Every Fear (13 page)

E
verett Sinclair couldn’t let it go.

The bastard in the van who had cut him off had to pay.

But how?

Vengeance had consumed Sinclair during his business flight to Detroit. After landing, it was all he could think of during late-night meetings with executives and engineers in white hard hats. It was all he could think of as he inspected the retooling of the company’s Canadian plant, which was a short drive across the Detroit River in Windsor, Ontario. And it was all he thought of now, during his first real break since leaving Seattle for this pain-in-the-ass emergency project.

Dammit.

The fact he had been diverted from pursuing restitution
on his terms
for the asshole’s affront—the marring of his beautiful Jasper Blue Mercedes and the destruction of his $900 tailored charcoal suit—pissed him off supremely. He refused to wait a moment longer. He was launching a counterstrike now.

As his laptop beeped to life, Sinclair took stock of
his Windsor hotel room, his clothes strewn everywhere along with key reports. Was that the Tokyo file mixed with Boston and Pittsburgh? Sinclair’s counselor had warned that he would experience aggression, disinterest, depression, and erratic behavior to compensate for the wound of the divorce.

This is the wisdom $200 an hour gets you. A bartender is cheaper and you can get hammered at the same time.

Sinclair had buried himself in work; on this trip across the continent, he had been disconnected from current events in Seattle, let alone the world. Hadn’t watched any news. Unread copies of
USA Today,
the
Detroit Free Press,
and the
Windsor Star
were piled in the hall next to his room-service trays from a late-night dinner and a half-eaten breakfast. Why should he care about the world? The world didn’t give a damn about him.

You’re a lone wolf, Ev. Take care of yourself.

He looked across the river at Detroit, then began formulating his retribution strategy. He studied his laptop screen and the evidence he’d gathered. He clicked onto his pictures of the damage to his beloved 450SL, his suit, and began checking his summary of the incident, and spelling out his plan.

Now, by resolving things on his terms, he stressed in his e-mail, meant that he did not want police involved. And he did not want insurance companies involved either. Those pricks would find some way to blame him and jack up his rates, given the fact he had that old drunk driving record from his college days and
that he also had a recent speeding charge and a red light charge against him. His life was stressful, but no one seemed to appreciate that.

So, no cops and no insurance.

Hell, he’d been beaten up badly in the settlement with his bitch ex-wife, he didn’t want her getting wind of anything else she might use against him someday.

Nothing to make her suspect he’d hidden a large chunk of change in a numbered account in Aruba—the same place he’d tucked the cash he’d finessed through subcontracting side deals he’d arranged over the years.

Relax, he told himself. No one would find his “vault,” as he liked to call it.

He was too smart to get caught. He was a guy who demanded respect. That was why he couldn’t tolerate the insult of his wife cheating on him, or this asshole in the van.

He wanted the jerk responsible to pay. He wanted $1,000 for the suit, $5,000 for damage to the car, and another $2,000 for his anguish and costs. So, $8,000 total for the incident. All in cash, Sinclair wrote.

“I want you to track this mother down ASAP and shake the cash out of him. Tell him I’ll sue his ass. Tell him that I’m going to see a doctor for a possible back injury related to the collision. Attached is all the evidence. Should be a slam dunk and take you less than two hours.”

Sinclair gave one last check of the photos: his car, his suit, the time, street, location, and, oh yeah, the tight blurry shot of the van’s rear bumper, showing some sort of custom artwork and the Washington State license plate. He had the plate for sure.

The bastard probably thought he’d gotten away with it. Sinclair hit the Send command on his laptop, instantly dispatching his e-mail to Don Krofton, the Seattle private investigator Sinclair had hired to successfully catch his whore wife banging that ex-Seahawk used-car salesman in Tacoma.

Just wait until the bastard in the van sees a hard-ass ex-Seattle cop on his doorstep with the evidence.

Oh, you’re going to pay, asshole.

Big time.

D
ental magazines were still arriving at the office of Don Krofton’s private investigator agency.

No matter how many times she wrote to them, the magazine people still didn’t get it, Michelle, the office manager, thought as she shuffled through the mail. The agency had moved in when the Vorax Brothers dental team moved out. It had been two years now and Michelle could still detect the antiseptic smell throughout the lavender rooms of the second-floor office.

Located in a south Seattle strip mall, the P.I. firm shared the same address as a pet store, Bandito Supremo Tacos, and Eternal Solace, a business that offered cut-rate classes for aspiring funeral directors. The building featured a carnival of smells, of which Michelle preferred Don’s cigars. It also had its share of weirdos, like Bill, the white-faced operator of the funeral school. “You know, Michelle, I’m the last man in your life who would ever let you down.” Bill’s tired joke was always accompanied by his yellowtoothed smile.

Michelle went back to her computer when it beeped with a client e-mail.

“Oh God, not you again.” She read quickly through Everett Sinclair’s tirade slash investigation request, then shook her head before bumping it to Don’s private e-mail address. She wondered how the boss would handle this one from Sinclair, the client who believed the world was out to get him and wanted “to sue the ass off of every bastard” who looked sideways at him.

Sinclair just had never gotten his head around the fact his wife awoke from her prolonged state of stupidity to realize he was not a human being, but a jerk posing as one. Why he felt entitled to take out his problems on everyone was baffling.

Michelle resumed filing invoices, hoping Don would pass on this one, counting on the fact that he was vacationing in Las Vegas with Lola, a twenty-four-year-old showgirl who found Don, a sixty-two-year-old ex-cop, a fascinating man. Maybe it was the fact he had just undergone a face-lift.

Michelle caught the phone on the second ring.

“Shell”—Don always called her that—“just read that one from Everett Sinclair.”

“That was fast. Are you in Vegas, still?”

“Yeah, was checking my e-mail when this one came in.”

“So you want to pass?”

“No. Give it to Henry.”

“Henry?”

“Yes. I want to give him more time toward his P.I. license. File it as a claims investigation, run the background for him. Call him and tell him I said to contact
the subject and take a soft approach on the client’s request for direct restitution before hinting at litigation, insurance, or police involvement. The evidence is strong and should help.”

“All right, boss. How’s Lola?”

“Tanned and energetic. I’m taking her to a Shania Twain show tonight.”

“You’re a dirty old man.”

“Got to live life while I’m alive. Help Henry get going on this one.”

Michelle hung up and sighed. She responded with respectful courtesy to Sinclair’s e-mail, then went to the agency’s more powerful computer, which was linked to a number of federal and state databanks, and worked up the background.

Washington’s Vehicle/Vessel Inquiry System held records on nearly seven million vehicles registered in the state and some four and a half million licensed drivers. Michelle studied the grainy photo of the license plate and Sinclair’s notes. She’d say one thing for him—he was good at getting the goods on people. What was that plate number?

After scrutinizing her blurry printout showing the Washington State plate of the van that had damaged the Mercedes, she entered “575 QIO” to query IVIPS and waited for the response.

Don was a retired Seattle police detective. He started as a young beat cop, then worked up the ranks. Now he operated a small, private agency where he farmed out investigations to some two dozen former law enforcement types he knew.

After her husband passed away, Michelle, a retired Seattle PD clerk, joined his operation.

Her computer screen flashed.

IVIPS showed no records for her query. The first version of the plate didn’t exist. Oh, she must’ve made a typo. She rechecked, right, then typed “575-QID” and, bang, her response came up with the name of the registered owner, address, remarks on the vehicle, title, and miscellaneous other data. She simply glanced at it without giving the data any consideration. She never took note of the details. After processing thousands for the agency, they pretty much all looked the same. She just passed them to the investigator.

She forwarded it along with Don’s instructions to Henry, an old friend of Don’s from his Seattle police days. Henry was a quiet man and a bit of a mystery. He’d been a Seattle cop years and years ago but for only a short time. He’d recently retired from working in a warehouse, or something like that, and was working on getting three years of experience under his belt so he could obtain his license and supplement his pension.

Maybe Henry would be happy to handle this one, Michelle thought, looking up his number, oblivious to the fact that she’d overlooked one key thing.

She had completely forgotten to check the registered owner’s name through the online database for the Washington State Patrol and Criminal History Section to determine if the person who had crossed Everett Sinclair in Ballard had a criminal record. The system
held data on arrest records and cases not open to the public.

And had she looked further, she would have noticed that the plate did not match the vehicle.

A
fter reading his son’s story on the
Seattle Mirror’s
front page, Henry Wade swelled with the usual wave of pride.

The kid had accomplished a helluva thing with his life.

Against the odds, Jay had worked his way out of the brewery, put himself through college, and had earned a good-paying, full-time job with the newspaper. Now he was writing about the city’s biggest crimes.

It was a helluva thing for sure.

Truth was, his boy had inspired him to turn his own life around. Even if it had taken years. Long, painful years. He took stock of his empty house, confident that he had put his ghosts to rest.
Most of them, anyway.

He rubbed his chin, reflecting on his own small achievements. He’d been faithful to AA. Over four hundred days sober now since he’d taken early retirement from the brewery. It gave him the strength to resurrect a dream. One that he’d buried a lifetime ago when he had to quit the Seattle Police Department after only a few years on the job.
Don’t go there, don’t think about that. Best to keep the past in the past.

Stepping carefully around the locked rooms of memory, he came to his resurrected desire of working as a detective.

After all he’d been through, he’d managed to salvage it.

Hell, he was doing it. Maybe on a small scale, but he was doing it. Thanks to Don Krofton, a decent guy who didn’t owe Henry Wade a damn thing. Nobody did, but Krofton had remembered him from the old days and took him on as a trainee to help him get his three years in to get his license. Krofton had given him a shot, first with some small files. A little surveillance. Checking court records. Confirming people worked where they claimed to have worked.

It was all going just fine.

Henry resumed looking over the state’s study guide on the exam for private investigators. He flipped through his well-thumbed copy of the Washington State Criminal Code. A lot of it was coming back to him from the old days.

He’d used his pension and retirement package to buy a new top-of-the-line computer. He took courses to learn how to use it and the Internet. Got himself a cell phone and a few other high-tech toys.

Funny, he was living in the same house in the same blue-collar neighborhood near Boeing Field, south of the airport. He was driving the same old pickup and wearing the same workingman’s clothes, but he’d traveled a world away from the life he’d left at the brewery.

At sixty-one, Henry Wade was a new man.

He peered into his empty coffee cup, went to the kitchen for a refill; the phone rang.

“Hi, Henry, Michelle at Krofton’s. Are you available for a job today?”

“I am.”

“As we speak, I’m sending the file to your e-mail.”

“All right, hang on.”

He sat before his computer with its high-speed access.

In seconds, he was reading Everett Sinclair’s ranting request and looking through the photos Sinclair had attached. He took careful notes as Michelle relayed Krofton’s instructions. She directed him to the results of her query of IVIPS, the state’s database for driving and vehicle records.

After giving it all a quick read, he said, “Sounds good, I’m on it.”

As his printer kicked to life, he filled his coffee cup and thought fondly of the guys at the brewery calling him Jim Rockford when word got out about his second career. He adjusted his glasses as he studied every aspect of the file, reading and rereading the details of Sinclair’s note, until he noticed something.

Hold on.

He unfolded his street map of greater Seattle. Then retrieved the
Mirror
and reviewed the facts on the Colson case.
Just hold on. Let’s look at the time Sinclair’s thing happened. The location.
He consulted the map. The news stories. Sinclair’s report.

A van.
A red van.

According to Sinclair’s report it was a van that had
clipped him while driving dangerously out of the Ballard area. The color. The timing. Still, something didn’t look right. Hell, he should call this in to Seattle PD, or the FBI.

Wait a sec. Just relax there.

He kept checking the details. If Krofton cleared it, then it had to be just a coincidence. He didn’t want to overreact here. Come across as a complete hysterical dope, especially while trying to get his license. He went to the IVIPS printout.

Maybe this is it. A clear mistake. Wasn’t it? Sure looked like it. Look at the results of the query on the registered owner and the type of vehicle. This was a car, a Toyota Corolla. But look at what Sinclair stated. He was emphatic that it was a van.

Henry sat there staring at his pages, the map, and the newspaper.

Something about this one didn’t make sense, he thought as he consulted his map for the best way to the address linked to the plate from the van provided by Sinclair. He collected the documents into a file folder, gathered his keys and jacket.

But before he headed to his pickup, he stopped.

He wouldn’t go alone. Something about this one didn’t add up. He reached for his phone and began dialing. He needed a second opinion.

It wouldn’t take long.

Besides, it was probably nothing at all.