“I suspect he’s due for release soon.”
“That’s the thing, he’s already been released.”
“What?”
Quinn passed a folder bearing the Washington Department of Corrections seal to Henry. “Here’s his DOC file. Seems Leon behaved himself inside, paid his bill in full. He was released several months ago.”
“Really? But he’d still have a Community Corrections Officer. Besides, the FBI would be your best bet to help you with your theory. They’re the lead jurisdiction.”
“The FBI did help me.”
Quinn slid a photocopy of another document. A single page. Handwritten and signed by Leon Sperbeck. An evidence tag indicated it was from National Park Service Rangers.
“It’s a suicide note.”
It was short, printed in block letters, conveying Sperbeck’s despair, his loneliness, his inability to find work, feeding his isolation and shame over his crime.
…NO FUCKING POINT IN GOING ON I’LL CLEANSE MY SOUL IN THE RIVER AND START OVER IN THE NEXT LIFE…
After Henry had read it, Quinn said, “Sperbeck left it nailed to a tree near Cougar Rock at Mount Rainier National Park, then disappeared into the Nisqually River. Although his body still hasn’t been recovered, the FBI and DOC verified that Sperbeck wrote it.”
Quinn slapped a glossy photograph on the table.
All the spit dried in Henry’s mouth. His heart pulled him back through time as he stared into the face of his nightmare. The demon his shrink had urged him to confront all those years ago was staring at him.
You must face him, Henry, or you’ll be consumed by what happened.
There he was.
Leon Dean Sperbeck of Wichita, Kansas. Staring back from his arrest photo, taken over twenty-five years ago. Coal-black eyes burning with defiance. Another photo slapped on the table. Sperbeck’s recent offender- release photo.
Sperbeck had barely aged.
“I get the feeling that you doubt that Sperbeck is dead?” Henry said.
“In this job you do a lot of research on suicide notes. In some studies, experts were unable to distinguish between genuine suicide notes and fabricated ones.”
“But the FBI and DOC both say Sperbeck wrote this.”
“I’ll buy that. But is it genuine? No one’s found his corpse.” Quinn leaned forward. “Sperbeck spent twenty-five years in prison without uttering a word about a $3.3 million heist. He served all his time without applying for early release, probably because there are fewer strings attached once you’re out. So, I think that if he was despondent, he would have been found hanging in his cell, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. What do you want from me?”
“Help me.”
“Help you how?”
“I started on this file in anticipation of Sperbeck’s release, thinking he’d be a strong lead to the money.”
“Well, it looks like it’s all dead-ended.” Henry slid the documents back, checked his watch. “I really can’t help you. I’ve got a lot on the go.”
“I appreciate your situation, but please hear me out.”
Henry waited.
“Shortly after the heist, the armored-car company went out of business. It was a small company founded by two ex-Seattle cops. They’ve since passed away, one from cancer, the other from a heart attack. The guards have passed away, too. Your partner is dead and now the only known suspect is maybe dead. So that leaves only you.”
Henry took a moment to absorb matters.
“What the hell are you saying, Ethan?”
“I need your help. I believe that the money’s out there somewhere.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“I think Leon wants us to think he’s dead and is out there looking for his share of the money. I’d like you to consider helping me on this case.”
“That case cost me a piece of my life.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t know, let me think about it,” Henry stood. “Before I go, can I get a copy of the files and his picture?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
B runo Stone’s eyes took a slow walk over Rhonda Boland.
She was in her best outfit, a form-fitting JCPenney number, nervously sitting beside him on a stool in the Twisted Palms Bar at the Pacific Eden Rose Hotel.
Bruno ran the Twisted Palms.
He had dyed, gel-slicked hair. His tattooed forearm propped his head and he tapped his teeth with his pinky ring as he went back to reading Rhonda’s resume.
“It says here you worked in Vegas a long time ago.”
“For several years, yes.”
“You know what I think about Vegas?
How would she know?
“Vegas is like LA. It’s a magnet for dreamers.”
Rhonda nodded slowly.
“Well, this place is where people bury their dreams. You get what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, honey. You gotta know that the Twisted Palms is a dive bar. It’s respectable. But it’s a dive bar. That’s all there is to it. And working here, you’re going to get come-ons, get grabbed, sworn at.”
“Ever work a supermarket cash register, Bruno?”
A gap-toothed smile escaped from his face to signal that he liked her. He tapped his ring to his teeth to help him think some more.
“Look, my reading of this tells me you don’t know much about tending bar. But you could probably waitress. The tips are good and I usually need waitresses.”
Rhonda’s hopes soared. She needed a second job.
“The thing is, I don’t need any waitresses for the time being. So I’m going to keep your number handy and…”
Rhonda stopped listening after that.
It was like her two other interviews. Strikeouts. When she got home, she checked her machine for any callbacks. Nothing but a message from her insurance company confirming that she was not covered for the type of “experimental” surgery Brady was going to have. And Dr. Choy’s office had called confirming the date for Brady’s appointment.
She didn’t have the money for this.
As Rhonda stood alone in the living room, her breathing quickened. She had to do something. Maybe she could sell the house? She didn’t know if she wanted to sell the house. It wouldn’t hurt to get an appraisal from a real estate agent. They were always offering free ones.
She headed for Brady’s room and switched on his secondhand computer. As it warmed up, she glanced into Brady’s wastepaper basket, noticing a crumpled sheet of paper and the fragment of a letter he’d written. She retrieved it and flattened it out. It was addressed to the circulation manager of the Seattle Mirror. Dear Sir or Madam: I am writing to enquire if you have any jobs for newspaper delivery boys in my neighborhood. I am twelve years old and know my neighborhood pretty well and therefore would make a good person for the job. Also, my mom and I really need the extra money so I would be very responsible. Yours truly,
Brady Boland
Rhonda blinked back her tears.
At that moment the door opened and Brady called down the hall.
“Hi Mom! Going to the park with Justin and Ryan, be home in time for supper, okay?”
Rhonda swallowed hard to find her voice.
“Did you take your medicine today?”
“Yes. And I feel fine!”
“Be home in one hour, kid!”
“Okay. Bye!”
She heard him leave then the phone rang in the living room and hope fluttered in her stomach.
Maybe a job? Or an overtime shift at the supermarket? Or maybe Dr. Hillier to say there’s been a huge mistake with the tests and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Brady? Oh please let it be good news.
“Hello?”
Her answer was swallowed by silence at the other end. Her caller ID showed the incoming number as “Blocked.”
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Nothing. No breathing. No background noise. Just absolute silence.
But Rhonda sensed someone was on the other end.
“Who are you calling, please?”
Nothing.
She hung up.
This was the third time someone had called to give her the silent treatment. She waved it off as kids playing on the phone, or some crank.