by Mark Hazard
“That’s interesting.”
“You know, Chu said something about you to me, when he first asked me to take you on.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“He said you were constantly annoyed, but never bothered.”
Corus laughed and laughed again, harder. “Chu said that? Damn. I suppose that’s fair.”
“Sounds to me like you see order where others see chaos. You see cause and effect in the cool light of day, where others see their pains and projections of the way it oughta be.”
Corus had no comeback to that.
“Some people would call that cold, skeptical or unfeeling. But I think you feel a great deal. I think you just have always found understanding to center your reality. It’s quite a remarkable trait, really.”
“Thanks.” Corus accepted the kindness of the compliment even if he didn’t fully understand what it meant.
“So here’s a question for you,” Eugene said.
Pain eased around Corus’ hip.
“If it’s a matter of the battle between chaos and order, do our actions mean anything? Or is it all decided?”
A cooler burn remained in the wake of the deep throbbing around his scar, radiating outward.
“Does death alone mean that chaos ultimately wins?”
FIFTEEN
Chu, and Corus sat around an eight-foot-long trestle table Corus had set up in his windowless storage room turned office.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Chu said.
“Did you go to evidence for me?”
Chu handed Corus a plastic bag. “Didn’t we pull this doohickey from some hacker kid’s bedroom?”
“Rosen,” Corus said, “you got the hotel registry?”
Rosen handed a printed copy to Corus.
He looked it over, before asking, “Anything fishy about it?”
“Nothing I’ve seen yet, sir. Nobody checked out at the desk that night. Some people left early before the bodies were discovered. I think some slipped away between the time the bodies were found and the time we arrived to take down their info. They would have just left the key cards. I’m not finished familiarizing myself with all the details. I’ll keep looking for any anomalies.”
“Did you read through the family statements?”
“I did.” Rosen reached across his muscled chest to scratch at his shoulder.
It was easy to look built with a Kevlar vest on in normal uniform, but Rosen was in plain clothes now. It was obvious he was in fine physical shape. Corus had never been that buff, not even in the Army.
“But the wife’s family didn’t seem to think anything was out of the ordinary about them going up to Skokim Pass. Her sister was adamant that they were robbed.”
“Any reason why?” Corus asked.
“I didn’t see in the notes,” Rosen said.
“Whose notes?”
“Inspector Charles, I think.”
“Jesus.” Corus pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What has happened with all of the Griffins’ belongings? Their house?” Chu asked.
“Good question. I imagine they’ve been sold off or given to family,” Corus said. “Worth checking up on. Rosen, that’s you.”
Rosen made a note on a small pad.
“Ask her sister what she thought might have been stolen,” Corus added. “Fucking Charles…”
“So, what did we find with the bank documents?” Chu asked.
“I’m sorry sirs. I haven’t had much luck with them.”
“What is your first name, Rosen?”
“Abraham. Abe.”
“Abe, you’re going to have to do better than that. You gotta think like I’m not here to guide you. What should you do?”
“I can tell that it’s account transfers, but I can’t tell much more. I can’t decipher some of the abbreviations and acronyms. I thought about calling my cousin Adam. He works for a bank, but I didn’t know if it was appropriate to share case details.”
“Where are they going? Chu asked. “The transfers.”
“I can’t tell.”
“Are you really telling me you don’t know what a routing number is?”
Rosen laughed and shook his head. “No, no, I do. I tried looking into that, sir. But it’s blacked out for security purposes.”
“Security purposes?” Corus sat up in his chair. “We are the security purpose.”
“I called Mr. Badcocke, at the bank. I told him we would do better with the routing and account numbers. He said it was procedure to redact that stuff. He said if he gave over private client information without a warrant, he could lose his job.”
“Private information…” Corus grumbled. “Wasn’t Miles Griffin dealing with inter-bank transfers? How is that private client information?”
“Did I do something wrong?” Rosen asked. “It made sense at first. I just assumed—”
“No, he’s within his rights,” Chu said. “Not your fault. They volunteered the information.”
Corus slammed a fist down on the table. “This guy is playing games with us. I thought I made it clear to him that I’d rip that place apart if he didn’t cooperate. I gave him a chance to put Miles first.”
“Do you think that Andy guy would help us?” Rosen asked. “He seemed helpful.”
“That Andy guy was the one who gave us the useless papers.” Corus turned to Chu. “Oh yeah, did I mention who we had the pleasure of meeting at the central branch of Pacific Trust?”
“Who?” Chu asked.
“Andrew Garvey.”
“Garvey? Like Ed Garvey, Garvey?”
Corus lifted an eyebrow. “He isn’t the Vice Commissioner’s spitting image or anything, but the resemblance is there, especially that thin, upturned nose. Plus I checked. Andrew Garvey, born 1974, Kirkland, WA to Edward and Loretta Garvey. One of two boys and a girl.”
“Holy guacamole!” Chu said. That was about the closest Chu ever came to cussing.
“So that younger guy at the bank,” Rosen asked, “he was the County Vice Commissioner’s son?”
Chu puffed out his cheeks, then looked to Corus whose eyes were downcast at the scattered reports and crime scene photos lurking on the table. “So what do we do next? Get a warrant?”
“I have a better idea, and Chu, it’s best you not know about it.”
Corus found a parking space just off 3rd Avenue in downtown Seattle. He ran two blocks up Union Street and into the lobby of an enormous building. An elevator was just closing, and he slammed his way into it. After taking a breath, Corus adjusted his coat and nodded to the young woman he’d startled. She rolled her eyes to the side and continued sipping on her caramel macchiato. At the 18th floor, he exited and strode through the halls of Colson Private Equity’s executive office suites, his head on a swivel.
A young man in a stylish suit at a reception desk called out, “Can I help you? Sir! Could you please wait!” The man attempted to get up, but the cord on his headset caught him just long enough for Corus to get by. A row of plush offices looked out along the south windows. He crossed the floor toward them, down the wide central aisle between the sea of workstations and cubicles. He reached the offices and looked at each of the name placards as he passed them by.
“Sir! You can’t just come in here! Sir, do you have an appointment?”
Corus walked faster. At the last office in the row, the corner unit, he found the name plaque for “Torrance Fletcher,” and opened the door without knocking. No one was inside. He whipped around, eyes searching desks and cubicles. The young the receptionist closed on him and waved a finger. “Listen. Randoes in trench coats can’t just come barging in here. Do you want me to call the cops?”
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
Corus pointed to the plaque on the door.
“He’s out for lunch,” said the man, softening a bit. “If you’d like, you can leave a message. You need to leave. This is a private business.”
A suited man
flanked by two taller suits strolled down the center aisle Corus had just come down. The man was of medium height, not fat, but heavier than the last time Corus had seen him, with a thinning head of auburn hair and a sad attempt at a beard. He delivered the punch line of a joke to his cronies and turned his head back forward.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
The man stumbled backward, bumping into his colleagues. Then he was past them and walking fast. He threw a look over a shoulder and almost broke into a run.
Corus moved parallel to the central aisle, darting between cubicles and vaulting over a photocopier. He kicked a plastic bin, and bits of shredded paper burst into the air like confetti. Fletcher was nearly to the elevators. Corus darted right, back toward the entrance. He turned left into the center aisle just as Fletcher disappeared into an elevator. Corus ran and dove for the button, but hit it too late to stop it. There were three other elevators. One was on the 32nd floor, one was on the 21st moving up and one was on the 2nd moving down.
“Son of a bitch.”
Corus sprinted for the stairwell door and took the stairs as fast as he could. By the time he reached the 12th floor, he’d broken into a sweat. By the 8th floor, he was dizzy with vertigo. He was moving at breakneck pace, but still had to pray the elevator had made just one stop. He bashed through the door into the rear of the lobby just as Fletcher’s elevator door opened.
Corus caught him at a full run and put him down as hard as any quarterback he’d sacked in high school. Fletcher made a small gasp, as the impact forced air out of his lungs. Together, they skidded across the lobby floor on the fine fabric of Fletcher’s suit. When they came to a stop, Fletcher didn’t struggle.
“Detective.”
“Fletcher.”
Fletcher eased himself onto a stool in the swanky Belltown martini bar. Corus took two swipes at Fletcher’s jacket, removing the last smudges of lobby floor dust and sat next to him.
“I need a drink,” Fletcher said with an air of honest realization.
“You know, they say there’s only one reason to run from a cop.”
“Whoever came up with that saying never met you.”
“Be that as it may,” Corus said, “I’m guessing you’ve been doing things you shouldn’t.”
Fletcher squared his shoulders. “Detective, what on Earth is the point of making tons of money if you can’t spend any of it on hookers and recreational drugs?”
“It’s Inspector Corus now. Got demoted. Haven’t you ever heard of human trafficking?”
“Oh, so you’re just a wee inspector now?” Then to the bartender, “I’ll have a dry Grey Goose martini with the caviar olives please.”
Corus glanced at her, “The same.” He leaned close to Fletcher. “I’m still your worst nightmare.”
“Oh, we can afford caviar on a police salary, can we? Government waste I say.”
“No waste, since you’re paying.”
Fletcher pulled an e-cigarette out of his jacket pocket and puffed at it, exhaling a thin vapor. “Human trafficking is just the latest scratching post for those who want to keep consenting adults from exercising their natural rights.”
“Trafficking is a real problem, though.”
“I’m sure it is, but did I get arrested for banging some fifteen-year-old Ukrainian? No. She was a thirty-year-old Filipina masseuse with carpal tunnel, two kids and a mortgage. Just another hard-working American, if you ask me.”
Corus gave him a significant, quizzical look.
“What?” Fletcher replied. “Sometimes we’d talk after the blowies. I’m not an animal.”
“You libertarians make some good points, but the problem is you all seem to think that history started in 1980 and that you’re only responsible for the direct results of your actions, the bigger picture be damned.”
“Ok Mr. Big Picture. So, why was I so recently used as a floor buffer back in my very own office building?”
“Well, apart from the fact that you ran – thinking I was here to arrest you for further offenses, of which you are most certainly guilty – I need your help.”
“Ah, he needs my help.” Fletcher took the glass set before him. “Why should I help you?”
“Are you deranged? You banker fucks really do think you’re absolutely immune from the law.”
“And what in the past decade should make bankers think otherwise?” Fletcher asked with a knowing bow.
“Remember how you didn’t go to jail for repeated propositioning of sex and possession of cocaine? You’re my CI, my criminal informant.”
“I vaguely remember an arrangement to that effect, but you’ve never come calling.”
“I didn’t need your expertise until now.”
“Would that be expertise in investment banking or debauchery?”
“The banking part.”
“So, I shall live to fornicate another day!” he announced loud enough for anyone in the bar to hear. Fletcher raised his glass aloft. “To you, good detective—er, inspector.” Corus picked up his martini and they clinked glasses.
Fletcher gave a cheeky wink and touched his glass to Corus’ once more. “And to hookers.”
SIXTEEN
“The sister, Amelia, said she was mistaken about them being robbed.” Rosen looked up from his notepad. He paced behind the long trestle table in Corus’ storage room. Corus sat with his feet up on the table and his arms crossed.
“I went and asked Inspector Charles about the interview,” Rosen said. “He’s quite a rude man, you know. Anyway, he said Amelia thought at first that the Griffins had been robbed because we didn’t find their skis in the room or in their vehicle.”
“I’m guessing he failed to include that tidbit in the report,” Corus said.
“Correct. The sister, Amelia, she lives up in Bellingham, said that when they eventually had the estate sale for the Griffin’s belongings, they sold the skis. They’d been in their garage the whole time.”
“Were the Griffins avid skiers?”
“Oh yeah. She said they sold off something like 15 pairs of skis at the estate sale. The boys were racers and pretty good from the sounds of it.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“When I asked how things were between Miles and Carrie, she said they seemed good. They’d had a rough patch years before, but their marriage was solid, and their kids were model students.”
“Anything else? Anything noteworthy? Was Miles a gambler?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“So what do you make of it, Abe?”
“Of what sir?”
“Of what you just told me.”
“I don’t know, sir. I guess they had a happy life. They made lots of money and had good kids.”
“So, why were they even at Skokim Pass to begin with, Rosen?”
A light bulb went off behind Deputy Rosen’s eyes. “The skis. They left them behind?”
“Why would a family that obsessed with skiing leave their skis behind when going to a ski resort?” Corus asked.
“They were running.”
Corus nodded. “At least the father knew they were. What time did they check in?”
Rosen looked to his note pad. “5:52pm on a Friday.”
Corus smiled. “Does anything about that timeframe interest you, Deputy?” Rosen’s gaze wandered a bit before it settled on Corus. “There’s no way he’d be able to get home, get his family packed and get to Skokim pass in 52 minutes. Even if he drove fast. Even if his family was already packed.”
“Which means he left work early the day he was murdered.”
“Which means the bankers withheld that from us.”
“Probably. Did you talk to your cousin Adam?”
“I did sir. He’s willing to help.”
“Tell him to meet us at Taco Express in Bellevue at 4pm tomorrow afternoon.”
“Taco Express?”
“You heard me.”
Taco Express was a regional fast-food chain Corus had quite missed
while stationed in the South and Midwest and while on deployment in the Army. Alas, it never quite tasted the same after he’d returned, as happens with many things when you attempt to return home after growing up. Today, the restaurant, known for its trademark speedily-running-cactus-in-a-sombrero, served a greater purpose.
Corus walked up to Fletcher who had arrived before him and was eating a taco salad out of a fried tortilla bowl. “I hope you don’t mind. Felt a bit peckish.”
“Eat up,” Corus said. “In fact, I’ll join you.” He went to the counter and ordered enough food for ten people, one of each of the restaurant’s principal offerings. As he waited for the food to pile up on the plastic trays, Rosen’s cousin, Adam, arrived. He was a shorter, stockier version of Abe Rosen, with cropped hair and full lips. Adam nodded to Corus who pointed him over to where Fletcher sat.
When the food had all been assembled, Corus took his weighty tray back to the tables and set it down.
“Eat up,” he said and eased into a seat.
They all ate in silence for a minute, exchanging increasingly awkward glances with him and each other. He expected Fletcher to start in on him right away, but the man seemed particularly pleased with his salad.
Corus wiped his mouth and wadded the napkin up in his hand as he finished chewing.
“Ten months ago,” he said. Both men looked to him. “A family was murdered in Skokim Pass. You may have heard about it.”
Vanessa Ling stopped chewing, Adam looked up at Corus. Fletcher stabbed at his salad, tore off a piece of crispy tortilla bowl and threw it in his mouth.
“The father was named Miles Griffin. He worked as an internal banker for Pacific Trust. He was helping them start an investment banking division. Until that division was built, he was outsourcing those investments.”
Corus took a bite of his burrito supreme and chewed it slowly. He allowed an awkward pause to grow. After he swallowed, he said, “We believe the answers to who killed them and why are to be found somewhere in his work. This problem is compounded by the lack of cooperation we are getting from the management at Pacific Trust. We believe that if we were to obtain a warrant, the incriminating evidence would not be there by the time we set foot in the door. To avoid spooking them, we cannot go that route.”