the desk sergeant. A line of five or six prostitutes sat along the far wall, chewing gum and smoking, with a few marketing their wares to get a reaction from those in business suits.

Navigating through the crowded room, Shane maneuvered his way into a hall lined with vending machines leading to the records office where he could get the information he needed.

It was also the place where things could go terribly wrong.

Next to the records office was a flight of stairs leading up to the detective squad room where, undoubtedly, the phone call he had placed earlier that morning was being analyzed.

Was the ferry whistle on it? Could they have tracked him to the island already? Maybe they had talked to Bill at the donut shop? Shane began thinking about the way he had raced to the ferry, calling out Jacob’s name in front of assorted witnesses. What if someone got his plate number? Heck, the cops might already have a description and his name, and were just waiting for him to show up somewhere.

And here he was in the lion’s den neatly wrapped in butcher paper.

Footsteps from the staircase had Shane reaching for the door knob and into the records office just as someone stepped into the hall. Inside, two lawyers waited in plastic chairs as a copy machine hummed behind a wooden partition. At the end was a small service desk with an older, uniformed officer scratching where her holster had once been.

“How can I help you?”

Shane approached the desk. “Yes, I’m with the Seattle Review,” he said, holding out a fake press pass for an equally fake newspaper. “I need some information for a story I’m working on,” he said.

The officer peered at the plastic ID longer than Shane cared for. Eying him, she concluded it was indeed another damned reporter. “What do you need?”

Shane swallowed dryly. “A copy of the incident report from the Lynda Bettington case”

**********

Detective Kazad stared into the face of the vending machine and surveyed his options. Choices usually didn’t start dwindling until Sunday morning, leaving everyone to suffer with nothing but Funions and Fig Newtons until the vendor re-stocked on Monday. But with the influx of reporters the past 24 hours, choices were already getting slim — and it was only Friday.

It was a draw between Raisinets and peanut butter crackers. He pushed B3 and Raisinets dropped into the drawer. He fished the box out of the slot and moved to the soda machine, deciding on root beer as the proper accompaniment. Once he had what he wanted, he realized he wasn’t actually hungry. Or thirsty.

He was frustrated.

For the last three hours, along with Aames and the sound technician, he had been listening to a recording of the phone conversation. After playing it fast, slow, backwards and forwards, only two possible clues surfaced. One was the sound of the ocean, meaning the call was made from somewhere around the bay area.

Not much of clue in a city surrounded by shorelines.

The second was about as general as the first: The sound of a lousy, cheap pager going off.

**********

The records officer slid a small stack of pages across the window counter. “That’ll be $4.60.”

Shane handed the five from his pocket. “Keep the change,” he said, already halfway to the door. He clutched the pages to his chest as he stepped out of the records office and into the hallway, narrowly dodging someone with Raisinets and a can of root beer.

“Sorry,” he said, lowering his head and hurrying down the hall.

“Excuse me,” replied Kazad. Slightly miffed, he listened to the man’s cowboy boots scuffing along the hallway, then began ascended the stairs toward the squad room.

The shrieking of a pager suddenly echoed from down the hallway, causing him to freeze in mid-step.

“You alright partner?” said Aames, who was suddenly standing at the top of the stairs.

Kazad looked back down the stairwell, then tossed his candy and soda up to Aames and hurried back down into the hallway.

**********

Outside, news teams were taping their opening segment in preparation for what was going to be little more than a recap of old information for tonight’s broadcast.

“Here comes that guy again, Patty,” said a camera operator.

The reporter turned, giving Shane another admiring glance as he went by. “Yessiree. Definitely Patty material. Was he in the shot?”

“Ran right by. Now you can watch him any time you want.”

“Well then, today hasn’t been a total loss,” she said, watching Shane round the corner nearly in a sprint. “Let’s try this again.”

Adjusting her microphone, Patty Mead centered herself in front of the precinct building and began a second take. “I’m here on the steps of Seattle’s 8th Precinct where, inside, detectives are still trying to unravel clues in the disappearance of Jacob Bettington, the eight-year-old boy who has been missing since late Wednesday night. Earlier today, officials — ”

“Hold up,” the camera operator said.

“Now what?”

The tape kept rolling. “Over there, Patty. I think we’ve got something.”

Kazad was at the top of the granite steps, anxiously scanning the street as reporters began to recognize him. Within moments, a small mob had gathered, jabbing microphones at him and shouting questions — making his search for a man in cowboy boots impossible.

“No comment,” Kazad said repeatedly, still looking up and down Melrose Avenue but not seeing the man he was looking for. Frustrated, he turned and headed back into the building, leaving several grumbling reporters behind. He stopped in the records office to speak with the officer and two lawyers who had apparently been seated for a while. All three remembered the man in cowboy boots who had asked for copies of the Bettington reports.

“Did he say why he needed them?” Kazad asked the records officer.

“He said he was with the Seattle Review and needed the information for a story he was working on.” 

“Did he have credentials?”

“A ratty press pass I could hardly read,” said the officer. “I didn’t get the name but it was definitely his face on it.”

Aames walked in, his expression quizzical. “What’s going on? You trying to burn off that junk food before you eat it?”

“These three got a good look at someone who seemed suspicious,” said Kazad. “Might’ve been the guy who called this morning. I’m having Wayne come up to talk with them and get a sketch.”

“What makes you think it was him?” asked Aames.

“I’m not sure it was. But we have a rollerblader’s description of a guy in cowboy boots in the park with a boy fitting Jacob’s description, and the sound of a pager going off during this morning’s phone call. That’s our profile at the moment, and the guy who was just here fits it. And did I mentioned what incident report he got a copy of?”

“…Bettington’s?”

Kazad tapped his nose. “Whoever that guys was, he’ll stay on our list until we have a reason to cross him off.”

“What about prints? We might be able to get a lift from the door handle or counter.”

“With that many hands on those surfaces it’s a long shot, but why not,” said Kazad.

A light knock came from the door as Patty Mead entered with a cautious smile. “Excuse me, detectives. I’m with Channel 7 Action News.”

“No comment,” came the reply from Kazad and Aames in stereo.

Her smile changed from cautious to cunning. “I might have something of interest to you.”

“Unless it’s ‘goodbye,’ I doubt it,” said Aames.

“Instead of ‘goodbye,’” replied Mead, “could I interest you in a pair of cowboy boots?”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Eight

Shane returned to Lincoln Park, stopping the Jeep near the pay phone across from the playground. He knew the park was now dangerous territory; if the police were looking for him, this was a likely place to start. But it still remained his only link to Jacob. If he was going to spend time on the phone and looking through reports, it was going to be where there was a chance — no matter how slim — of spotting Jacob.

Scanning the area, Shane stepped from the Wrangler and into the phone booth, punching the numbers to The Nook. Sam picked up on the second ring, dishes clanging in the background.

“The Nook, this is Sam.”

“You beeped?” asked Shane.

“Oh thank God,” she said. “I’ve been watching the T.V. looking for you in handcuffs. Did you get what you were looking for?”

“I did. It was a little dicey but I managed to slip in, get the reports and slip out without sounding the alarms,” said Shane. “How about Gerald at City Hall. Did he get you anything on the dad?”

“Unfortunately yes. He’s a colorful guy.”

“What shades?” asked Shane.

“My guess is black and blue,” Sam replied. “Two DUIIs and a charge of disturbing the peace. All in the last year. The man is a drinker and he’s violent. You fill in the blanks.”

“What did the report say?”

The clanging kitchen sounds faded as Sam moved into the storage room. “Neighbors called the police and reported yelling and screaming from the Bettingtons’ apartment. The incident report describes broken plates and furniture, but no obvious marks on Jacob or his mom. Police charged the father with what they could and left. I think if the neighbors hadn’t called, the marks would’ve been there.” She paused. “As you know, I’m a bit of an expert on the subject.”

Shane absently nodded. Sam was open with him about her childhood and a father she only referred to as Jack Daniels. “The file I got shows the Bettingtons living in Woodway. That’s a good forty miles from from here,” he said. “That’s too far away for Jacob to find his way back to. And if your abuse theory is right — ”

“It is, Shane. I can feel it.”

“Then home is the last place he’d be running to.”

A dark red Chevy Blazer glided past, barely above an idle. Shane watched out of the corner of his eye until it was gone.

“Something the matter?” Sam asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Shane, digging through the file. “We might have to cut this short, so take this name down: Sharon Reese. It’s Bettington’s sister and she lives within a mile of here. Call Gerald again and see what he can find out on her. He owes me a lot of favors. I’m sure he’ll dig something up. In the meantime, I’ll scout Reese’s place and call you back in an hour or so.”

Across the park beyond the swing sets and monkey bars, the Blazer was slowly looping back in Shane’s direction. “I gotta go. Talk to you soon… and thanks, Sam.”

“Hey, is everything —” 

Shane hung up and quickly walked back to the Wrangler. Tucking the file folder between the seats, he pulled onto the narrow road leading through the park and away from the Blazer. He caught Fauntleroy Way and the loop leading to the other side of Lincoln Park. Soon, a row of mint and cream-colored condominiums appeared on his right. He spotted the address belonging to Sharon Reese and scouted for a parking space. An alleyway between Mick’s Deli and the Roast & Toast coffee shop left just enough room for a delivery truck — or Jeep Wrangler — to squeeze in and out of sight. He edged past, then backed into the alley, finding a spot behind a large dumpster before killing the engine.

The afternoon sun was on the far side of Lincoln Avenue, leaving the alleyway shaded and cool as he shuffled through reports and watched the front of Reese’s condo across the street. He had no idea what she looked like, so he decided to write brief descriptions of any woman entering or leaving the building. Settling in, he felt around for a paper sack under the driver’s seat and removed a cab-temperature sandwich. Between bites and watching for Reese, he skimmed the file on Lynda Bettington, piecing together the tragic sequence of her last hour.

The common denominator between it all was Lincoln Park.

The police report listed it as the initial point of contact with Bettington. They spotted her driving suspiciously through the park, followed her and then began pursuit.

Jacob’s version had placed him and his mother in the park, where she left him and promised to return.

Shane reasoned that she saw the police and, knowing there was heroin in the car, somehow slipped Jacob out without them seeing. Her plan was probably to lose the police and ditch the drugs in the process, then come back for Jacob later.

Instead, she ended up dead.

That scenario would explain what Jacob was doing in the park and why his mother never showed.

It would also answer the question of why he was so afraid of the police; they chased his mother and she never came back. But it still didn’t explain his fear of discussing any of the events leading up to Lincoln Park.

Something must’ve happened before the park, he thought. Something Jacob saw or heard frightened him into believing that running away was safer than telling the truth.

No longer hungry, he tossed his half-eaten sandwich into the dumpster outside his window. In few hours, the sun would set. Squabbles over heating grates would begin. Shopping cart pushers would park for the night, the fortunate ones tucking themselves beneath overpasses, into forgotten doorways or next to dumpsters with half-eaten sandwiches.

Jacob would be wandering through it all, out of place and out of touch with the dangers of life on the street.

Shane crumpled the empty sack in frustration, ricocheting it through the cab.

The Blazer roll past the alley, startling him as it crossed into view. It continued slowly, almost pausing in front of the condominiums as it made its way down Lincoln Avenue. Shane closed the file and reached for the ignition. It wasn’t coincidence that it was the same Blazer from the park. The question was whether it was following him or looking for the same thing he was: Jacob.

He waited, scanning the light traffic along the avenue as it passed the alley. He half expected a barrage of police cars to slide into place at either end, sirens wailing. After a good ten minutes, the red Blazer appeared again and made a second pass as Shane watched, idling the Jeep. He cautiously edged out of his spot behind the dumpster and entered the street, keeping a fair distance as he followed. The Blazer increased its speed along Fauntleroy Way, circling back in the direction of Lincoln Park as Shane trailed a few cars behind. The Blazer was soon back at the park entrance and began another tour.

Deciding it was too risky to follow without being noticed, Shane drove past and claimed a spot at the other end of the park. Within minutes, the Blazer emerged and began a familiar pattern looping back toward the condos. Curious, Shane followed, maintaining a good distance. Approaching Fauntleroy again, Shane was about to split off when the Blazer unexpectedly veered right, heading north and away from Lincoln Avenue into downtown. Shane followed through the late afternoon traffic and quickly found himself in the heart of Seattle.

After a few blocks, he watched the Blazer enter the gates of a parking lot reserved for officers of the 8th Precinct. The driver entered a code and the gate slowly rolled aside while Shane sat and observed from the opposite corner. The Blazer took a spot near the back door and two men exited carrying police department gym bags.

The driver gestured with his free hand while talking, leading the way to the rear entry. Both were in deep discussion. Suddenly, the passenger stopped and felt around in his pants pockets, extracting something shiny.

A wedding band.

Slipping it on his finger, he resumed heading toward the precinct building.

A quick honk sent Shane grinding into gear and through the intersection. The sound caused the men to glance in his direction momentarily, but it was more from instinct than concern. They entered the building still in conversation.

Shane sped through downtown and caught Highway 99 south. He would skip the call to Sam and see her in person. He could grab a change of clothes and a bite to eat while finding out what she had gathered from Gerald about Sharon Reese. Depending on what that was, he’d have to decide between staking out the condo or combing the streets for Jacob.

With the waterfront lights just beginning to strobe on as dusk approached, Shane’s thoughts turned to a disturbing question: Were the cops in the Blazer searching out of dedication or desperation?

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Nine

Beneath the awning of a 35th Street pawn shop, Jacob pulled open the Velcro fasteners of his Spiderman wallet and checked his savings. A week ago after a night of fighting between his parents, his mom had given him two dollars to keep in case of an emergency. He never knew what they were fighting about, only that his dad was mad at his mom. But what had made that night different was the silence.

No screaming. Only soft crying interrupted by running feet and slamming doors.

And his bedroom wall shook a few times.

The next morning, his mother’s face looked like the marshmallows floating in his cereal bowl, all purple and swollen. She watched him as he ate, her elbows propped on the table to hold her head up. She asked for his wallet and slipped the money in, telling him it would cover a bus ride from Woodway to downtown. She made him promise if Daddy ever came after him, he would use it to get to Aunt Sharon’s. Though he’d only seen his aunt a few times, he made the promise.

On a piece of paper, his mom drew a map and wrote down directions, along with his aunt’s telephone number. She’d folded it and slipped it into his wallet with the money.

Now, a week later and leaning against a pawnshop window, he counted what he had left in his emergency fund. The bus ride from the ferry cost more than half his savings, leaving him .50 cents. It was enough for some candy or maybe a telephone call. He pulled out the map and unfolded it, staring at the writing that had been on all his birthday cards and Christmas presents. It looked out of place now as he held it in the middle of downtown.

He tore the page into strips and dropped them into a nearby trash can.

He knew going back to his aunt’s would be a mistake. That’s where the trouble started. If he went there, they would find him. 

He couldn’t go home, either. And even if he wanted to, he didn’t have the bus money to get there.

His chin quivered slightly and he rubbed at it, looking up and down the busy street. A constant flow of cars passed through the intersection. He watched for anything yellow, then to see if it was a Dodge Aries. In the last nine hours he’d seen a lot of yellow cars and a few Aries. But no combination of the two.

His stomach grumbled beneath his sweatshirt.

As he looked around for a drug store or supermarket to buy a candy bar, a cold raindrop struck his face. Jacob looked skyward and saw storm clouds, black and heavy, spreading inland from the horizon and slowly blanketing the city. He stepped back quickly as scattered droplets grew into a light shower and, within minutes, a pelting rain. Hands in his pockets, he stood under the protection of the awning as the sidewalk around him darkened, leaving a small square of dryness to stand in. Headlights came on, wiper blades began rhythmically squeaking. Tires gurgled over the asphalt in succession as Jacob pressed himself closer to the window.

When the rains died down, he’d find a candy bar and a spot for the night. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a television in the window behind him. A commercial faded from the screen, replaced by a montage of Action News clips. An anchor team appeared, names emblazoned below them. The window muffled the sound, making it impossible to hear as the words Top Story filled the screen. It was followed by the face of a woman reporter.

Jacob thought she was pretty.

The word Live accompanied her as she mouthed words while holding a microphone in one hand and an umbrella in the other. His eyes widened as a pair of crystal blue eyes and a familiar smile appeared on the screen — a photo of his mother taken last Christmas morning. Jacob’s hands left his pockets, pressing the glass as he stared at his mother’s face just inches away on the large television screen. Frantically, he raced from the window and into the pawn shop where another, smaller T.V. rested on a desk behind the counter. A man in a short-sleeved dress shirt and worn jeans got up from his stool and said something, but Jacob was too entranced by the hope of finding his mother to notice.

The pretty reporter was on the screen again as the word “shootout” came from the speaker.

Jacob blinked, trying to understand the reporter’s rapid-fire account: “…mangled wreckage …began shooting …returned fire…”

The image of a damp sheet over someone lying on the roadway broke the screen. Next to it was a yellow Dodge Aries crumpled against a concrete barrier.

Jacob stood in the center of the room, lips parted but unable to speak.

“…pronounced dead at the scene…” emanated from a tiny 3-inch speaker but seemed to reverberate throughout the room, consuming Jacob’s entire world. The pretty reporter returned, wetter and sadder as Jacob backed away from the screen.

The shopkeeper pointed at him, moving to the end of the counter. “Hey, you’re that kid, aren’t you?!”

Jacob exchanged glances between the T.V. and the shopkeeper, quickening his pace toward the door.

“Hey! Wait!” the man pleaded after him.

Jacob planted his feet in order to yank the large glass door open, then raced out, running down the sidewalk. The rain intensified, ricocheting off the asphalt and against his face as he continued running hard, his warm tears mingling with the chilly rain. He rounded the corner, pinballing between a mailbox and lamp post, tripping along the curb momentarily before catching his balance and running at an even faster pace.

He continued for blocks. 

Running.

With nowhere to run to.

**********

The rains had brought the fishing boats back early and The Nook’s dinner hour was now about over. There wasn’t a posted closing time; Sam just locked up when it seemed everyone had been fed for the night. Most fishermen were already scraping their bowls and tossing quarters on the table. Aboard Flip Marlo’s houseboat, shots of Cuervo and gin rummy were already in full swing.

Sam climbed the stairs to the apartment, carrying a bowl of chowder and a grilled cheese sandwich. Her final patron was a slightly wet, decidedly handsome private investigator who was sitting in front of the television, head in his hands. Next to him were a pair of cowboy boots and a soggy tan canvas jacket.

“I’m screwed,” he said, turning to her. “Come look at this.”

Sam placed the food in front of him on the coffee table. “What is it?”

“Just watch. They’ve played it twice… wait, here to comes again.”

Patty Mead was soaked but still clutching her umbrella and microphone. “Once again, we’d like to run this footage in the hope that someone will recognize the individual in the background.”

“They didn’t,” said Sam.

“Yep. They got me on the steps of the precinct building. I had no idea they were taping when I ran by. Someone must’ve put two and two together.”

Shane was on television, hopping down the stairs two at a time in slow motion as Mead’s voice continued. “In an exclusive with detectives, we’ve learned that this individual is a person of interest in the kidnapping. If you have any information, please call the number on your screen.”

“Is there a reward?” asked Sam.

“I don’t know,” said Shane, “but it’s probably less than I owe for meals, so you better keep me around.”

The news turned to the weather; more rain in the forecast.

Sam switched off the T.V. “So now what?”

Shane carefully blew on a spoonful of hot chowder. “Change my appearance and hit the streets again,” he said, taking another spoonful. “What about the sister. Did Gerald have anything on her?”

“Yeah. Apparently she has a history of solicitation,” Sam said, and hurried into the bedroom still talking. “I had him fax a mug shot to the Kinko’s in Vashon.” She came back with her purse and pulled out the fax. “This should help,” she said and handed it to Shane.

He studied it. Reese didn’t appear to be anyone he’d seen entering or leaving the condo.

“Should’ve been a model, not a hooker,” Sam said. “Until I saw the placard with numbers, I thought Gerald had faxed a cover model from Cosmo.”

Shane chuckled and folded the image, sliding it into his back pocket. “I’ll bet she’s still hooking, but not as a free agent or for some street pimp. She’s working for someone who takes good care of her.”

“What makes you think she’s still a working girl? The arrest was more than a year old — with no conviction,” said Sam.

Shane scraped up another spoonful of chowder. “Do you know how many fish Ben Spears catches every day?”

“What?” asked Sam.

“Can you tell me how many fish Ben catches every day?” repeated Shane.

“Of course not.”

“But you still know he’s a fisherman,” Shane said, heading to the bathroom.

“Point taken. But what’s that got to do with finding Jacob?”

“That background on Reese might tell us why he ran away. And what he’s so afraid of.”

Sam followed him, leaning in the bathroom doorway. “I don’t see the connection.”

“There’s still an entire evening unaccounted for. Who’s to say he and his mother didn’t stop at Reese’s place, maybe at a time they shouldn’t have? Maybe she was ‘entertaining?’ Maybe there was a dispute? Who knows?” said Shane. He examined his features in the bathroom mirror. “If I can find out what Jacob’s running from, it might tell me where he’s running to.”

“I ask again,” said Sam, easing up behind him and joining his reflection, arms around his waist. “What happens next?”

“I’m going back to Reese’s to see if I can get some answers.”

“And what about your new celebrity status?” Sam asked.

Shane met her eyes in the mirror. “You’re now a magician’s assistant,” he said, pulling back his collar-length hair. “Our first trick is to make me disappear.” 

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Ten

As the heavy rains edged across Puget Sound and away from Seattle, a lazy drizzle followed, stalling out over Lincoln Parkway. In the alley between the deli and coffee shop across from Sharon Reese’s condo, Shane had propped open a trash dumpster lid, angling it against the wall to create a makeshift cover as he huddled beneath it and listened to the dull strike of raindrops.

His collar-length hair was now slicked back and oily. Two days without shaving had darkened his face. A plastic garbage bag had been fashioned into a poncho over torn khakis and a soiled sweatshirt. The boots were gone, replaced by dirty sneakers; no socks.

Exhaust fumes spiraled down the alley as a city bus departed from a stop near the entrance, continuing on its route through Lincoln Park and to a ferry a little more than a mile away. Shane had parked the Wrangler there for safe keeping, then caught the bus to avoid the risk of being seen.

He shifted uncomfortably as renewed concerns seeped into his thoughts. The sitting and waiting in the darkness while staring at Reese’s drawn curtains allowed his mind to wander into places he preferred not to go — places where Jacob was frightened and alone.

They were places mapped by Shane’s own childhood of being shuffled between foster homes and time spent on the street avoiding them. It wasn’t that he’d experienced a lot of neglect or physical abuse, although there had certainly been some measure of both. However, it was the constant and prevailing sense of indifference that stung the most. The feeling that he was just another kid being moved through a limbo-like system until he was old enough to be booted out, making room for the next sad story and monthly state check. Though he was now a grown man with a life of his own, the twin prongs of abandonment and indifference that defined his childhood still lingered. His cautious approach to friendship was testimony to that. So was his fear of commitment to Sam.

She was everything he could want in a companion and a lover, which made her everything he was afraid of losing again.

Shane sat quietly under the battered dumpster lid, understanding that his connection to Jacob was deeper than he’d been willing to admit.

He took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, then crawled from the dry spot and stepped into the alley, stretching his back. As the rainfall spattered against his Hefty-bag poncho, a cramp started above his knee. Leaning against the dumpster, he rubbed at it and noticed the half-eaten sandwich he’d thrown inside earlier was now gone. Only the paper wrapper was left, floating in a large to-go box filled by the rain.

Shane stood back up and began another long stretch when he noticed light suddenly breaking through Reese’s street-side bay window. He quickly moved behind the dumpster and watched as she tied back the lacy curtains, her robed figure backlit by a small lamp next to the window. After securing the curtains, she switched the lamp off but continued glancing up and down Lincoln Parkway, pausing only to light a cigarette. 

Shane edged into his spot under the dumpster lid and watched the amber tip of Reese’s cigarette slowly brighten and dim in the darkness.

**********

In the shadows of her condo, Reese crossed her legs and took a nervous drag, a red dress shoe dangling from her toe as she stared out the window into the street.

Perkins and Taylor meant bad news. The fact that they wanted to talk with her was proof that things still weren’t nailed down. Sparlo obviously put them in the hot seat for killing Lynda. He had zero tolerance for mistakes and it was only a matter of time before his patience ran out and they would all be seen as a threat to his precious empire.

They must know Jacob was here the night Lynda was killed, she thought, realizing they’re afraid of what he might’ve heard.

Reese took another drag, inhaling deeply.

That night had been bad from the start. The client she was entertaining, quiet and mild-mannered at dinner, became an animal once they arrived in his suite. His demands were both demoralizing and painful. After the first ten minutes or so, she’d had enough and left, knowing there would be repercussions. She’d arrived back at her condo wondering how long until the phone rang. When knocking came from the door instead, she was prepared to be roughed up and, probably, would need to provide some extra penance to Taylor or Perkins. Or both. One at a time or together, depending on how busy dispatch was that night.

Instead, she found a scared and crying Lynda clutching Jacob’s hand.

Richard had been hurting him and they were running away. All their things were in a car out front. They needed a safe place for the night. Lynda, with the perfect family and pretty home in Woodway, had broken into tears of shame in the doorway of her prostitute sister.

Reese reached for another cigarette and lit it with a slightly trembling flame.

She’d lied to Lynda about her job as a receptionist, lied about owning the condo, lied about her male “companions” and lied about being too busy to visit. How could she tell her little sister that the only “reception” in her job was in how she took cock? Or that the condo she lived in was owned by a drug and pussy-pedaling gangster who would kill her if she tried to leave? How could she explain the life she lived and the things — the shameful things — she’d done for a fee?

She couldn’t.

When Lynda showed up that evening looking for shelter in the condo of her successful older sister, she had no idea the following minutes would bring the world crashing down on them all.

Her thoughts were suddenly broken by a flash of headlights from across the street. Then a second flash.

Taylor and Perkins were back.

Reese took another long drag from her cigarette and exhaled slowly. She snuffed the rest out and cinched her silk robe — the one Taylor had told her to wear.

If not for Jacob, she knew Lynda’s death would’ve been a small, quickly forgotten story in the papers. Now their clean little shoot was being jeopardized by a child all of Seattle was looking for.

As far as she was concerned, she hadn’t seen him.

**********

Shane had watched the squad car back slowly into the alley and park along the front of the dumpster, allowing him just enough time to scramble behind it and under the angled lid. He heard a car door open and the sound of someone getting out and walking toward the front corner of the dumpster. Shane pressed himself against the metal siding and crouched, practically within arm’s reach of the patrol car’s rear bumper.

“Flash her again,” someone called out from the back seat. “Maybe she didn’t see us.”

“Maybe I should flash her with this?” said the other figure, who unzipped his pants and began relieving himself.

“Paint it orange and maybe she’ll see it,” the other man shot back.

“Oh, you mean like a road hazard!”

Shane listened to the chuckling and spattering, wondering if they were the same two cops he’d seen earlier that day in the red Chevy Blazer.

“Here she comes,” said the man in the back seat as the sound of high heels trotted from across the street and into the alley.

“Hello, Sharon,” said the cop next to the dumpster, who slowly zipped his pants closed. “Nice to see you again. Have a seat in the back with Dan.”

Shane listened to the sound of Reese’s heels make their way to the rear passenger door, along with a second set of footsteps, followed by a pair of slamming car doors. With all three of them sealed inside, their muted conversation was nearly inaudible. Shane leaned hard, trying to get a better listen. He concentrated, focusing on key words. Suddenly, the door nearest him cracked open, cigarette smoke drifting out along with conversation.

“Been keeping busy?” one of the men asked.

“Like a bee. And you, officer?”

Shane winced as he heard a fleshy slap, followed by the sound of struggling.

“I’ll ask the questions, sweetheart. Another smart-ass remark and I’ll ram your face into the back of this seat.”

“Right,” laughed Reese. “Then you can take my place tonight and give my client a blowjob.”

Another slap nearly brought Shane to his feet.

“Listen carefully, Sharon. I don’t give a shit about tonight’s client. And right now, neither does Mr. Sparlo. If we don’t find your nephew before the media does, there’ll be no more clients. And there’ll be no more you.”

Rain droplets trickled over Shane’s poncho as he moved from the dumpster and behind the patrol car.

“I haven’t seen my nephew in months,” Reese finally said. “Lynda left him in the park the night you were there. Last time I saw him was months ago. On his birthday.”

“It’s a good thing you make a living on your back instead of in front of a camera, Sharon, because you’re not very convincing. But it doesn’t matter. All we’re interested in now is finding him. So, my question is: Do you know where he could be?”

“I have no idea.”

“I don’t believe you, Sharon. Jerome, do you believe her?”

“Afraid not.”

“Jerome doesn’t believe you either. So let me ask again.”

The sound of scuffling preceded a rephrasing of the question. “Do you know where that fucking kid is hiding?”

“No, Goddamit!” Reese was crying now. “I have no idea where he is. None!”

Shane ventured a look, preparing to shake things up if the situation intensified. He cautiously lifted his eyes just enough to peek over the rear trunk and see one of the two men begin to stroke Reese’s hair.

“It’s alright, baby. Don’t get upset. We believe you. Don’t we, Jerome?”

“Sure we do.”

“But Sharon, if we find out you’re lying, when we do find him — and we will — we’ll come back and take care of you, too.”

Shane saw Reese’s head nod. “Can I go now?” she asked, subdued.

“What’s your hurry, Honey?”

Shane watched as the patrolman’s hands lowered beyond sight of the window. Reese stiffened.

“Tonight’s schedule has been cleared, sweetheart. So… you’ve got time — and so do we.”

A slight yelp escaped Reese as her robe was suddenly yanked down past her shoulders to her waist. She remained motionless, eyes closed, on complete display for the two patrolmen. 

A wedding ring was slowly placed in the back window.

Shane froze, his mind flashing back to the parking lot at the 8th Precinct, and how one of the cops in the Blazer had replaced his wedding band as they entered the building. 

It has to be the same two, he thought.

Reese was then shoved down hard onto the rear seat.

Shane could see the cop referred to as Dan reposition himself, straddling Reese. “Open wide, sweetheart,” he said, unzipping his pants. “We’ll see who gives who a blowjob tonight. Now open wider.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Reese said defiantly.

Another loud slap brought a cry from Reese, whose head was then jerked forward by the hair.

“I said open your fucking mouth!”

Suddenly, the vehicle lurched and bounced as Shane clambered up the trunk, over the roof and down the hood before leaping to the pavement. He continued running down the alley, screaming about “The end of the world!” Lights came on all around as area residents began peering out their windows to see what the commotion was about.

“Zip it up, Dan. We need to get out of here.”

Perkins angrily re-tucked his uniform and zipped his pants. “Who the hell was that?”

“Some vagrant,” said Taylor. “He’s got everybody looking around. We gotta go.”

Pushing Reese from the car, Perkins flung the robe at her. “You remember what we talked about,” he said, joining Taylor in the front seat. “If you’re lying, we’ll pick up where we left off. Next time it’ll be someplace quiet. No interruptions — and no return trip.”

He slammed the door shut, maintaining his gaze through the glass as the patrol car rolled forward and disappeared onto Lincoln Parkway.

Gathering the robe around herself, Reese made her way through the rain, ignoring the stares as she crossed the street and made her way into the condo.

Shane observed her from a spot near the corner, galvanized by the events.

And their implications for Jacob.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Eleven

Though chairs were stacked on tabletops and salt and pepper shakers empty, the lights of The Nook burned brightly as Sam paced in the kitchen stirring a cup of hot chocolate. She sipped, keeping within arm’s reach of the phone. A clock on the wall shaped like a crab held its claws at 10:15 p.m. Little more than an hour ago, she’d found herself squirming into jeans and a flannel shirt to answer knocking from downstairs. Normally, she would have ignored it or bluffed the existence of a 12-gauge in her hands. 

But these men had guns of their own. And badges.

They’d had a lot of questions, most of which went unanswered. They left promising a return visit with a search warrant.

The phone rang, causing her to jump.

“The Nook, Sam speaking.”

“It’s me.”

Sam closed her eyes, relieved to hear Shane’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. It’s Jacob I’m worried about. He’s in big trouble, Sam. More than I ever imagined.”

“So are you,” she said. “The police just left. They know who you are.”

“Christ.”

“They had a search warrant for your boat,” she added.

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing to find there that they don’t already know. Except maybe how I fold my underwear. I’m more concerned about whether they were legitimate.”

“They looked legit to me,” said Sam. “Badges, guns, scowls…”

“I’m talking about legitimately on the side of the law.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “You need to back up and tell me what’s going on.”

“Ever heard of Rick Sparlo?” Shane asked.

“Should I have?”

“It’s a name that means a lot on the streets,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s now a name that means something to Jacob. And the wrong people know about it.”

Sam thought about this, still confused. “And these people are… the police?”

“Yeah. There are at least two on Sparlo’s payroll. Probably more.”

“How do you know this?” asked Sam.

“I overheard them talking to Sharon Reese,” he explained. “She met them in the alley across from her condo. I was hiding there. I heard enough to know that the night Lynda Bettington was killed, she visited Reese.”

“With Jacob?”

“Reese denies it.”

“But you don’t believe her,” said Sam.

“No. More importantly, neither does Sparlo, which is why he sent those two cops. They used their first names, Dan and Jerome. They’re the same two from the newspaper — the ones who shot Bettington. Dan Perkins and Jerome Taylor.” The line hummed to itself as Shane debated telling her the rest, then decided she needed to know. “Sam, they plan to kill Jacob.”

He waited for a response. “Sam?”

“I-I’m here,” she managed, leaning back against a stainless steel prep table and knocking over her chocolate in the process. She simply stared at the now lukewarm liquid as it ran along the table and onto the floor. “When did this get so out of hand,” she said.

“Listen to me,” said Shane, “I want you out of this while there’s still time.”

“What are you saying?”

“These guys have a lot to lose. If I make any mistakes, it could cost me. I can’t risk that,” he said, then added: “I can’t risk you.”

Sam paused before answering. “Well, you’re not the boss of me.”

Shane’s head dropped. He stood for a moment, absently tapping the phone receiver against his forehead, then continued. “I don’t think you really understand what’s happening here.”

“Let me see,” replied Sam. “A woman was murdered by two cops who work for some kind of gangster who wants to kill a little boy and anyone he may have talked with. And we need to help him. Yep, I think I got it.”

“They could kill you, Sam.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“For a child you hardly know,” said Shane.

“Yes! And for the man trying to protect him.”

Shane held the receiver, catching sight of the words tattooed along his forearm: One Bad Decision.

“I wish you’d change your mind,” he said.

“Not going to happen,” answered Sam, gripping the phone.

Shane’s response was nearly a whisper. “Thank you.”

“Thank me later,” she replied. “And thank me often.”

**********

As the the Vashon Island ferry slowly crossed the waters of Puget Sound back to Seattle, Kazad and Aames sat in the cab of their Mercury Sable and re-examined their questioning of a gruff but attractive chowder house owner named Samantha Wells.

“She obviously knows more than she’s telling,” said Aames. “The question is how much.”

Kazad nodded, his lips pressed against a steeple of fingers as he thought. “Small communities tend to be tight-lipped. But if we find Jacob’s fingerprints on that houseboat or in her apartment, we won’t be able to shut them up.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Aames. “Did you see that old fisherman on the rig next to us? He stood right in front of me and took a piss off the back of his boat, staring at me the whole time.”

“And you didn’t haul him in?”

“Oh yeah, that would’ve won the whole place over,” sniped Aames.

A yawn broke Kazad’s grin. “The print analysis shouldn’t take more than a few hours. We can grab a bite and some coffee on the way to the station,” he said, rubbing his eyes awake. “If we hurry, we can get a search warrant for Ms. Wells’ apartment by morning. We’ll know then if she’s lying and by how much.”

A call came from the radio. It was slightly garbled by the sound of lapping waves and the wind whipping through The Sound. The combination made the transmission hard to hear.

And even harder to believe.

“This is six-ten,” Kazad replied into the mic. “We didn’t copy that. Please say again.”

“Jacob Bettington has been found,” repeated the dispatcher. “He’s currently en route to St. Anne Hospital.” 

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twelve

Spotless white nurse shoes squeaked past Aames and Kazad as they waited in plastic chairs across from the examination room, paper cups of coffee between their feet. They had been at St. Anne’s Hospital for more than an hour and had yet to see Jacob.

At the other end of the hall, elevator doors opened, releasing a thin brunette wearing a tweed jacket and dark slacks. She briskly walked toward them offering a courteous smile. 

“I’m Tabitha Mills. Child Protective Services,” she said, extending her hand. “I’ve been assigned to Jacob Bettington. Any word on his condition?”

“Not yet. So far, things seem pretty routine,” Kazad said. “The exam should be finished any time now. Would you like some coffee?”

Mills declined with a wave of her hand. “Caffeine triggers my PMS.”

Kazad and Aames exchanged glances as Mills took a seat, unclipping a barrette and releasing folds of thick hair. “It was a joke, boys,” she said, gathering her hair into a ponytail. “So, what can you tell me about Jacob?”

“Missing since Wednesday night. Probable kidnapping,” said Kazad.

“Okay, noted,” said Mills. “Now can you tell me anything I haven’t already read in the paper or seen on the news?”

“I can speculate,” said Kazad. “Then again, the news seems to be full of that, too.”

Mills slipped a pen and legal pad from her courier bag with fleeting amusement. “I’m not the enemy, detective. I need information — speculative or otherwise — that can help me help that little boy in there,” she said, pointing her pen at the exam room.

Kazad began to reply but Aames broke in. “Please forgive my partner. He’s had a long day,” he said, patting Kazad’s shoulder. “He’s usually in bed by 7 p.m.”

A bleary-eyed doctor emerged from the exam room and crossed the narrow hall. “I’m Dr. Freely. You must be with the 8th Precinct,” he said as all three stood and exchanged introductions.

“How is he doing?” asked Kazad.

“Well, other than the need for a bath, some supper and a good night’s sleep, he seems to be in good shape,” said Dr. Freely, who then added: “Come to think of it, that’s about all I need, too.”

“Any idea how long he’s been on the street?” Mills asked.

“It’s only a guess, but judging from his condition and what little he told me, maybe ten to twelve hours,” said Dr. Freely.

“Did he say anything to you about where he’s been?” Kazad asked. “Or has he mentioned any names?”

“No. The conversation has been very limited,” said Dr. Freely. “You have a very frightened little boy in there.”

“We’re strangers,” said Mills “and he’s trusting us to keep him safe from his kidnapper. That’s a pretty scary situation for a kid — for anyone — to be in.”

Dr. Freely crossed his arms, punctuating his concerned expression. “To be honest, detectives, I believe he’s more afraid of the police than any kidnapper.”

Three sets of eyes furrowed as the doctor continued. “Initially, I had an officer stay with us in the exam room. I thought it would give the boy a sense of security while I poked around and asked questions. About halfway through my examination, Officer Tramble left for the restroom. The moment he left, Jacob practically begged me to keep him from returning. It wasn’t your normal discomfort in reaction to authority or strangers. He’s afraid of someone in particular. And I don’t think it’s your kidnapper.”

“Why would he be so afraid of the police?” Aames said more as a statement than a question.

The doctor shrugged, then yawned again. “That’s your jurisdiction, detective.”

“Can we talk to him,” Mills asked.

“I suppose. He acts calm but don’t let him fool you,” said Dr. Freely. “He’s terrified. Take it slowly.”

“Where can we talk?”

“There’s a break room down the hall to your right. Plenty of snacks and privacy. I’ll make sure the floor nurse knows its off limits for a while,” said Dr. Freely. “Jacob is in hospital duds for the time being. His clothes were wet and filthy. They’re being laundered downstairs. Someone will bring them up when they’re dry.”

A voice from a hallway speaker paged the doctor, who smiled apologetically and hurried away.

“I’d like to take the lead here,” Mills said. “You guys okay with that?”

“As long as you stay away from the coffee,” said Kazad.

Mills smirked and then knocked softly on the exam room door.

“Come in,” answered Jacob, offering his best I’m-not-scared tone.

The three entered with fixed smiles as Jacob shifted, causing the paper beneath him to crinkle and crackle.

“You must be Jacob,” Mills said, offering her hand.

“Yes ma’am,” he answered, shaking three of her fingers.

“I’m Tabitha Mills. These two men are detectives Kazad and Aames. Doctor Freely says you’re a healthy young man — but I bet you’re hungry.”

“Big time,” Jacob replied, his eyes moving between the three faces.

“How about we go to the break room and get something to eat, and maybe talk a bit. Would that be okay?” asked Mills.

“I guess so,” Jacob said, starting to climb down from the table. He then stopped. “Are the police still out there?”

The three exchanged quizzical glances. Kazad then said, “We are the police, son.”

“I know that,” Jacob said matter-of-factly. “I mean the other ones.”

“You mean with the uniforms?”

“Yeah.”

“No, Jacob,” Kazad assured him. “They’re gone. It’s just us.”

Jacob finished climbing from the table. “Good. I don’t like them.”

Kazad and Aames moved aside for Jacob, with Aames opening the door. “Do you like us?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” replied Jacob

The break room was at the end of the hall and secluded from the rest of the floor. The room was empty and smelled of burnt coffee grounds and sanitizer. Two vending machines stood near the far corner, one with sodas and the other with assorted snack items.

“How about a soda?” asked Kazad.

“Is there root beer?”

“You bet.” Kazad entered two quarters, and a can dropped into the tray. He popped the top and handed it to Jacob, who began guzzling it.

Aames straddled a chair at the end of the table, arms resting over the back as Mills took a seat across from Jacob.

“I have a confession to make,” she said. “If I had been you, I would have been really scared. Weren’t you?”

“Sort of,” Jacob said, and emitted a short, nervous burp. “Excuse me.” He turned his attention to the soda can.

“I think you can help us, Jacob. Will you do that?” Mills asked.

“How?”

“By answering a few questions, but only the ones you want to,” she said, lowering her gaze over the soda can to meet his. “If you want to stop, just say so.”

“Okay,” he said, then took a swig of root beer like he’d seen grown-ups do in movies when they need courage.

Mills scooted forward, cupping her hands on the tabletop. “My first question is very important, Jacob. We need to know who kidnapped you.”

Jacob winced, as if the question was so dumb it was painful. “No one. I wasn’t kidnapped.”

Aames looked up at Kazad, who wordlessly folded his hands together in front of his lips.

Mills remained focused. “You know you’re safe now, right Jacob? No one can hurt you here. I promise.”

“Promises get broken,” Jacob said abruptly, catching all three of them off guard.

“Not this one,” Mills assured him. “You have my word.”

Jacob looked at her, then Aames, then over at Kazad. “My mom’s dead, isn’t she?”

He was momentarily met with three blank sets of eyes.

Mills’ momentum was lost.

“Yes, Jacob. I’m afraid she is,” said Kazad. “I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. It would help if you could tell us what happened that night.”

Jacob took another sip, his chin quivering slightly as he fought to keep it still. He wiped his watery eyes with the back of his free hand before answering. “Me and my mom were running away.”

“Who were you running away from?” Kazad asked.

“My dad.”

As much as he wanted to know why, Kazad decided to skip that for the moment. Jacob was on a roll explaining the sequence leading to his disappearance. He could get the reasons later. “Where were you and your mom going to?” he asked.

“We were going to my grandma’s, but it’s real far. In Oregon. It was already night time, so we went to Aunt Sharon’s to sleep over,” Jacob said. “We were gonna leave in the morning.”

Aames shook his head; Reese had lied.

“What happened when you got to your aunt’s,” asked Kazad.

“Mom and Aunt Sharon talked. I heard my mom crying while I got ready for bed in Aunt Sharon’s room.”

“But you didn’t stay,” said Kazad.

Jacob shook his head slowly. “Something happened and we left,” he said quickly.

“Slow down, son. Why did you and your mom leave?”

Jacob was growing visibly uncomfortable, feet beginning to swing beneath his chair.

“It’s alright. You can tell us,” assured Kazad. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Jacob—”

“You said I could stop if I want to!” he yelled at Mills.

“Um, that’s right,” she said. “Is that what you want to do?”

“Yes!”

Kazad decided it was time to switch gears from what happened, and concentrate on why. “Whatever you want, Jacob. Let’s forget about your aunt.” He allowed a moment for things to calm down. “Can you tell me why you and your mom were running away from your dad?”

Jacob thought about the question and decided it was okay. “Because he was hurting me. And my mom found out.”

The room grew still as Kazad verbalized the question on all their minds. “How did he hurt you, son.”

Jacob’s eyes grew watery but he seemed not to notice, returning his attention to the soda can tab. “He hit me with his belt sometimes. When she wasn’t there.”

Kazad breathed in deeply. “Can you show me where he hit you?”

Jacob suddenly looked fearful. “I can’t tell you. If my dad finds out —”

Kazad gently took Jacob by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. “I can make it so your dad never hurts you again,” he said. “But I need you to show me where he hit you.”

Jacob contemplated this, tears continuing to pool and then trickle one at a time down his cheeks. Finally, he turned his back toward Kazad and fumbled with his shirt, pulling the back up to his shoulders. “It was there. But you can’t see it anymore,” Jacob said.

“Don’t bet on it,” Kazad said, standing up and leading Aames and Mills to the corner with the vending machines, out of earshot of Jacob. “Find a phone and get someone to intercept the father. He might already be at the station or on his way here,” he said. “We need to stall him until we can verify any bruising.”

“The man’s a loose cannon,” said Aames. “He won’t be easy to put off.”

“Then have the desk sergeant assign the biggest, meanest uniform he has on shift. Pull Turelli out of the weight room if that’s what it takes,” Kazad said. “If what Jacob said is true, we need time to get the evidence to nail his father’s ass. Tonight.”

“What about the supposed kidnapper?” asked mills. “You think it was just a crank?”

“I’m not sure,” said Kazad. “There are still a few things we need to check out. Like why the aunt lied about her sister’s visit. Let’s take it a step at a time. First step is to protect Jacob.”

“Let me see what I can do,” said Aames, heading out. “If you see me with a whip and a chair, you’ll know Turelli wasn’t available.” He opened the door and found Jacob’s sweatpants and shirt neatly folded in a chair next to the door. He handed them to Jacob. “We got you covered, kid.”

“Are you taking me somewhere?” asked Jacob.

“Yes, we are. Right after you change,” said Kazad, leading Jacob toward the bathroom. “I’m taking you to a place that’s like the Bat Cave, only better.”

Jacob chortled. “How’s it better than the Bat Cave?”

“Because the bad guys we catch there are real,” said Kazad.

**********

At the 8th Precinct, Kazad led Mills and Jacob away from the main squad room through a security-coded back entrance that immediately took them down a narrow stairwell. At the bottom was a battered door belonging to the crime lab. Sandwiched between Kazad and Mills, Jacob entered the brightly lit room, his eyes wide and nose crinkling at the pungent aroma of chemicals.

Seated at a desk was an older, balding man in a lab coat. He stood and invited Jacob to sit next to him in an empty office chair that seemed miles away across white linoleum. Jacob read the plaque propped on the desk: Detective Roy Hollins.

“Jacob, this is Roy,” Kazad said. “He’s going to help us.”

Hollins reached over his desk to shake the small hand. “Hello, young man. Have a seat.”

Jacob took the chair, squirming and analyzing the room. It had multiple tables, each of which appeared to have a different project or purpose. “Is this gonna hurt?”

“Not at all,” said Hollins. “As a matter of fact, I’ll demonstrate.” He pointed to the top of his hand. “See all those freckles?”

Jacob squinted. “I don’t see anything.”

“You sure?”

Jacob looked again. “Yeah. I’m sure. There’s nothing there.”

“Will one of you get the lights,” Hollins asked.

Kazad flipped a row of switches on the wall and the room went black. In Hollins’ hand, a small lamp strobed on, emitting a pale violet beam over the top of his free hand. The skin was littered with tiny spots.

“Whoa! Where’d those come from,” asked Jacob.

“I had lots of freckles when I was your age,” said Hollins. “But after a while, they went away — just like bruises go away.” He held his opposite hand under the light, exposing more dots. “They go below the surface where we can’t see them. This special light helps us find old freckles. And bruises. Detective Kazad said you have something you might want to show me.”

Jacob looked to Kazad, who gave him a supportive nod. Mills stood next to him offering an encouraging smile.

“Yeah, I do.”

Hesitantly, Jacob lifted his sweatshirt over his head, tugging the sleeves away and shoving everything into his lap. “How should I do this?”

“Just sit backwards in your chair,” said Hollins. “I’ll adjust the lamp and we’ll see what we can find.”

Kazad and Mills moved closer as Jacob swung his legs into a straddle, crossing his thin arms over the chair back. Hollins repositioned the lamp, sliding it upward and angling the light onto the surface of Jacob’s bare back.

Mills was the first to gasp as the dark patches appeared. Each was distinct and, to Kazad, hauntingly familiar. 

The discolorations were all in the shape of the Texas Lone Star, all the size of a belt buckle.

Kazad stepped back into the shadows, jaw tightening as he thought of the hands that fidgeted nervously over a gaudy brass belt buckle during questioning; the same hands that had brought that buckle down hard enough over Jacob’s small back to leave bruises that were still recognizable nearly a month later.

He thought of the pain those hands had caused, and the cuffs that would latch onto them before the night was over.

“An affidavit.”

Both Mills and Hollins peered into the shadows where Kazad was barely visible.

“What was that?” Mills asked.

“An affidavit,” Kazad slowly repeated. “We need to get an affidavit to the courthouse and have a warrant issued for that bastard. We’ll get one for Reese, too. I’ll have Aames meet me at her condo. She needs to explain a few things.”

“I’ll call foster care and get a safe house for the night,” offered Mills.

Hollins unlocked a cabinet and removed a bulky camera. “Let me load this so we can document the bruises.”

Jacob turned, crossing his arms over a thin chest as decisions were being made around him.

Hollins positioned Jacob under the soft ultra-violet light and circled each bruise with a marker. The first frame of the black-and-white film recorded the appalling image. He thumbed the advance, preparing for another photo as Kazad stood by.

“Everything’s going to be alright, Jacob,” said Kazad, who then kneeled beside the chair. “No one’s going to hurt you anymore. Your surrounded by officers of the law. There’s no safer place you could be.”

Hollins brought his eye away from the camera’s viewfinder, hesitating. Taking a deep breath, he returned to the camera and took another photo. “We need to talk,” he said, advancing to the next frame.

Kazad looked back over his shoulder at Hollins.

“And it needs to be soon,” Hollins added, shutter snapping.

**********

Sitting on a desktop in an empty office at the precinct, Mills flipped through her address book. She scanned the B’s and found the home number for Chief of Internal Affairs Russ Braden and dialed, pinning the receiver against her shoulder.

“Hello.”

“It’s Mills. Jacob Bettington’s here at the 8th. He’s okay but some new developments could complicate things.”

“We don’t need any more problems, Tabitha,” said Braden. “If we’re not careful, this whole thing could blow up.”

Mills absently curled the address book between her fingers. “I know, sir.”

“It’s time to stop talking about problems,” said Braden, “and start talking about solutions.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Thirteen

Glistening yellow raincoats scurried in the downpour as workers docked the ferry into Lincoln Park. On the deck waited a ’57 Chevy pick-up. It was mint condition, caramel brown with sculpted fenders and a silver ornament cresting the hood like a gun site. Sam sat behind the wheel peering out through tinted glass, her palm resting on an eight-ball shifting knob while the men in raincoats dragged open the exit gates. Chrome tailpipes purred beneath the truck as it left the ferry, heading into a parking lot bordered by sagging trees.

At the farthest corner was a slightly dented Jeep Wrangler.

Shane observed a flash of high beams as Sam neared, parking with the driver door next to his. The dark glass sank to reveal a forced smile.

“Hello, stranger,” said Sam.

“Hello back.”

“I brought everything you asked for,” she said. “Plus a couple of things you didn’t.” She held up a to-go bag from The Nook. “Thought you might like some home cooking.”

“You read my mind,” said Shane.

“I picked up some crullers, too. They’re not Bill’s, but…” She looked away, her last words trailing off.

“But what?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Shane leaned forward. “Come on, Sam. Talk to me.”

“I just hadn’t really stopped to think about things,” she said, pausing. “Not until I found myself wedging a loaded pistol between underwear and donuts.”

“It’s not too late, Sam. You can still get out of this mess.”

She leaned through the window, rain drenching her face. “You know, for a private investigator, sometimes you’re really blind.”

Shane looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You!” she shouted over the rain. “I’m talking about being afraid of what could happen to you. Don’t you get it? I’m afraid of losing you!”

Shane’s lips parted to speak, but there were no words. Instead, he stepped from the Wrangler, threw open the door to the truck and pulled Sam into his arms. They held each other tightly, rain falling over them in a pounding rhythm. Sam touched his cheek and brought her lips to his, softly at first, but deeper as their embrace tightened and she felt his strong arms drawing her into him, enveloping her completely. They had kissed passionately before but this was something different. Her fingers dug into his broad shoulders as his grip tightened around her waist, his lips sweeping over hers in long, deep caresses. Her hands slid from his shoulders and up the back of his neck, fingertips weaving through his wet, matted hair. They were oblivious to the rain, feeling safe in the moment and in each other.

The ferry called from the dock.

Slowly, hesitantly they relinquished their embrace and looked at one another for a long moment.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Shane finally said, gently thumbing the rain from Sam’s eyes.

She quickly nodded, offering a sad smile as she climbed into the driver’s seat of the Wrangler, leaving Shane the pick-up. “I want it back in one piece,” she said.

He climbed into the Chevy and closed the door. “Won’t get a scratch on it.”

“Take care of my truck, too,” Sam said, then fired up the Jeep. With a final look, she was on her way to catch the last ferry of the night back to Vashon.

Shane watched the taillights fade across the empty lot and down the ramp leading to the ferry gates.

He reached into the care package on the seat next to him, sifting through clothes and paper sacks until his fingers came to rest on something cold and metal. He slipped the revolver out, studying it. A droplet from his hair landed against the dark metal, edging over the safety and down the contours of the grip.

With the radio announcement less than an hour ago that Jacob had been found and was now in police custody, Shane realized that getting through this without a scratch was becoming harder and harder to do.

He tucked the revolver into his jeans, revved Sam’s truck and left the parking lot, heading into the lions’ den once again.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Fourteen

Rick Sparlo sat on the covered veranda, swirling his rocks glass and mixing rare scotch between pearls of ice. “So where is he now?” he asked in the general direction of his speakerphone.

“We’re not sure,” came Perkins’ hesitant voice. “Things are hush-hush. Reporters are in a frenzy trying to get information. All anyone knows is he’s been found and he’s alive.”

Sparlo bit down on a piece of ice, crunching. “You realize he could be in a room somewhere with a video camera, telling about how two policemen threatened his mother and aunt a few nights ago.”

“We know that.”

“I’m not waiting until I’m on fire before I put out the flames,” said Sparlo. “You understand that?”

“Yeah. We’ll take care of things.”

“So you keep telling me. I’m running out of patience and you’re running out of time.” 

Sparlo stole a long sip, draining his glass, letting the oaky scotch filter between his teeth.

After an awkward pause, Perkins spoke up again. “What about Sharon? Me and Jerome… we feel she’s a risk.”

Digging his tongs into a fresh supply of ice, Sparlo dropped a few frozen spheres into his glass and refilled it, then settled back into his spot on the veranda. “Let me prioritize things for you,” he finally said. “You’re up shit creek without a Goddamn boat. Stop worrying about finding a fucking paddle!”

“But we —”

“Sharon is my problem. You just worry about dealing with that kid before I deal with you,” Sparlo said, then thumbed the speaker button, ending the conversation.

He leaned forward in his chair and took another sip, absently eyeing the glistening lights and city shadows below.

Sharon was a beautiful woman, he thought to himself, swallowing.

He swirled the glass again and began to sip, then tilted his head back and finished off his drink in one long swallow.

No doubt about it; he was going to miss the revenue that sweet ass of hers brought in.

**********

Jacob watched dark buildings stream by at dashboard level as the car moved through the city streets. Across from him, Mills navigated silently.

“How march farther is it?” asked Jacob.

“Just a little. I want to stop somewhere first.”

“Why?”

“So we can talk, just the two of us.”

Jacob began to fidget nervously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I thought there might be some things you wanted to tell me. Things you maybe didn’t want to say in front of everyone else.”

“What kind of things?”

“That’s what we’ll find out,” Mills said.

She turned toward a stretch of shipping docks dwarfed by steel barges and cargo ships. A series of lampposts cut the darkness with wedges of pallid yellow hues leading to a narrow, partially gated entrance. Beyond that was a series of loading platforms, massive shipping hangers and a large parking area.

Mills pulled into the shadows of one of the hangers and turned the engine off. She surveyed the docks in the rearview mirror. Nothing except for a pair of headlights back near the entrance, moving in their direction. She slid a hand beneath her coat and released the snap on her shoulder holster, resting her thumb on the grip of a .38 revolver.

In the distance, the vehicle stopped in the first parking area. She watched a figure get out and hurry toward a small warehouse and disappear inside.

The night shift, she reasoned. She’d need to make this quick.

“Okay, Jacob,” she said, removing her hand from her coat and turning to face him. “Let’s talk about a couple of things.”

“What things?” he asked, growing more uncomfortable. “I already said what happened.”

“I’d like you to be more specific.” Mills unbuckled her seatbelt and shifted, turning her whole body toward him, causing him to edge backward against the passenger door. “I want to know exactly what happened that night at your aunt’s. I want to know why you and your mother left.”

As Mills waited for Jacob to speak, a figure moved through the shadows toward their car, slipping behind the rear bumper and kneeling in the darkness. A large revolver emerged from the folds of his jacket as he checked the driver’s side mirror and saw Mills’ reflection.

Her back was to the door.

In the passenger seat was his target.

He cocked the hammer in silence, waiting for a chance at Jacob.

**********

Reese checked her overnight bag, making sure she was ready for the job and what would probably be a long few nights ahead. She’d been called an hour ago and booked for an epic three-day tryst on Mercer Island — bought and paid for in advance.

Sparlo hadn’t given any names. Probably a congressman or judge reserving a 72-hour slice of pleasure for himself. It happened quite often. Especially during election years.

She locked the door behind her and gave it one last pull to make sure it was secure. As she descended the stairs to the entryway, she thought of how glad she was to have something to keep Perkins and Taylor at bay for a few days. 

She was a valuable commodity again; they wouldn’t risk damaging the goods. Hopefully, by the time she got back, all of this will have blown over.

The job would also keep her mind off Lynda. She couldn’t stop thinking about her and how, when you got down to it, both of them had ended up with men who provided shelter in exchange for dispensing pain. The only difference was that Lynda wasn’t given cash for her services. Both had been living a life of lies — to themselves and each other, too embarrassed to say anything.

So much wasted time over pride.

A yellow cab approached with its “In-Service” light turned off. As it pulled to the curb, Reese hurried to meet it, scurrying through the rain and into the back seat. The cab quickly departed and picked up speed as it left Lincoln Park on its way to an isolated cabin somewhere on Mercer Island.

**********

“Jacob, we’re not leaving here until you tell me everything that you saw.” Mills sat facing him in the front seat. “Let’s start from when you first got to the condo.”

“I told you what happened a hundred times. Why do you keep asking me the same old questions?”

Mills sighed. “Because I think you’re still leaving things out. I have to know what you saw and heard. It’s important.”

“You said I didn’t have to talk about things if I didn’t want to. You promised!”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” said Mills, her tone becoming more forceful. “What happened that night? You need to tell me everything.”

From behind Mills came a metallic tap on the glass. She turned and met the unblinking stare of a gun barrel.

“Out of the car. Nice and easy.”

Mills turned slowly and opened the door, climbing from the vehicle, hands in the air. “What do you want? Money?”

“Not exactly.” He looked to Jacob. “You okay?”

“Wait a minute…” Mills’ expression went from fear to confused, then recognition. “You’re that guy. McPearson. You’re the kidnapper.”

“Well, I wasn’t before,” Shane said with a grim smile. “But I guess I am now. Come over here, Jacob.”

Grinning, Jacob threw off his seat belt and leaped from the car, sprinting next to Shane. “Where are we going?”

“Some place safe until we can figure a way out of this mess,” Shane said, handing Jacob a pocketknife. “Slit the front tires so she can’t follow us.”

Jacob trotted to the right front tire and jabbed at it, then leaned his body into the hilt until he heard hissing. The car slowly dipped. He hurried to the left front tire and disappeared behind the fender.

“Are you insane?!” cried Mills. “Why are you doing this?”

“I want you to understand something,” Shane said. “I’m trying to save this boy’s life. There’s more to this than you know, none of which I can prove at the moment. I don’t know who to trust. Until I find someone, Jacob stays with me.”

More hissing and the car dropped forward.

“Take your jacket off, slowly,” he said.

“You need to know something,” said Mills, pulling off the sleeves of her coat. “I’m with Internal Affairs. We know about Perkins and Taylor.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Shane. He removed the pistol from her holster and opened the cylinder, emptying the bullets onto the ground and kicking them across the wet asphalt.

“You don’t understand,” pleaded Mills. “We’re on your side.”

Shane tossed the revolver into the front seat. “Cuffs?”

“What?”

“Where are your handcuffs.”

Mills’ eyes rolled. “In the console between the seats.”

Shane looked at Jacob and nodded toward the front seat, then turned his attention back to Mills. “If you’re telling the truth, you’ll hear from us,” he said. 

Jacob returned with the cuffs. Shane locked Mills’ hands behind her, then walked her to the back seat. He guided her inside and closed the door.

“Do you understand how much danger you’re in?!” she yelled from inside.

“That’s my point,” he said, backing away with Jacob. “I do.”

Scooping Jacob into his arms, Shane ran into the shadows toward the far parking lot.

**********

Kazad parked the Sable and wrapped himself in his trench coat as he jogged into the entryway of Reese’s condo. He pressed A-2 and waited.

No answer.

He pressed it again, holding the buzzer down longer.

Nothing.

He walked to the double doors and yanked on them.

Locked.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Strobing red and blue lights approached as a patrol car rolled next to the Sable. Aames exited and ran into the entryway, coat flapping. “Hold up a minute,” he panted.

“What’s the matter?” asked Kazad. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get the search warrant.”

“No, I got the warrant. The father’s, too. He’s already in custody.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to tell me something I really don’t want to hear?” Kazad asked.

Aames shook the rain from his collar. “Probably because I am.”

“Terrific.”

“There’s been another kidnapping… sort of,” said Aames.

“What do you mean ‘sort of?’ Either someone’s kidnapped or they aren’t.”

“The kidnapping I’m sure about,” Aames explained. “It’s the ‘another’ part that’s throwing me.”

Kazad stared at him, hands on his hips.

“It’s Jacob,” said Aames. “He’s been kidnapped. Again.”

“What?”

“Just a little while ago, apparently by our lead suspect.”

Kazad pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting. “I don’t believe it. How in the hell did that happen?”

“The guy hijacked the kid while he and Mills were were parked somewhere near some loading docks. He left her handcuffed in the back seat. A night watchman found her and called the police.” Aames let the information sink in before asking, “What about Reese? Where is she?”

“God knows,” mumbled Kazad. He crossed his arms, pacing in the small enclosure. “Years of eating greasy dogs and chili, gallons of burnt coffee, and not a single heart problem. Not even a murmur. Can you believe it?”

Aames only offered a look confusion. “You’re point?”

“My point is that I’m due for a heart attack. And right now, I’d welcome it.” 

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Fifteen

Within hours of Jacob’s abduction, a team from the Federal Bureau of Investigation assembled, descending on the 8th Precinct and shuffling offices around until a command post was established. Now that the case was an official kidnapping, federal authorities were taking control of the search. If nothing surfaced within 48 hours, more shuffling would occur with the arrival of additional agents.

Three small work tables had been thrown together to make a large desk centered with a map of Seattle and bordered by paper cups and ashtrays. Phone conversations and frenzied tapping from assorted laptops continued while Kazad and Aames answered questions from opposite sides of the map.

It was just before 9 a.m., almost ten hours since Jacob’s re-abduction. Aames and Kazad had spent the last two hours recounting their investigation.

Lt. Jack Dalton straddled a chair at the head of the table, dragging from his cigarette and blowing smoke upward into the fluorescent lights. While surveying the map, he tapped ashes into an empty cup positioned on the Canadian border. A red marker circled a radius of activity encompassing Tacoma and Woodway. The search would be centered there, with alerts posted at the borders of Canada and Oregon.

“So, we have very little doubt that this Shane McPearson is the kidnapper,” Dalton said.

“We have zero doubt,” Kazad said with a yawn. Nineteen hours had passed since either he or Aames had slept. “Tabitha Mills recognized him as our lead suspect even though he was disguised. Our sketch guy is working on it right now. But this guy is smart. He’s probably changed his look again by now.”

“According to your report, he’s a licensed P.I.?”

“That’s right. He has a small houseboat near Magnolia Bay. It’s been dusted but no prints from the boy were found on board.”

“What about the restaurant owner you questioned?” asked Dalton, shuffling through papers. “Samantha Wells.”

“She denies seeing the boy,” said Kazad. “As I said in our report, I don’t think she was telling us everything. We’ll have a search warrant for the restaurant and her loft above it later this morning.”

Dalton crossed his arms, nodding. “I think that about covers it, detectives,” he said. “You guys go home and get some sleep. We can take it from here.”

Chair legs scraped across the floor as Kazad and Aames rose, effectively dismissed. 

A pair of stale handshakes accompanied a walk to the door from Dalton. “With everything you’ve given us, this should end quickly,” he said, opening the door. “We’ll bring him home and get the bad guys.”

“I’ll rest easy now,” mumbled Aames.

Dalton ignored the remark but closed the door after them with more force than necessary. A few sets of eyes looked up from the map as Dalton pitched his cigarette butt to the floor, grinding it beneath his heel. He motioned to an agent wearing a crisp white shirt and suspenders.

“What’s up, chief?”

“I want a tail on those two detectives,” ordered Dalton. “I want to know what they’re doing at all times. Who they talk to, where they eat. If they take a shit, I want one of our agents offering to wipe.”

“You got it.”

Dalton reached into his shirt pocket and removed a pack of unfiltered Camels as he moved next to an agent wearing headphones and asked, “Are we in position with Perkins and Taylor yet?”

“As of about 30 minutes ago. Sanchez is on Perkins, Woods has Taylor. Both officers just left home. We’re assuming they’re heading for the precinct since they’re scheduled on shift at 10.”

“Stay on them but tag off. We can’t risk being spotted,” Dalton said. “If they suspect we’re in town for anything but a kidnapping, this whole thing will unravel. Sparlo will disappear — and so will Jacob Bettington.”

**********

Kazad was silent as he and Aames entered the detectives’ squad room. He walked tiredly to his desk and gathered his coat.

“Irritating, isn’t it,” Aames said.

“Isn’t the first time, it won’t be the last. Get used to it.” Kazad slipped into his coat. “There’s a difference between ‘missing’ and ‘kidnapped.’ The feds handle kidnappings. They’ve got jurisdiction anywhere. They can order searches and wiretaps with a phone call. It’s best for Jacob to have these guys on the case.”

“Some day, you’ll be saying that about me,” chided Aames.

Smiling, Kazad cinched the ties of his trench coat and was reaching for his briefcase when he caught sight of a note sticking from his desk drawer. Pulling out the folded page, he read it and waved Aames over.

“A secret admirer?” he asked.

“Not exactly.” Kazad re-folded the note and buried it deep in his coat pocket. “It’s from Hollins.”

“The crime tech?”

“Yeah. He wants to meet us at the Sunriser Cafe in an hour.”

“Did he say what for?”

“No. Only that it’s extremely urgent.” Kazad patted his pocket. “And that no one else is to know about it.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Sixteen

At a small, under-utilized state rest stop just east of Tacoma along a quiet stretch of Highway 167, Shane splashed his face with cold water and did his best to wash up. Jacob sat in the stall next to him, crouched on the seat of the commode. A pair of Shane’s mud boots had been positioned in the gap of the stall door to give the appearance of a full-grown occupant. Shane looked around for a paper towel dispenser to dry his face but only saw a hand dryer that appeared in questionable condition. He twisted the blower nozzle upward, positioned his face over it, then pushed the chrome start button. A spider blew out, glancing off his cheek.

“JEEZ!” he exclaimed, jumping aside and brushing at his face with both hands.

“What happened?” Jacob asked from inside the stall.

“Nothing,” Shane answered, drying his face with his shirt sleeve. “Just an air-born spider attack.”

“What?!?” The door to the stall flew open as Jacob quickly emerged, his eyes darting around the room.

Shane pushed the chrome button again, turning the dryer off. “It came flying out of there. I didn’t see a parachute, so I don’t think he made it.”

A smile broke Jacob’s worried expression. He began to laugh, the sound of his giggling echoing between the bare concrete floor and ceiling. 

It was a good sound, thought Shane, who realized it was the first time he’d heard Jacob laugh. He began chuckling as well, then shushed himself and Jacob quiet as he gathered up his boots. Peeking at the parking lot through a gap in the restroom door, Shane made sure no one else was around before the two of them hurried into the cab of the pick-up and drove from the parking area.

“Where we going now?” asked Jacob.

“There’s a truck stop a few miles up the road. I thought we could use some breakfast.”

“Definitely.”

“When we get there, you wait in the truck,” said Shane. “I’ll get everything to go. We can eat while we drive.”

“More driving? When are we going to stop?”

Shane smiled glumly. “I’m not sure yet.”

The sun was barely an ember rising behind them as they headed west on an old two-lane highway that skirted the Puyallup River separating north and south Tacoma. They had spent the entire night crisscrossing between Interstate 5 and Highways 99 and 509, eventually joining up with sparsely traveled Highway 167 a little before dawn. After remaining quiet for much of the first hour on the road together, Jacob had opened up about his day on the streets of Seattle hiding from policemen and searching for his mom’s yellow Dodge. He talked about being found by police after someone recognized him and reported it, his trip to the hospital, the questions asked by two men and a woman, and the special freckle light that showed what his dad had done to him.

Then, somewhere on a deserted back road between Seattle and Tacoma, Jacob had acknowledged his mother’s death and cried himself to sleep. Shane kept vigil over him, driving the backroads as the exhausted eight-year-old slept.

When Jacob had awakened several hours later, Shane saw someone much older behind the eyes of the boy sitting next to him.

A large billboard standing in a field surrounded by barbwire appeared: Big Red’s Truck Stop was 5 miles ahead. Below it was a smaller sign with several images of firearms and offering cash for guns.

Jacob’s head pivoted, watching it as they passed. He glanced away from the window then down into his palms as if studying their creases. “My mom hated guns,” he said, his voice cracking.

Shane looked at him, then brought his eyes back to the road and nodded, easing up on the gas peddle.

Jacob’s gaze remained in his palms. “Even pretend guns weren’t allowed in the house. One time, my dad wanted a gun. He said for protection. He fought with my mom about it. But he never got one.”

He brought his hands together in his lap, slowly rubbing his thumbs together. After a moment, he looked up at Shane. “What the news said… it’s not true. My mom wasn’t like that. There’s no way she’d have a gun.”

Shane looked him. “Then why would they say that?”

“Because she saw them.” Jacob leaned forward and took a dry swallow. “We both did.”

Shane’s tone became cautious. Their conversation was heading into territory that had been off limits until now. He kept his eyes on the road. “Who did you see?”

The heels of Jacobs sneakers began to tap the cab floor nervously. “If I tell, they’ll kill you too.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he said reassuringly.

Jacob shook his head, unconvinced. His chin quivered slightly. “They can get you,” he said as tears slowly emerged, running down his cheeks in heavy droplets.

Shane pulled Jacob to his side, hugging him tightly with his free arm.

“Jacob, I need you to tell me who you saw,” he said, adding: “And what they did.”

Jacob sank into the seat and took a deep breath. He clasped his hands together, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. “I left out some stuff about the night in the park — things that happened at Aunt Sharon’s.”

“Were you there?” Shane asked, recalling the alleyway and brutal conversation he’d overheard, and how Reese had sworn Jacob wasn’t there the night Lynda was killed.

“Yeah. I was there. In my Aunt Sharon’s bedroom.”

It was obvious now that Reese had lied to protect Jacob. “What happened?”

“Me and Mom were just gonna stay the night and go to Grandma’s in the morning,” Jacob began. “When I was in Aunt Sharon’s room, a speaker by the front door beeped. Aunt Sharon answered it and got real scared. She told me to get under the bed. My mom kept asking what was wrong, but Aunt Sharon just told her to get on the other side of the bed, next to the wall, and stay down until they were gone — and not to come out. No matter what.”

Jacob absently tapped his knuckles against the car seat. “That’s when the door knocked and Aunt Sharon went to let them in. My mom and I were in the bedroom with the door closed. The lights were off. We could hear them. They used some bad words, then it sounded like something hit the wall. My mom stayed on the floor next to the bed and held my hand.” He hesitated before continuing. “I’ve heard those sounds before. I knew what was happening. I just didn’t know why.”

Shane put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder.

“There was a lot of yelling and some things got broke,” said Jacob. “Then, all of a sudden, my mom got up and ran out into the living room. The door was still a little open and I saw them in the mirror.”

“Saw who, Jacob. Who was doing this?”

Jacob looked up at Shane, biting his bottom lip before answering. “The police.”

“Did you get a look at them?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you know it if you saw them again?”

“Yeah.” He paused, then decided on the whole truth. “I even know their names.”

“Who were they?” asked Shane, nearly certain of the answer.

“I don’t know who was who, but my aunt said two names. Perkins and Taylor.”

Shane nodded. “What happened after that?”

“They got really mad and threw my mom and Aunt Sharon down on the couch. They told my mom if she ever said anything, they’d find her and do something bad. Then they left — at least, we thought they did.”

“What do you mean?” asked Shane.

“My mom was really scared. She was yelling at me to get dressed, and started grabbing all our stuff. She was shaking and crying. My aunt was crying too, saying she was sorry over and over. But my mom just took me down to the car and said we were gonna drive all night to Grandma’s.”

Jacob took a moment, collecting himself. Not wanting to cry. “She promised nobody would ever hurt us again.”

The tears came anyway but Jacob didn’t seem to notice.

A supportive squeeze of his shoulder from Shane prompted a long, deep breath from Jacob, who was determined to finally tell everything that he’d been keeping secret. “We saw the two policemen down the street,” he continued. “They started running to their police car after they saw us. Mom was driving pretty fast, so we had a head start. She drove into the park and said she was gonna leave me somewhere safe until she could be sure they were gone. Then she’d come back for me and we’d leave for good.”

Jacob’s small hands were clenched tightly again. “But she didn’t come back. Because they killed her. I know it. They wouldn’t have made up those lies if they didn’t.”

Shane thought carefully about how to phrase his next question before asking, “What about drugs, Jacob. They said there were drugs in the car with your mom.”

“They’re lying.”

“I know it’s hard, but maybe there were things about your mom you didn’t know?”

Shane braced himself, prepared for an angry outburst — but it didn’t come. Instead, Jacob looked at him with the older, world-weary eyes he’d noticed at sunrise. 

“I don’t really know you,” Jacob said, “but I bet you don’t mess with that stuff. My mom didn’t either. I swear.”

Shane thought about Perkins and Taylor. It wasn’t hard to imagine two men capable of killing an innocent mother also planting drugs on her. She had to be accounted for. It would’ve been a simple act of survival for predators like them.

“There was someone else,” Jacob said, remembering.

“At your aunt’s?”

“Yeah. I mean, I heard the name. But they weren’t there.”

“Do you remember it?”

Jacob’s brow furrowed, thinking. “Sparlo!” he suddenly blurted. “They said it three or four times. It was like he was their boss or something.”

Shane patted his shoulder as they continued driving. 

They had to find someone they could trust. Someone outside of the police department who could get this information to the right people. And soon. It was clear that the loose chain of events surrounding them was getting tighter — and more deadly — by the hour.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Seventeen

Aames and Kazad entered the Sunriser Cafe and quickly spotted Hollins sitting at a back table, far from the row of booths lining the front window. His face was grim. A plump waitress wearing a checkered apron and jeans that were a size too small was refilling his coffee as the two detectives slid into the booth. The waitress set the coffee pot on the table and grabbed her order pad.

“What can I get you?” she asked, as if they had driven there with a particular favorite in mind.

“Coffee, please. Black,” said Kazad.

Aames held up two fingers.

“Okay, two coffees. Anything else for you two?”

Aames pulled a slightly sticky laminated menu from behind the condiment caddy, flipping between the two sides. “I’ll need some time to process all this, ma’am.”

“I’ll check back,” she said, unamused, then disappeared into a side station.

“Looks like real home cooking,” said Kazad.

“Maybe your home,” replied Aames.

The waitress returned with a pair of coffee cups and filled them black. “Are you ready to order?” She glanced at Aames first.

“I’ll pass this morning, thank you.”

She pivoted to Kazad, pencil at the ready.

“I’d like two eggs, medium hard, hash browns, sausage and orange juice, please,” said Kazad.

“You can go ahead and start my order too,” said Hollins.

“I’ll get that out shortly,” she said and headed toward the kitchen.

Kazad blew on his coffee. “So what’s going on, Roy? Why the secret meeting in Hooterville?”

“Because what I’m about to tell you needs to stay between the three of us.”

Kazad was in mid-sip and finished with an audible gulp. “Deal.”

Hollins reached beside the table, opened his briefcase and extracted a plain manilla envelope. It was swollen with contents but had no label. He slid it across the table to Kazad. “What I’m giving you was never supposed to be seen, even though it strongly suggests we have a pair of dirty cops in our precinct.”

“Hold up. This conversation should be happening with Internal Affairs, not us,” said Kazad.

Hollins stole a nervous sip. “That’s just it. They’re the ones who want this covered up.”

“Are you telling me you were told to suppress evidence?”

“I’m saying Russ Braden, the captain of Internal Affairs, listened to my concerns, read the reports, then had me falsify every damned one of them.”

The three sat silently, letting what Hollins was saying sink in.

“What about Chief Hammond,” Aames asked. “Didn’t he get a copy?”

“Not like this. The only other copies like these are in Braden’s hands,” said Hollins. “For now, he doesn’t know these copies exist. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“So, all the supplementals, the incident report, property records — all of it is bogus?” asked Kazad.

Hollins slowly nodded. “Correct.”

Aames fumbled with his cup, visibly shaken.

“Did he explain why he wanted this done,” asked Kazad.

“He told me it was in I.A.’s hands now, and that he wanted the reports cleaned up.” Hollins leaned over his cup. “You know as well as I do, the captain of Internal Affairs doesn’t have to explain squat. And he didn’t.”

Kazad unsealed the folder and quickly fingered through it without removing the contents. “Exactly what’s in these reports?”

“Copies of all my notes, along with test results from the body and evidence found at the scene.”

“You going to tell us which crime scene we’re talking about here,” asked Aames, “or is that a secret, too?”

“It’s Lynda Bettington, isn’t it, Roy,” Kazad said in a monotone.

Hollins nodded again, tapping his coffee cup. “Those two patrolmen are lying about how that woman died — and for some reason people in this department are helping them.”

A young waitress was moving from table to table, re-filling coffee mugs as she went. The three of them waited as she hovered over them, touching her pot to each cup, then zipped away to a man at the end of the counter, who waved her off.

“So, what do you think happened,” asked Aames.

“It’s more a matter of what I think didn’t happen,” said Hollins. “I swabbed both of Bettington’s hands as well as the hood of her car, where they said she fired her weapon from. I couldn’t find a trace of gunshot residue anywhere. What I did find was evidence of broken glass and road tar embedded in her palms and knees. That would mean she was on her hands and knees at some point before she died. It also makes me question their account of her firing at them from over the hood.” He shook his head. “Hell, it might mean she never fired the gun at all.”

Aames leaned in. “The gun was fired though, right?”

“Absolutely. There’s no question that two shots were expended into that police car from that hand gun. I just have my doubts as to whether Lynda Bettington was the one who pulled the trigger.”

The three of them were almost in a huddle over the table.

Hollins’ whispers bordered on the sound of hissing. “Another thing. The trajectories are all wrong. If you match them with a string and dowel, and follow the pathway of the slugs, there’s no way the exchange took place over the hood of that Dodge. Bettington was on her side when she fired, but she was on her hands and knees when the slug entered her brain. That seems backwards to me.”

Though unspoken, there was mutual agreement between them.

“There’s another minor detail we learned while interviewing the sister,” said Kazad. “According to her, Bettington was left handed —”

“And the gun was found in her right,” Hollins finished, shaking his head. “Christ.”

The aroma of sausage and hash browns arrived with their waitress as she swooped the plates onto the table and conjured a bottle of ketchup from her apron pocket. “There you go, guys. Enjoy.”

Aames nursed his coffee as Hollins and Kazad stared at their food. Kazad reached for a roll of silverware wrapped in a paper napkin as tight as a Cuban cigar, then placed it back on the table.

Both of them pushed their plates aside; their appetites were gone.

Hollins reached for his coffee instead, circling the rim with his index finger. “You realize if there is some sort of conspiracy, and Lynda Bettington was murdered — maybe for something she saw or knew — then that little boy has a lot to worry about. I hate to say it, but a ransom demand may never come.”

“We’ve got to locate Reese,” said Aames. “She lied about not seeing Jacob that night because she knows something. Maybe he does too.”

“Maybe she knows who has him and is afraid to talk,” Kazad reasoned. “Or she’s connected with the kidnapping and won’t talk.”

A beeper erupted from Hollins’ waist. He looked down, checking the number. “It’s a priority code,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

Kazad crumpled his napkin and stuffed it into his empty coffee cup. “There’s something we need to remember here. We’re no longer on the case. The feds have essentially told us to stay out of their way.”

“So what’s your point?”

“We need to watch our asses until we find a way to blow the lid on this without losing our fingers,” warned Kazad.

Minutes later, Hollins returned and grabbed his briefcase. “Got a victim. Apparent drug overdose on Mercer Island. I have to go.” The words came quickly. Nervously. “If you want to know where Sharon Reese is, follow me. She’s not going anywhere.”

“Oh, man,” Aames muttered.

Each of them threw money on the table and left.

Across the diner, another plate of hot food was growing cold as the man at the end of the counter handed the waitress a ten-dollar bill and left.

**********

The coffee pots were nearly empty, their steaming contents sealed in dozens of Thermoses aboard fishing trawlers heading out for a day on Puget Sound and the Pacific. From inside The Nook, Sam watched the last of the fishing boats glide out of the cove. In the kitchen, cooks were busy prepping celery, onions and diced potatoes for a double batch of chowder. Sam listened to the rapping of knives against cutting boards. The dish machine doors opened with a clang as the first rack of dirty pots and sauce pans emerged steamy and clean. Another hour, and the opening waitress would arrive to begin stocking side stations.

Other than fearing for Shane and Jacob’s lives, it was a typical morning at The Nook.

Twelve hours had passed since meeting in the parking lot, with no contact from Shane.

Every news station in Seattle was talking about Jacob Bettington’s late-night abduction from police, reporting that he and suspected kidnapper Shane McPhearson were still missing. She reasoned that to be a good sign.

But it was no guarantee they were safe.

Someone knocked on a nearby window, startling her. She turned to see the telephone repairman smiling and giving her the “okay” sign. He then trotted up the wooden ramp leading to the parking area above. The line had been crackling all morning, so Sam called for service. She was surprised to see a Mountain Bell repairman sifting through the junction box less than an hour later.

She walked to the phone behind the bar and picked up the receiver. No more crackling.

The guy worked fast.

The aroma of bacon grease drifted through the restaurant, followed by searing onions and celery; the chowder was on. She began making her way to the kitchen just as the phone rang.

She answered, catching it on the first ring. “The Nook, Sam speaking.”

“It’s me.”

Sam exhaled. “Thank God. The news said you have Jacob. Is it true?”

“Yeah, he’s with me. We’re both fine for the time being,” Shane said, talking quickly. “We’re going to need your help, though. Things are happening fast.”

Sam reached beneath the counter, grabbing a pad and pen. “What do you need me to do?”

**********

The telephone repair van slowed, pulling behind an empty car that had been parked a block away. The repairman slipped from the driver’s seat carrying a small duffle bag. He unlocked the trunk of the car, placed the duffel inside and unzipped it. Reaching between the folds, he found the transmitter and switched it on before zipping it back up and closing the trunk. 

As he hurried back to the van, the telephone conversation between Sam and Shane was already being sent across the bay and into an office in downtown Seattle.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Eighteen

Kazad and Aames followed Hollins as he crossed over one of two bridges on Highway 90 that spanned Lake Washington and connected Mercer Island with the surrounding Seattle area. During summer months, the lake was alive with Jet Skis, canoes, seasonal fisherman and the occasional late-night couple skinny dipping. But in the off season, when rain showers were the only disturbance over the quiet waters, life centered near the southern tip of Lake Washington on The Mercer.

Leaving highway 90, Hollins headed south on Island Crest Way, which was the main artery connecting the northern and southern ends of the island. His destination was located at the furthest point south and surrounded by a private community of expensive weekender homes purchased primarily for short get-aways and lazy stretches of summer. As a result, most remained empty for a majority of the year.

But this morning, among a cluster of fancy cabins near the Mercer Island Beach Club, one unit was occupied by a team of police investigators — and the body of Sharon Reese.

Following Hollins in the Sable, Kazad and Aames left the paved road and maneuvered over a narrow gravel drive that took them past a small wooden sign labeled “cabins.” Police lights broke between clusters of trees as they neared the end of a large cul-de-sac bordered by two-story structures designed to feel rustic while still providing every possible amenity. 

Ahead, Hollins parked along the cul-de-sac, leaving room for the medical examiner’s vehicle to eventually arrive and transport the body. He stepped from his car carrying a leather bag as he entered the cabin.

A patrolman recorded his badge number and arrival time.

Kazad and Aames came to a stop and waited before exiting the Sable to avoid the appearance of arriving with Hollins. After a few minutes, they approached the crime scene, hands buried in their coat pockets.

The patrolman clicked his pen, ready to jot down their badge numbers from memory. “How’s it going with the Bettington kid?” he asked. “Is this tied to that?”

“The case belongs to the feds now,” Kazad said, placing his hand on the patrolman’s clipboard. “Listen, we’re only going to be here a minute or two. How about leaving us off the guest list?”

The patrolman winced. “I don’t know, detective.”

“Officially, this isn’t our case,” explained Kazad.

“And officially, you’d like to keep it that way I guess.”

“You got it.”

The patrolman clicked his pen again. “Five minutes is all I can give you. After that, I’ll have to put you down.”

“We owe you one,” said Kazad as he and Aames headed toward the cabin.

“Remember that when I apply for a detective spot next month!”

Kazad turned and gave a wave, entering the crime scene with Aames.

Inside the cabin, rubber-gloved technicians were busy dusting various items and photographing Reese’s body. Hollins stood nearby, talking into a mini recorder. He slipped a thermometer from the fold of her armpit and noted 62 degrees; she was just about room temperature. Next, he made a note of her body’s positioning. He decided she’d been sitting on the floor, back against the couch, and at some point had toppled face-first onto the glass coffee table.

Wedged under her left cheek was a plastic Ziploc bag, sealed tightly by the weight of her head. Through the clear plastic, Hollins saw what he believed was heroin. A soup spoon, butane lighter and hypodermic needle were scattered across the table. Cinched around her left arm just below the shoulder was a thin leather strap. Her once tan skin ended there, now turned avocado green down to her well-manicured fingertips. A bubble of hardened blood centered a brackish, swollen vein in the crook of her arm.

Hollins pulled her long hair aside and studied her eyes. Reese’s corneas were cloudy. Milky. A beige froth had dried around her nostrils, suggesting an accelerated heart rate; more than likely it had been caused by an attack of the central nervous system.

“What do you think?” Kazad asked as he and Aames neared the body.

“Looks like an O.D.,” said Hollins. “Appears to be a first-time user. Only one track mark from what I can see. The M.E. may find more but I doubt it. Other than the blood that’s sealed in her arm, the rest has settled below the waist. She died right where she is.”

Aames took a pen from his pocket and slipped it under Reese’s palm, lifting and dropping her hand. “She looks pretty loose. You think it was in the last few hours?”

Hollins shook his head. “No, it’s been at least 18 to 24. Her body temperature matches the room. Rigor mortis has come and gone.” Using tongs, Hollins slid the plastic bag out from beneath Reese’s cheek and placed it in a paper sack. “Judging from the paraphernalia, it’s heroin. Same thing we found with the sister.”

“So, we’re supposed to assume Lynda Bettington supplied her sister with the heroin she O.D.’d on,” said Aames.

Kazad examined Reese sprawled facedown on the table. “Sure is a pretty picture, huh?”

“Yeah, suitable for framing,” remarked Aames.

Kazad smiled coyly. “We gotta go, Roy. Keep up the good work.”

He and Aames zig-zagged between investigators on their way back out of the cabin, down the front porch and past the patrolman, who was tapping his watch. Kazad mouthed his appreciation as he and Aames ducked under a strand of plastic yellow tape and followed the gravel cul-de-sac back to the car.

“What we just saw was a smear campaign,” said Kazad. “Plug a possible leak and rub more dirt on Lynda Bettington.”

Aames nodded in agreement. “Somebody’s going to a lot of trouble to make Bettington look like a two-bit pusher.”

“Yeah. It makes Perkins and Taylor’s fairytale more credible.”

They climbed into the Sable, adjusting their seatbelts in tandem as Aames pulled away from the scene.

“I still can’t figure our kidnapper’s angle,” said Kazad, absently tapping his fingers against the dash. “Why go to the trouble of registering yourself as a P.I., obtain permits and licenses, file your taxes, then decide to jump in the middle of all this?”

“You’re assuming this McPhearson guy was hired by someone to kidnap the boy?” Aames asked.

“It made sense at first, but now…” Kazad yawned into his fist, shaking off sleep. “If the objective was to eliminate Jacob, then he’d just do it. Why bother with a kidnapping ruse.”

Aames thought a moment. “Maybe he found the kid and figured on returning him for a cash deposit, then discovered the hornets nest he’d walked into after the fact? By then, it was too late for a clean exit.”

Kazad pursed his lips, still strumming the dash. “Maybe. But if he wanted out, then why’d he come back for the boy? And if he was hired to kill Jacob, why didn’t he do it the first time he had him? God knows he had the opportunity. It just doesn’t make sense — unless…”

“What?”

“It’s a stretch,” said Kazad. “What if Shane McPhearson is the last Good Samaritan?”

Aames dropped his head to his chest, chuckling. “Then he would’ve turned Jacob over to us in the beginning.”

“We’re talking about a licensed P.I. here. What if McPhearson found the boy and decided to look for the parents himself, but stumbled onto something? We already know he was at public records. If I were a kidnapper, that’s the last place I’d go. Unless I wanted information.”

Kazad stared at the manilla envelope given to them by Hollins. “Think about the information our supposed kidnapper requested from public records: coroner and police reports. He wasn’t looking for the boy’s mother. He was fishing for details about her death.”

“Meaning he might know it was a dirty shoot,” said Aames. “Then who do you think tipped him off?”

The two looked at each other. “Jacob” they said in unison.

The Sable bounced as it met the paved lip of Island Crest Way and moved north, back to Highway 90. Aames tightened his hands on the wheel. “Do you really think Internal Affairs is pulling the strings here?”

“Either that, or someone is pulling theirs.”

“From somewhere higher up?”

“No. From the outside.”

Aames accelerated onto Highway 90 west, back toward Seattle. “So what now?”

“We rattle a few cages,” said Kazad. “Then watch to see who growls.”

**********

Parked near the Highway 90 on- ramp, the man from the Sunriser Cafe watched intently as the Sable sped away from the island heading west. He checked his watch, wrote down the time, then reached for a large cellular phone and began dialing.

Chapter Nineteen

“Play it back again.”

Lt. Dalton stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, waiting as an agent rewound the tape and pressed the play button. Shane’s voice emanated from the cassette player’s small speaker:

“…after you contact her, give me a one-ringer at the number I gave you. That way, I’ll know everything’s set.”

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“Sam, it’s the only shot we have without involving the police. We’ll have to put some trust in her and hope it pays off.”

“At the moment, the media isn’t exactly high on the list of people I trust.”

“Right now, neither is the police. But the media doesn’t carry guns.”

Dalton began to pace, listening intently as Shane continued.

“If things turn sour, Jacob and I can make a run for it.”

“Why don’t we just tell her everything we know, then she can do a story on it? That would be less risky.”

“There’s no way they would air it without verifying it — and that could take days.”

“You’re right, you’re right. [sigh]. How is he holding up?”

“He’s good… I’m sorry, Sam, we’ve got to go.”

“I know. Be careful.”

“You know me.”

“Yeah, I do. So be careful.”

[click]

Dalton slipped a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket, tapping it against his hand and dislodging an unfiltered cigarette. “Has she made the call yet?” he asked, flipping his Zippo open.

“Nothing yet.”

“You’re sure she hasn’t left the restaurant.”

“Positive.”

He snapped the Zippo closed over the flame and took a long drag. “Post someone at each of the local news stations. The minute we find out who the media contact is, I want them watched. We can’t let this go public. Until we can pinpoint McPhearson’s location, our focus is damage control.”

“Here we go, lieutenant!” an agent wearing headphones called from across the room.

A musical scale of seven notes from a touchtone phone riffed out of a speaker on the table. It was recorded, along with the conversation that followed.

“Good morning, KIRO Channel 7. How may I direct your call?”

Dalton snapped his fingers and pointed to the agent with headphones. “Get someone to Channel 7.”

“Patty Mead, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Afraid not.”

“What is this regarding?”

“Probably the biggest story of her career.”

“[Momentary pause] Hold, please.”

“Who do we have at that station?” snapped Dalton.

“Phillips.”

“Tell him to hold up until I give the go-ahead.”

All eyes turned back to the speaker as the phone conversation resumed.

“This is Patty Mead. What’s this about?”

“I know where you can find Jacob Bettington.”

“And how is that exactly?”

“I’ve been contacted by the kidnapper. Things aren’t how they seem and he wants to prove it.”

“Why not prove it to the police?”

“Because it involves dirty cops.”

 Dalton threw his cigarette to the floor. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered.

“Go on.”

“He wants to meet with you. Alone. He’s bringing Jacob and will turn him over once the interview is done. But if anyone else shows up, he and Jacob will disappear for good. I’ll call back in 10 minutes with the details.”

“I need more time than that.”

[click]

“Keep Phillips where he is,” said Dalton. “If something else goes wrong and we miss the next call, we can still tail Mead.”

The sound of a phone receiver being lifted hushed the room once again; another touchtone musical arrangement blared from the speaker. Seven digits; a local number.

A connection was made and the phone on the other end rang once before Sam hung up.

“You get that?” Dalton asked.

“Sure, it’s taped. But not even close to enough for a trace.”

“We don’t need one,” Dalton said. “Rewind to just before that last call and be ready to play it.” He grabbed a phone from the table and dialed his pager. When the recorded message asked for his number, he pointed to the agent with headphones, who played back the musical tones from the last call. Dalton held phone’s mouthpiece up to the speaker as it played, then hung up and put the phone back on the table, waiting.

Moments later, his pager came to life at his waist. He reached down and pressed the display button.

“She called 997-9899. Find that phone location and get a team there now! I’m betting he’s within 10 minutes of that number.”

**********

In the cab of the Chevy, Shane and Jacob sat with to-go containers of breakfast balanced in their laps. Seconds ago, the payphone next to the driver’s side door had resonated with a single ring. The two of them sat looking at it, no longer chewing.

“Well Jacob, the horse is out of the stall,” Shane said, closing the lid over what was left of his pancakes. He squeezed Jacob’s shoulder. “You ready for all this? If you’re not, let me know now.”

Jacob shoved an oversized bite of syrupy French toast into his mouth, started to answer but thought better of it with his mouth so full. Instead, he gave a thumbs up.

“Alright then.”

They buckled up and left the payphone, heading into downtown Seattle.

**********

The curser on Patty Mead’s screen held in mid-sentence as she stared at it, her eyes locked vacantly in thought. She had less than eight minutes to decide how to handle the call. There was no way of determining its credibility. 

But a lead was a lead.

Should she involve the police? It might be the best chance at finding the boy alive.

Then again, if the allegations about the police were true, she could be gift-wrapping an innocent man and child for the wrong people.

And what about her own safety? There were plenty of crackpots starving for attention. Who’s to say this wasn’t one of them? Or some infatuated nut job?

Her eyes broke from the screen to her watch.

The voice on the phone had been telling the truth about one thing: This could be the biggest story of her career.

She now had six minutes to decide what to do about it.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty

The Sable rolled into a parking space behind the 8th Precinct. Aames and Kazad exited and made their way through the double doors and along the hall to the staircase leading up to the squad room. Aames collapsed into his chair and sifted through a handful of pink message slips scattered over his desk while Kazad filled his mug with stale coffee, then held the pot up toward Aames.

“How can you drink that motor oil?” Aames then watched Kazad spoon heaping mounds of sugar and dry creamer into his cup. “Never mind.”

Kazad continued stirring as he took a spot on the corner of his partner’s desk. “Anything important? he asked, gesturing to the messages.

“Not really. But I should return a couple of these calls. One is from Zeahna. Probably ready to give back her engagement ring.”

“Nah. But you need to make that call first. In fact, always make that call first.”

“Spoken like a man who knows.”

Kazad offered a sad smile and changed the subject. “I’ll give you some privacy. While you’re groveling and begging, I’ll go talk with Bill Parnelle at Internal Affairs. He might have some insight on the shooting.”

“You sure you don’t want me to tag along?

Kazad took a sip and shook his head. “It might spook him. I’ll try being cozy. If that doesn’t work, I’ll press him and see what happens.”

Aames yawned and briskly rubbed his face. “If I’m tired, you must be exhausted, old man.”

“So much youth, so little stamina.” Kazad pointed to his mug. “A couple of sips from this elixir and you’ll be good as new.”

Aames winced at the steaming, pearl-grey liquid. “I’d rather chew a handful of coffee grounds.”

“Suit yourself.” Kazad shrugged and headed for the stairs. “But coffee grounds are hell to pick from your teeth.”

Aames chuckled and leaned back in his chair. He stretched, finishing with a deep yawn, then stood and began twisting from side to side in quick repetitions. He saw the coffee pot as he twisted right and contemplated the murky brew, then shook it off. “No way in hell I’m drinking that shit.”

**********

Kazad continued sipping from his coffee as the elevator doors closed in front of him. The 8th Precinct housed four branches of law enforcement. Below ground was the crime lab where Hollins made sense of the senseless through DNA, blood patterns, ultraviolet light scans, even old techniques of heating model glue in empty, covered fish tanks to get fingerprints to adhere to possible murder weapons. The main floor belonged to the uniformed division, the records office and cells for those being processed. Above that was the detective’s squad room, with the top floor reserved for the Division of Internal Affairs — the gut check for all of Seattle’s law enforcement departments.

A muffled chime sounded as he stepped through the parting elevator doors and onto the fourth floor where a uniformed officer sat at a desk across from the elevator. He pulled a clipboard from his drawer as Kazad approached holding out his badge. “Kazad. Zero, one, one, six.”

The officer recorded the information. “What can I help you with, detective?” he asked without looking up.

“I’d like to speak with Lieutenant Parnelle if he’s available.”

“Is he expecting you?”

Kazad smiled. “Never can tell in a room full of detectives.”

The officer grabbed the phone and pressed the intercom. “Lieutenant? There’s a Detective Kazad to see you… Will do.” He hung up and pointed down the hall. “Straight ahead. Third door to your right after the corner.”

Kazad nodded and followed the hall around the corner until he found the name “Lt. Parnelle” etched in hazy glass on the door. He gave the glass three quick raps with is knuckles.

“Come in.”

Kazad entered and the two shook hands over the desk, Parnelle removing his glasses with his free hand and placing them on a stack of papers. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

Taking a seat in front of the desk, Kazad settled in, balancing his coffee cup on his knee. “Let me just start by saying this is an unofficial visit.”

“Fair enough.” Parnelle’s heavy frame caused his chair to moan as he reclined, thick fingers draped over the armrests. “So, unofficially, what are we talking about?”

“The Perkins and Taylor investigation.” Kazad watched for a reaction but saw none. “The whole thing was wrapped up so quickly I wonder if anything might’ve been… overlooked.” He chose that word specifically, allowing the subtle insinuation to linger between them.

A humorless smile gradually bridged the gap between Parnelle’s glossy cheeks. His hands moved to his lap.

Kazad noticed two damp spots on the armrests.

“Detective, let me assure you that we covered every avenue of that investigation. We interviewed both officers and had them see the psych. They came up clean as a whistle in all areas. The crime scene report supported their explanation as to what happened that night. Not much grey area there.”

Kazad nodded and sipped his lukewarm coffee mixture. He swallowed and returned the cup to his knee. “It just seems like a lot of ground to cover in such a short period.”

“It’s the nineties, detective. The information age speeds things up. Besides, a long, drawn-out investigation just stokes the public. Three or four weeks of the media grinding axes and nobody cares about guilt or innocence. They just want a sacrifice. So, we tag-teamed the investigation, compared notes and concluded it was a justifiable shoot. In a few weeks, the D.A. will wrap it up with the grand jury. Case closed. In the meantime, we have our two officers on the street instead of sharpening pencils.”

Another sip, another nod from Kazad.

“Is there… anything else, detective? Because if not, I — ”

Kazad stood, finished the last swig of coffee with a gulp and offered his left hand.

Awkwardly, Parnelle shifted to extended his left. “Aren’t you… right handed?” he asked cautiously.

“You know, you’re right,” Kazad said, and began walking to the door. “I must’ve forgotten. Just like Lynda Bettington must’ve forgotten she’s left-handed during her shootout.” He turned back toward Parnelle, scratching the back of his head in mock uncertainty. “Hell of a thing to forget, huh lieutenant?”

He turned away and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Parnelle remained immobile for a moment before slowly reaching for his glasses and the phone receiver. His plump fingers hammered at the numbers. “Russ, it’s Bill. I just wanted to let you know we’re in place with Mead. When McPhearson shows up, we’ll be there.”

“Good. Just make damned sure we keep this low profile.”  

Parnelle hesitated. “We might have a snag, though. I just had a strange visit from James Kazad. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I think he suspects something about the shooting.” He removed his glasses and tossed them back onto the table, rubbing his temples. “I just thought you should know. We may need to deal with that situation — and we might need to deal with his partner, too.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-One

Having returned his calls, which began with an admittedly stammering but no less heartfelt apology to his fiancé, Aames slid the phone away from himself just as the phone on Kazad’s desk began ringing. With a grunt, he jettisoned himself in his chair across the floor and grabbed the receiver. “Squad room, detective Aames speaking.”

“This is Patty Mead from KIRO News. I’ve been contacted about Jacob. They are calling back with instructions.”

“Whoa, slow down. Who contacted you?”

“It was a woman. She didn’t give a name but said Shane McPhearson wants an exclusive.” She took a deep breath, gathering herself. “I’m risking a hell of a lot. If he’s telling the truth, and I find out you’re part of it, I swear to God I’ll — ” Suddenly, another line on Mead’s phone began ringing. “That’s got to be her. Don’t hang up. I’m putting you on hold.”

“Wait! Was there — ”

A KIRO promo broke the line, prompting a frustrated groan from Aames.

**********

Mead took a deep breath and pressed the flashing button on her desk phone. “This is Patty Mead.”

“Do you have a pad and pen.”

“Yes.” She brushed aside candy wrappers and clawed a pen from her desk drawer.

“There’s a trash can on the corner of Avalon Way and 35th Avenue. Be there in 15 minutes. Wait next to it until you’re contacted. Remember: Any tricks and he disappears with Jacob for good.”

Mead scribbled down the address. It was a smart move. Just minutes from Fauntleroy Way, a main artery running north and south through the city. It was also next to the West Seattle Stadium, West Seattle Golf Course and the Roger Dahl Rifle Range. It would be easy place to disappear. “Got it.”

“I hope so. Because they both need your help.”

A click left Mead listening to a dial tone. She looked down at first line, still flashing on hold, and held a hesitant finger over it.

**********

Aames cradled the phone on his shoulder and impatiently swiveled his chair from side to side as Kazad climbed the stairs into the squad room. Kazad pointed to the phone, then himself.

“It’s for both of us,” said Aames.

“You on hold?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is it?”

“Patty Mead from KIRO. She says she’s been contacted by someone working with McPhearson.”

“Is it a ransom demand?”

“I’m not sure. She cut me off right in the middle of our conversation and put me on hold. She wasn’t making a lot of sense.”

Mead’s voice came over the line. “Hello? Detective?”

Aames abruptly sat forward. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Kazad pressed the button and joined the conversation from Aames’ desk. “This is detective James Kazad. What’s going on Ms. Mead?”

“I’m meeting with Shane McPhearson in less than 15 minutes and Jacob is supposed to be with him.”

“Where?”

“Before I tell you, I want to make something absolutely clear.” Mead’s voice, flustered and meek earlier, had hardened. “There have been some accusations, and the only reason I’m involving you is for that little boy’s sake. If you double-cross me as a way to get to him or McPhearson, I will nail all your asses. Got it?”

Aames looked over his shoulder at Kazad, whose hands were raised in defense. “Nobody’s trying to double-cross anybody,” he said. “Jacob’s safe return is our number one priority. But if you’re asking us not to arrest Shane McPhearson, that’s a promise I can’t make you. He’s a kidnapper until he proves otherwise.”

“Is there a ransom demand?” asked Aames.

“No, nothing like that. The women I spoke with said he has some information to give me — alone —  then he’ll return Jacob.”

“What kind of information?” Kazad asked.

“That doesn’t concern you at this point,” snapped Mead. “What does matter is if McPhearson sees any police, he’ll disappear again with the boy. This time for good, apparently. You make damned sure that little boy is safe before you try anything.”

“You have our word,” said Kazad.

“Well, I guess that’ll have to do,” Mead replied. “He’s meeting me in less than ten minutes.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-Two

The corner of S.W. Avalon and 35th streets was a steady exchange of commuters, some crossing against the light at a quick pace, others leisurely strolling the parameter of the West Seattle Golf Course, and a few pushing battered shopping carts in and out of traffic. Yellow cabs darted around lumbering busses. Business suits and designer jeans dodged outstretched hands extending from the sleeves of frayed sweaters and faded tee shirts.

Half a block away in a shaded parking space at the Pecos Pit Bar-B-Que restaurant, Shane watched from the truck with binoculars, studying the activity and looking for Patty Mead. She was late and it unnerved him. He’d give her two more minutes, then they were leaving.

“She there yet?” Jacob asked, peering over the dash.

“Not yet.”

Shane swept the lenses over street corners and along the sidewalks, stopping suddenly to adjust the focus. “Wait. I think I got her.” He leaned forward and brought Mead into focus. “Yep. That’s her.”

Mead was moving through the crowd almost at a trot as she crossed the intersection, making her way to the trash receptacle on the far corner. She waited there, slightly out of breath and nervously glancing at strangers.

“We’ll give her a minute or two and see if she talks to herself,” said Shane.

Jacob squinted as he looked through the windshield, trying to see her. “You want to know if she’s crazy?”

A grin spread below the binoculars. “That would be good to know,” he said, chuckling, “but it could also mean she’s wired and talking to someone we can’t see. Then we’d know it’s a trap.”

Jacob nodded knowingly and returned to squinting.

“Tell me the plan again,” Shane said, still watching Mead. “Just to make sure I’ve got it.”

Jacob rolled his eyes impatiently. “I look for policemen while you talk to the reporter lady. If I see anything, I call you on the walkie-talkie. When you’re done, you’ll call me and I’ll go with her.”

“That’s right. And what if something goes wrong?”

“Then I wait here for you for one hour.”

“And what if I don’t make it back by then?”

“Then I call Sam.”

“Got it.” Shane lowered the binoculars and looked at Jacob. “You ready?”

“Uh-huh,” Jacob answered flatly.

“You don’t sound ready.”

Jacob pulled his knees in, arms locking them to his chest. “Do you think this is gonna work?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think we have a good plan, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Shane pulled Jacob next to him. “But…?”

Jacob peered up from behind the crook of Shane’s arm. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

He squeezed Jacob tightly. “I’ll try my best, and my best is pretty good,” he assured him, then reached for the walkie-talkie.

**********

Mead stood next to the wire-mesh trash can, eyes glancing from corner to corner, face to face, car to car, shop window to shop window. A voice began calling from nearby. She turned, looking in all directions for a man in cowboy boots — but there was only the blank stare of passing strangers.

“In the trash can.”

She stepped back, confused.

“Don’t move away,” the voice instructed. “There’s a walkie-talkie wrapped in a donut bag. It’s near the top. Find it but don’t unwrap it.”

Mead looked around before reaching into the receptacle, attempting to appear nonchalant as she shuffled through candy wrappers, paper cups and empty food bags in search of a talking donut sack. She was well aware of the looks she was getting from passersby. Eventually, she caught sight of a brown and pink-striped bag with “Bill’s Donut Hole” emblazoned on the front. She lifted it out, feeling the weight of the walkie-talkie wrapped inside.

“Good. Now walk straight ahead one block. I’ll contact you.”

Gripping the sack, Mead waited for the light and then crossed the intersection heading south along 35th Street.

**********

From a shop window, Aames faked interest in a cigar box positioned at eye level, watching as Mead passed a parked cab on the opposite side of the street. He turned away from the window and lifted a small two-way radio to his lips. “What do you think’s in the sack?”

In the back seat of the cab, Kazad studied the bag as Mead passed him on the right. “Donuts?”

Aames peered between the cigar boxes. “We should’ve wired her. Then we’d know.”

“So would McPhearson. If he’s worth his spit as a P.I., he’s watching for that kind of thing. We can’t chance it.”

“I suppose.” Aames moved to the doorway. “I’ll move up a few shops and try getting ahead of her. I’ll radio you when I’m set.”

The cabbie looked at Kazad in the rearview. “How much longer is this gonna be?” he asked over his shoulder.

“As long as it takes. Relax, I’m a big tipper.”

**********

Shane emerged from the truck and walked through the parking lot just as a crowd departed from both ends of a metro bus. Inside the truck, Jacob leaned on the dash, elbows first, bringing the binoculars to his eyes. A giant red umbrella with blurry letters appeared. He fingered the dial between the lenses and brought things into focus like Shane had shown him. White lettering sharpened into Pecos Pit Bar-B-Que on a bright red patio umbrella. He shifted his view and caught the top of a familiar head, bringing the lenses down to watch Shane wade through the crowd. Without looking away, Jacob felt around for the walkie-talkie on the seat next to him and placed it on the dash.

He could find it in a hurry that way.

Shane had told him to watch the flow of people, especially anyone moving against it. Those who lived or worked in the area moved in patterns. Those who didn’t could be police. Jacob lowered the binoculars, surveying the ebb and flow of pedestrians as they pulsed in and around the intersection. He could see the patterns of people instinctively sifting through each other with practiced ease. It was a subconscious dance, rehearsed and refined on a daily basis into flawless movements. 

Except for one person, he noticed. Someone who caused a shift in the flow.  

Lifting the binoculars, Jacob focused on an area in front of a small cigar shop where someone was causing a ripple effect.

**********

Just ahead, Shane could see Patty Mead drifting with the crowd, clutching a donut sack and looking from side to side as she walked.

Maintaining a steady pace and short distance, he waited for her to pass then slipped next to her as she stopped at the corner of 35th and Genesee streets — an odd triangular intersection that crossed under the West Seattle Bridge.

“It’s me,” he said, sliding a hand onto her elbow. 

She turned quickly, unable to suppress a small yelp.

“I need the bag,” he said.

“What? Oh, sure. Here.” The paper crinkled as she unwedged it from beneath her arm and nervously handed it to him.

“There’s no reason to be afraid of me. I’m not a murderer or a kidnapper,” he said, taking the bag. “And I’m about to prove it to you.”

**********

Jacob scanned the movement of people, locking onto someone who was moving against the flow. It was a Black man in a long trench coat who definitely looked out of place, but not like a tourist. He knew what tourists looked like. Colorful shirts, windbreakers and always taking pictures with tiny cameras. Not this guy.

Jacob focused in as the man moved up the block. As he got closer, Jacob felt his fingers tighten around the binoculars.

He recognized him.

It was Aames. The detective from the police station.

Dropping the binoculars, Jacob snatched the walkie-talkie from the dash, fumbling with the “send” button. Just as he was about to talk, someone began knocking loudly on the driver-side window.

“Hey, kid! What’re you doing in there?”

Startled, Jacob fell against the passenger door, frantically reaching behind himself for the handle.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, kid,” the security guard said loudly from behind the glass.

The door handle behind Jacob gave, spilling him backwards out of the truck cab. He snagged the corner of the door frame, righting himself and landing feet-first onto the parking lot. But the walkie-talkie slipped from his hand, tumbling against the asphalt and into a spray of plastic shards. It continued tumbling, hissing static as it came to a stop beneath a Chevy Impala parked next to him.

The guard doubled back around the front of the truck, trying to box Jacob between the two vehicles. Leaping onto the long hood of the Impala, Jacob clambered up the windshield and over the roof, springing off the trunk and over a short fence dividing the restaurant parking lot from the gas station next door. He ran hard, heading into the crowded sidewalk, twisting and squirming between people as he went. 

Down the street, Aames was moving against the current of pedestrians when he heard yelling. He looked ahead and saw a security guard hollering into the crowd. Someone was rushing through it, causing people to move aside.

Aames quickened his pace and saw the small figure pushing his way to the street. He nearly stumbled when he recognized Jacob.

**********

“Jacob, it’s me,” Shane called into the walkie-talkie. “Are you there?” He let up on the “send” button, listening for a reply.

Only static.

“Jacob?” he repeated, then slapped the antenna back down into the radio. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean,” said Mead, hoping it meant Jacob was safe with Kazad or Aames. “I came alone, just like you asked.”

Shane’s right hand whipped around, tightening on her forearm. “Don’t bullshit me. I need to know if we’ve been set up, and I need to know right now.”

Shrill cries suddenly rose above the city noise. Shane turned and saw Jacob running toward him along the street. Behind him on the opposite side, he saw a flash of yellow as a cab door opened and someone got out. There was motion across 35th Street as well as someone began hurrying along the busy sidewalk.

“Shane! Run!” Jacob shouted. “It’s a trap!”

Kazad, who was within earshot, looked to the far side of the street and saw Jacob running in his direction. “I see the boy!” Kazad called into his radio. “Get Mead out of here!”

“Copy that!” replied Aames. He slid a hand beneath his coat and drew his firearm.

“Looks like hell’s about to break loose,” Shane said to Mead, thrusting her aside and running for Jacob. “I guess we have you to thank!”

He rushed into the street, running against the traffic toward Jacob, who had crossed and was running to meet him.

Aames, who was close behind, ran into the street as well and targeted Shane. “Seattle Police! Freeze!”

Shane saw Aames, and the look of terror on Jacob’s face.

A few more feet and they won’t risk a shot, he thought, running even faster.

Aames dropped into a firing stance and took a deep breath as Shane reached out for Jacob.

Without warning, Kazad sprang from behind the cab, scooping Jacob up and out of the line of fire.

Shane’s eyes briefly met Kazad’s as his momentum carried him past the cab, seemingly in slow motion. He tried stopping but his boots slid over the asphalt. Losing his balance, he clipped the passenger side of an oncoming car, pin-balling him backward and onto the hood of a parked vehicle. He toppled to the ground and struggled to his knees, stunned, his left eye blurred by blood trickling from a cut above it. He smeared it dry with the back of his hand, looking around wild-eyed for Jacob.

“Slow and easy, cowboy.”

Shane looked up and saw Aames staring at him from behind the barrel of a 9 mm Glock. Next to him was Kazad, with Jacob squirming beneath his left arm.

Suddenly, the whine of sliding rubber erupted from all around, followed by smashing fenders and shattering tail lights. A florist van skidded, slamming into the back corner of the cab. The impact caused Kazad to lose his grip on Jacob, who pulled himself free and ran headfirst into Aames, knocking him to the ground. The Glock clattered across the pavement toward Shane. He and Aames locked eyes as the weapon came to a stop against Shane’s boot. Instead of reaching for it, he gave it a slap-shot with the side of his heel, skimming it away from them and under a car that was now jammed against another in the middle of the street.

Shane snatched up Jacob and hoisted him over his shoulder, rushing between a gap in fender-benders and in the direction of a crowd of onlookers who had gathered across the street. They scattered as he ran at them, clearing the way to the entrance of a card shop. Shane hurried inside, carrying Jacob through one of the narrow aisles toward a curtain marked “Employees Only.” Pushing through it, he spotted a delivery entrance that led to an alley behind the store. He pulled it open and looked left down the alley as an ambulance sped past the end, heading to 35th Street. 

Emergency vehicles meant more police. 

He turned right instead, running in the opposite direction, hoping the activity along 35th would clog traffic and leave them enough time to clear the area before more police arrived.

With Jacob hanging tightly to his belt loops, Shane picked up speed, racing to the end of the alley. As he neared it, a black van came into view and skidded to a stop in front of them. Before he could turn away, the sliding door was thrown open. A pair of gunmen leaped out, forcing Shane and Jacob inside. In an instant, the men were back in, the door slamming closed behind them as the van sped away.

Down the alley, Aames burst from the back of the card shop, gun drawn. Seeing no one, he sprinted to the end and looked for Shane and Jacob.

He pivoted right.

Then left.

Then cursed.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-Three

In the prep kitchen, Sam held her French knife against the cutting board, immobilized by the scene on the small black and white television. The story from 35th Street had made the mid-morning talk shows. Though details were sketchy, a daring showdown between police and suspected kidnapper Shane McPhearson had been confirmed, along with a multi-car collision near the corner of 35th and Genesee streets. There were no serious injuries and no shots fired.

McPhearson was still at large and presumed to still be holding eight-year-old Jacob Bettington captive.

His photo appeared on screen, followed by Shane’s, taken from his private investigator’s license. It was followed by a warning: The man on your screen is considered armed and dangerous.

Laying the knife down, Sam stepped away from the television.

Things were spinning more and more out of control.

Her mind began to race, wondering where Shane and Jacob were and if they were okay.

What if they were hurt?

And what were they going to do now?

She fought to calm herself. When Shane called, he would need her help. She had to remain focused. Ready.

Not a basket case, she told herself.

The phone rang, startling her. She sprinted into the office, pausing for a beat to calm herself before scooping up the receiver. “The Nook, Sam speaking.”

“Samantha Wells?” the man asked.

Not recognizing the voice, she hesitated before answering. “Who’s asking?”

“Hold tight, sweetheart.”

The line went dead.

Seconds later, an explosion tore through The Nook, scattering it into Magnolia Beach Bay.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sparlo stood at the window of his office. He’d purchased the space more than two years ago and never tired of the view. From his vantage on the 12th floor, the entire stretch of West Seattle was before him, including a large portion of The Sound and nearby ferries that connected the mainland to Vashon and Bainbridge islands, as well as those traveling to Vancouver, B.C. Beyond that, due south, he could see the tip of Magnolia Bay.

With contentment, he watched rising smoke drifting eastward, driven by strong bay winds.

“That should get your attention, Mr. McPhearson,” he said, tapping his finger against the glass. A knock came from his office door. “Come in,” he said, still looking out the window.

A tall, well-tailored man with glacier-blue eyes entered, his mood casual as he walked to the Italian leather chair opposite Sparlo’s massive mahogany desk. He sat and crossed his long, Armani pant legs. “How’s the show?”

“Nicely done, Oscar.”

“I called first. Made sure she was there. A couple others ended up as part of the equation but it couldn’t be helped. The whole place fell into the water.”

Sparlo gave a final look out the window before settling into his dark leather wing-back chair. “How long until someone other than our friend realizes it was deliberate?”

“Hard to say. A week? Maybe two? What’s left of the detonator is halfway to the Pacific by now. The rest is at the bottom of the bay.” Spotting a piece of fuzz on his pant leg, Oscar Tarretti brushed it off with one, smooth motion. “Even if they drag it, they’ll find Jimmy Hoffa before they find anything conclusive. It was designed to obliterate the structure and itself.”

Sparlo leaned back and swiveled toward the window once again. He watched as the smoke began turning from coal black to dark gray. The flames were put out. Now it was just a matter of dousing the embers of whatever was left of Sam’s Chowder Nook. “I want our people everywhere. He’s going to reach out soon. When he does, you make sure we’re the first ones he touches — and the last.”

**********

Blindfolded, Shane gripped Jacob’s hand as they were led from the van. Echoes of shuffling feet and closing van doors told him they were in an enclosed area. A tunnel or underground parking garage maybe. A high-pitched chime was followed by the slide of elevator doors. They were quickly ushered inside, with the doors closing behind them, then the tug of gravity as they ascended.

“Where are we,” Shane said in a monotone.

No answer.

“You guys can’t be too dangerous if you don’t even have bad elevator music.”

The elevator came to a stop, the doors slid open and he felt a nervous squeeze from Jacob’s hand.

“You need to come with me, son,” a voice instructed.

A hand clamped onto Shane’s wrist as Jacob was pulled from his grasp.

“Shane!” Jacob cried out.

Shane fought to break away and kicked upward into something fleshy. He heard groaning and the twin impact of knees striking the floor. In an instant, multiple sets of hands latched onto him, locking his feet together and pinning his arms behind him as Jacob’s cries moved farther and farther away.

“It’s going to be okay!” Shane yelled, still struggling.

Far down the hall, a door slammed shut over Jacob’s protests.

“I swear, if you hurt him in any way — ”

“Nobody’s going to hurt that boy,” a man answered. “So just relax.”

Confused and disoriented, Shane allowed himself to be taken along a carpeted hall. A door handle was turned and he was guided into a room that smelled of sweat, deodorant and cigarette smoke. The grip on him loosened and the blindfold was removed, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dimly lit room. Ahead of him, someone in a dress shirt and loosened tie, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pointed to an empty chair.

“Have a seat,” the man said.

Shane eyed him, then the others around him. Most had shoulder holsters. “No, thanks.”

“It wasn’t offered out of hospitality,” the man said, pointing again. “Have a seat, Mr. McPhearson.”

Probably not the time to make a stand, Shane thought. At least not yet. He took the seat, which was positioned beneath a brightly burning table lamp. “Who the hell are you guys? I didn’t know they were making a sequel to ‘The Untouchables.’”

A few quiet chuckles were quickly suppressed before the man spoke, unamused. “For the time being, I’ll ask the questions, smart ass.” He turned and removed a pack of Camels unfiltered cigarettes from the pocket of a coat draped over his chair. He offered one to Shane, who waved it off, then took one for himself. “I’m Lieutenant Jack Dalton, FBI,” he said, tamping the cigarette against his palm. “You’re a hard man to get ahold of, which is good. Because if you weren’t, both you and that little boy would be dead by now.”

Dalton fished a small, silver Zippo lighter from his pants pocket. “Right now, you’re the lead suspect in this apparent kidnapping,” he explained, the words coming from the corner of his mouth as he snapped the lighter open and lit his cigarette. After a puff, he flipped the lighter closed. “I have a feeling there’s more to it than that — a hell of a lot more.”

Shane eyed Dalton as the tip of his cigarette turned bright red.

“So let’s start our conversation with a basic question,” said Dalton. “What do you know about the death of Lynda Bettington?”

[Previous Chapters]  

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bleary-eyed, Kazad climbed the stairs into the squad room. He’d managed to steal 90 minutes of sleep. He needed at least that much more, but Hammond wanted the report on the 35th Street incident ready in an hour. Aames had called him at home and was on his way.

He tossed his coat on the rack, grabbed his mug and rinsed it in the sink before filling it to the top ringlet with burnt coffee. He made the proper adjustments with extra amounts of powdered cream and sugar, then went to his desk. He thumbed a dial below his computer screen and waited for the monitor to warm up.

His fingers hit the keyboard and entered: KAZAD.

A table of contents flashed to the screen. He highlighted the REPORTS option and pressed enter, waiting as the hard drive growled and whined. He started at the curser, lost in thought.

The image of Jacob running to McPhearson wouldn’t leave his mind. Neither would McPhearson’s decision to kick the gun away. It had been replaying in his mind all afternoon; the man had ample opportunity to take the weapon and use it, but chose not to.

That wasn’t the act of a desperate criminal.

Neither were the reports copied from the records department, or the re-abduction of Jacob from the shipping yard. All of it pointed to someone who was aware of the questions surrounding Bettington’s death.

Or possibly someone who knew the answers.

If Hollins was right, and it was a case of murder being covered up by Internal Affairs, what if McPhearson found out?

A chilling thought then surfaced.

What if Jacob was the one who told him, or at least knew enough to get him headed in the right direction? At the hospital, Jacob made it clear something happened before he was left in the park. Something so disturbing that he wasn’t willing to talk about it.

What if McPhearson was able to break that silence? If he found evidence that the police had not only murdered the child’s mother but managed to cover it up, would he go to them for help?

Like a stray dog runs to the pound, he thought.

Shane McPhearson was something other than a kidnapper. He was convinced of that now. It was time to convince Chief Hammond of it as well.

He looked down at the manilla folder tucked into his briefcase. There was enough information there to raise questions but not enough to eliminate all doubt. Hammond was a hard sell; he’d need concrete evidence, testimony from someone like Patty Mead.

He snatched up the phone, dialed KIRO and asked for Mead’s extension.

“She’s not in yet,” the receptionist said. “Would you care to leave a message?”

Kazad left his phone and pager number, telling the woman it was urgent. He hung up and noticed Aames walking toward him, his face ashen.

“You have that look again.”

“What look,” Aames muttered flatly.

“Like you’re about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”

Aames took a seat on the corner of the desk and exhaled loudly. “It depends on whether you’ve listened to the news in the last 30 minutes.”

“Can’t say I have. But it sounds like I should have.”

“Remember Samanthas Wells?”

“Of course. The search warrant for her place is in my briefcase.”

“You won’t need it,” Aames said. “An explosion took it out.”

“What? When?”

“About 45 minutes ago. The whole place is gone. What little is left is floating in Magnolia Bay.”

“What about Wells? Is she…”

Aames slowly shook his head. “They found her in the water. It doesn’t look good.”

“Jesus,” Kazad whispered.

A doorknob rattled from across the room as Chief Hammond exited his office into the squad room. “Jim. Walter. Your ass-chewing’s been postponed.”

Aames stood up from the desk corner. “Sir?”

“I just got buzzed from upstairs,” Hammond slipped into his sports coat. “I.A. isn’t wasting any time with you two. Russ Braden wants the three of us in his office in five minutes.”

Kazad curled his fist around the handle of his briefcase.

It was time to blow the lid off the damned thing, he thought. Right now, in the heart of Internal Affairs, in the middle of Braden’s office, and in the presence of Chief Hammond.

He saw Aames glance at him, then the briefcase, and give a supportive nod.

It was time, indeed.

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-Six

When the door to Braden’s office opened, both Kazad and Aames were surprised by the sight of Tabitha Mills standing in the far corner of the room. Braden rose and motioned to a cluster of chairs around the edge of his desk. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

As Kazad sat, he noticed a thick manilla folder held closed with a wide rubber band resting on the desk in front of Braden.

“Gentlemen, I know you’ve met officer Mills before.”

“Officer?” said Kazad. “I thought she was with Child Protective Services.”

“She works for me, at least for the time being. I asked for help from the state attorney general’s office because I needed someone who wouldn’t be recognized from I.A.”

“I’m not following you, Russ,” said Hammond.

“There’s a lot that we’ve kept from you,” Braden confessed. “You have two officers we believe are murderers. But that’s only part of it.”

“Only part of what?” said Hammond, his shock quickly shifting to anger. He didn’t like being blindsided. “You’re telling me you suspect dirty cops in my precinct — cops you think might have committed murder, for Christ’s sake — and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

“There’s more to it than that, Chief. Much more. Enough to involve a team from Washington, D.C.”

“The feds are part of this too?” Hammond suddenly stood from his chair.

“It’s their show, Russ. We became involved when your officers became involved. Since then, we’ve been working together and trying hard to keep it under wraps. You’ll understand why after I explain, so please — have a seat.”

Hammond lowered himself back into his chair, hands tightly gripping the armrests. “I don’t see how all of this could’ve been happening without me knowing. Especially murder. How could I miss that? How could Hollins miss it?”

“He didn’t,” Kazad said, eyeing Braden.

Braden folded his hands, resting them on the manilla folder. “That’s right. He didn’t. Instead, he falsified documents to make it look as though the Lynda Bettington shoot was clean. We have reason to believe it wasn’t.” He tapped the folder. “This is Hollins’ original take on the evidence — and it’s very different than the one that was filed officially. This report raises serious questions about the incident and what officers Perkins and Taylor said happened.”

Hammond was visibly stunned. 

“In Hollins defense,” Braden continued, “I think you should know he had reasons for doing what he did.”

“What the hell kind of reason could he have for falsifying official reports?” Hammond snapped.

“Because I told him to,” Braden said.

Kazad was numb with confusion, with Aames’ expression mirroring the same.

“Let me take you through this thing a step at a time,” Braden said. “Then I’ll answer your questions.”

Hammond crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Fair enough.”

Braden slipped the rubber band from around the folder and removed a photo. “I’m sure you all know this man, Rick Sparlo.”

The three of them nodded.

“The state office has been watching him for a good while but hasn’t been able to tie anything substantial to him. The man knows how to cover his ass by buying people. Until recently, he was able to keep those people off the radar. But a few weeks ago, state agents got wind of two officers who were suspected of being on Sparlo’s payroll.”

“Perkins and Taylor,” Kazad said, his mind quickly filling in the blanks.

“Correct. Internal Affairs was contacted by the state office and told to keep an eye on them both. At that point, it was pretty routine stuff. We get lots of calls from ex-cons wanting to make trouble for cops. Happens all the time, so we didn’t think much if it. At least, not until the night Lynda Bettington was shot to death.”

Braden slipped a stapled section of pages from the file. “These are the initial reports submitted by Hollins. They raise a number of questions. But it was decided by the attorney general’s office the sum total wasn’t enough to assure a conviction.”

“So because it wasn’t a slam-dunk, two dirty cops were allowed to keep their badges,” Hammond said in disgust.

Braden held up his hand. “You need to realize, at this point, we were taking orders from the state. They wanted Sparlo. Period. Taylor or Perkins — preferably both — would need to roll over on Sparlo for that to happen. The only way to assure that was by having enough evidence to flash the death penalty in their faces. These reports weren’t enough for that. Then something happened, something no one could have anticipated.”

“Jacob,” Kazad said.

“That’s right, detective. Suddenly, we had an eight-year-old potential material witness to the crime, something that could give us the leverage we needed to turn Perkins and Taylor. We also had to assume Sparlo was aware of the same, and that he could indirectly be exposed through the boy’s testimony. Problem was, we had to find him. That’s when Shane McPhearson entered the picture and things became… complicated.”

Kazad chuckled to himself. “Let me guess. When Jacob’s status changed from ‘missing’ to ‘kidnapped,’ the feds got involved and suddenly the sandbox everyone was playing in got pretty crowded.”

“Exactly,” said Braden. “A case we wanted to keep low profile went wide. The media moved in, reporting daily, sometimes hourly. For Jacob’s safety, we had to do whatever we could to keep the operation under wraps. If Sparlo began to suspect how many different agencies were working together to nail him, the streets could’ve become a war zone with Jacob caught in the crossfire. That’s why we had to make it look like we had backed off of Perkins and Taylor.”

“And why you had Hollins fake the reports,” Hammond said, unfolding his arms for the first time since sitting back down.

“It was the only way to keep Jacob from becoming a target, and also keep from scaring off the big fish before we could bait the hooks.” Braden placed the photo and reports back in the folder and stretched the rubber band back around it. “When things went south, Shane McPhearson was the fly in the ointment that kept that boy alive — mostly by being a pain in a number of asses.”

Braden then looked between Kazad and Aames. “And while we’re on the subject of pains in the ass, you two are the reason we’re even having this conversation. You were told to back off, yet you’ve continued pursuing the matter. We’ve been keeping a close eye on the both of you, and your collaboration with Patty Mead. It’s been crucial for us to get Jacob Bettington and Shane McPhearson into protective custody without Sparlo knowing it. We needed him thinking the two of them were still in hiding. That stunt on 35th Street today could’ve jeopardized everything. Only by the grace of God, and some creative public relations, were we able to keep a lid on things and accomplish that goal.”

Aames’ eyes widened. “Are you saying you have them? Jacob’s safe?”

“Actually, the FBI has them. And yes,” said Braden. “Lieutenant Jack Dalton is explaining the situation to them right now.”

“What about Patty Mead?” asked Kazad.

“We’re offering her an exclusive if she’ll keep this off the air until after we nail Sparlo.”

Hammond leaned forward toward Braden. “Perkins and Taylor? Can I assume there’s a 24-hour watch on those bastards?”

“The feds have them under constant surveillance.”

“Should’ve done the same for Samantha Wells,” said Kazad.

Braden sighed, bringing his hands together in front of him. “That was a tactical error, detective. The feds decided against physical surveillance in a community that small. Too risky. So they opted for tapping the phone lines instead. No one anticipated she’d become a target. But it goes to show that Sparlo is now like a vial of nitro. We can’t risk shaking him up until we’re sure everyone’s out of the way when he explodes.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“So let me get this straight,” Shane said, dumbfounded. “You’re on our side?”

Dalton nodded. “Bingo.”

“Then why the screeching tires and cloak and dagger stuff?”

Dalton flicked ashes into a paper cup. “Even though we were ninety-nine percent sure that Jacob’s abduction wasn’t a true kidnapping, we couldn’t chance being wrong. The guns and blindfolds were just in case we were.”

“I get it, I suppose. I’m just glad it’s over,” said Shane.

Dalton paused then took an audible breath. “There’s something you need to know, and I think it’s best Jacob not hear about it just yet.”

Shane studied Dalton’s face. “Christ… Sam — It’s about Sam, isn’t it.”

“There was an explosion at The Nook.”

“A what? Is she OK?” He began to stand, then stopped himself. “What am I saying. You wouldn’t be telling me like this if she was.” He slowly sat back down and buried his face in his hands, running them down his cheeks until they came to rest under his chin. “How bad?”

“The blast took out the supports under the pier,” said Dalton. “She was lucky enough to be standing next to the back door. She escaped the full force of the explosion but sustained a lot of internal injuries from the falling debris.”

“How bad?” Shane repeated.

“Optimistically, about fifty-fifty.”

Shane leaned forward on his elbows, looking down into the carpet. “So… a bomb?”

“We can’t prove it — yet — but yes,” said Dalton. “More than likely as a message. Sparlo’s trying to force you to the surface.”

Shane’s gaze remained down as he slowly shook his head. “I was so busy trying to protect Jacob that I left Sam totally vulnerable. How could I have been so stupid.”

“None of us saw that coming.”

“Where is she now?” asked Shane.

“Harborview, with tight undercover security,” said Dalton. “She has a team of surgeons and nurses assigned to her. She’s in good hands. The rest is up to luck. Or God — whichever you believe in.”

“I believe in both,” said Shane.

“Then her chances just doubled,” Dalton said with an encouraging nod.

There was a knock at the door, and Patty Mead entered with Jacob. “Shane!” he yelled, racing across the room.

Shane quickly pivoted from his seat and took one knee, almost knocked over by Jacob as he leaped onto him and wrapped his arms around Shane’s neck.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Jacob said tearfully and tightened his hug.

Shane rocked Jacob from side to side. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Mead watched the reunion with an awkward smile. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

Shane gave Jacob a final squeeze then stood, one hand still on Jacob’s small shoulder. “Apology accepted.”

Dalton broke in. “First thing tomorrow, we’re going to cover everything — and I mean everything — the three of you knows. Then we’ll decide how we’re going to nail that son of a bitch to the wall.” He finished off his cigarette with one, long drag, then billowed smoke upward. “It’s going to be my kind of day.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Shane and Jacob were separated, each of them accompanied by a handful of investigators from the FBI, Internal Affairs and the Washington Bureau of Investigation. Also on hand, at the official request of Russ Braden, were James Kazad and Walter Aames. In each interview room was a video camera recording their accounts of the events leading up to yesterday’s incident on 35th Street. The debriefing took nearly three hours, with Shane and Jacob elaborating on every question in as much detail as possible. Along with Mead’s testimony taken earlier that day, a timeline began to form and, by late afternoon, a picture of Lynda Bettington’s final hours came into focus.

The night of her death, Lynda was definitely leaving her husband. The car packed with suitcases, along with Jacob’s testimony that he and his mother were on their way to his grandmother’s in Oregon, supported that. As did the evidence of child abuse recorded by Hollins in the crime lab. The decision to stop at Sharon Reese’s, whether to stay the night or say goodbye, was the turning point.

Lynda was obviously unaware of Reese’s activities, and certainly any connection to Rick Sparlo.

When officers Taylor and Perkins arrived, Lynda found herself hiding with Jacob in the bedroom where, together, they overheard the threats and struggling that prompted Lynda to rush to her sister’s aid — a move that made her a potential threat to Perkins and Taylor.

And ultimately Rick Sparlo.

When Lynda left the condo with Jacob and raced away in their Dodge, Perkins and Taylor pursued, fearing what she could expose. It was uncertain if murder was their intent at that point. What wasn’t in doubt was their lack of knowledge concerning Jacob; they had no idea he existed, and Lynda managed to keep it that way by letting him out in Lincoln Park. It appeared her plan was to come back for him or, at the very least, draw them away from Jacob. Unfortunately, the crash in the industrial district changed everything.

Once medics arrived, there would be inquiries — and an obvious risk posed by Lynda. If she talked, discovering the link between them and Sparlo would’ve only been a matter of time.

The only solution was to set Lynda up, then silence her.

No one would be the wiser. Or so they thought.

The smoke from Dalton’s unfiltered cigarette drifted lazily toward the ceiling as he finished up his overview of the timeline from the head of a long metal table. Kazad and Aames sat across from Shane, with several agents seated around the rest of the table.

Across the hall, Jacob was playing a video game on a Sega system that had been smuggled in for him.

“I think the main pieces of our puzzle have been assembled,” Dalton said. “Unfortunately, we still have a large hole where our irrefutable evidence should be — namely, an eyewitness to the crime. Jacob was not there when his mother was killed.”

“But he did see Perkins and Taylor 30 minutes prior to the shooting,” Kazad offered. “He did hear threats. That’ll count for something.”

Dalton nodded. “Absolutely. And coupled with Hollins’ reports and testimony, we could build a case against Perkins and Taylor. I’m just not convinced it’ll be strong enough.”

“What about Reese?” Shane asked. “If you could get her to testify — ”

“Not going to happen,” said Aames.

“How do you know? She lied for Jacob’s sake before. Maybe offer her Witness Protection.”

Following an awkward silence, Kazad said, “We found her body this morning. Made to look like an O.D.”

“She was murdered?”

“First-time users generally under-shoot. This girl had a syringe full,” said Kazad. “Heroin. Just like what was found — or planted — in Lynda’s car.”

“We’re getting away from the point,” said Dalton, a little annoyed. “We need to be talking about what we can prove. Right now, all we really have is two cops mistreating a known prostitute, and a younger sister who supplied the heroin that killed her.”

“C’mon, Dalton,” said Shane. “Jacob’s mom wasn’t a dealer and you know it.”

“Prove it. Prove that Perkins or Taylor planted the drugs in the car that night. Prove that she wasn’t trying to avoid a drug bust when her car hit that commercial dumpster and spun out of control. Prove to me she wasn’t going to just leave her son in the park that night,” said Dalton, adding: “These are the questions a good defense attorney will raise. And the answers to those questions could still be seen as speculative. What we know doesn’t matter, only what we can prove.”

Shane glared at Dalton but knew he was right.

Dalton stood from the table and stretched, giving Shane’s shoulder a quick pat before slowly pacing around the table. “Until we can prove something that directly links them to the murder, or Sparlo — preferably both — all we have is a roll of the dice in getting a conviction. I want guaranteed box cars on this one. We’ve worked to damned hard for anything less.” He glanced at Shane. “And too many people have been hurt. I won’t have the D.A. enter the courtroom with his fingers crossed. I want these two murderers. And I want their boss.”

“So what’ll it take to lock this thing up?” asked Shane.

“A confession would be nice,” someone muttered.

“I was granted a Title Three last night, so we’ve had Sparlo’s phones tapped for the last 10 hours or so,” said Dalton. “We’ve been hoping for some name-dropping, but nothing so far. I’m sure he’s being very coy until all of this lands.”

“How’d you wire the place?” asked Shane.

“One of his drivers is an agent,” said Dalton. “He’s been undercover for the last seven months. We were working the long game until things shifted into high gear this week. But with Sparlo being tight-lipped, we’ll have to ramp things up a little more — and we’ll need your help in doing that.”

“You have it,” Shane said without hesitation.

“We want you to have a face-to-face meeting with Sparlo. You’ll be wired, and your job will be to get an admission from him, something on tape tying Perkins and Taylor to him.”

“What if Sparlo gets suspicious, or just decides to shoot me on the spot?”

“The meeting place will be surrounded by undercover agents. If something goes wrong, we’ll yank you out.” 

“And Jacob?”

“No involvement. You’ll tell Sparlo you killed Jacob when things got hot,” Dalton explained. “You’re only looking for a nest egg to leave the country with.”

Shane thought about this, silently nodding.

“For the next 24 hours we’ll sit tight,” Dalton said. “We’ll let the press drop to a simmer and Sparlo sweat a little. Then, tomorrow night, an agent will call him to set up a meeting.”

“Shouldn’t I set it up?” asked Shane.

“Sparlo’s never heard your voice. He won’t know the difference. What’s important is that this initial contact be flawless. A hesitation at the wrong time, or a fumbled answer, could blow the whole deal. I want one of my guys to handle it.”

Shane nodded in agreement.

“In the meantime, we need to find the perfect meeting spot. Somewhere that allows you a quick escape route while, at the same time, lets us remain close without being noticed.” Dalton moved empty soda cans and paper coffee cups aside in order to get a good look at the map of Seattle and Tacoma taped to the table top.

Everyone leaned over, eyes scanning the central nervous system that connected Seattle with the suburbs and neighboring Tacoma, looking for a spot that could prove to be Rick Sparlo’s last stand.

“What about Pier 66 at Bell Harbor?” Aames suggested. “Lots of fishing boats and cargo ships. We can pose as dockworkers. Plenty of places for Shane to run. Hell, he can jump into Elliot Bay if he has to.”

“Terrific,” Shane muttered.

Dalton studied it. “Take Philips with you. Scope the place out. Philips, you know what to look for.”

“You got it.”

“Pick up some dinner on the way back,” Dalton said. “Chinese. Not too spicy.”

“I know a good soul food place,” Aames said, looking back over his shoulder and scanning everyone’s faces. “Fine, but this room could use some soul.”

As they left, a familiar video game melody came from across the hall.

“You any good at Mario?” Dalton asked Shane.

“Never played.”

“How about you?” he asked Kazad.

“I’m lucky to get in and out of the password screen on my computer.”

“I see. Looks like the best run for my money’s gonna come from Jacob.” Dalton chuckled. “I should’ve figured.”

[Previous Chapters]

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Coming August 16:

No Safe Harbor

In paperback, hardcover and eBook

More details in the coming weeks!