Project Northwest (24 page)

“Okay, thanks Mark,” James expressed as he
took the key.

“Not a problem. I owe you one. Get back in
there and get dressed. That brute isn’t going to wait forever.”

James and Mark were back in the reading room.
James dressed as Mark collected the radio and tried to kiss Sylvia
on the cheek. She shunned him and he made his way toward the back
exit and turned off the hallway light before exiting.

Suddenly, Mr. Wrong jumped from his chair and
was yelling, “I’m going. I’m going.”

His voice was loud and scared Shelly to the
point that she looked away, pulling her knees to her chest. She
wanted to scream out, to warn James when the bully stormed down the
hallway, but couldn’t find the courage.

Sylvia was closing the reading. “In
conclusion, the pending matter will be over with quickly, well,
before Mercury is close to the crescent Moon.”

As soon as James slipped into his last shoe,
he could hear someone outside checking the door handle, twisting it
left and right.

Suddenly the door exploded along the door
jamb sending splinters of wood into the room and knocking off the
door’s molding. A second kick broke the lock and the door was
swinging back and forth on the only hinge left attached to the door
frame.

Mr. Wrong barged into the room, looked
suspiciously at James and Sylvia, walked to the table, lifted the
tablecloth, and peered underneath. He held his hand up with the
palm out. “Don’t you say a single word to me,” he cautioned Lady
Sylvia. “What is that door?” he commanded Sylvia, who refused to
respond. He opened it and saw a darkened, empty hallway and
announced to those listening that everything was clear.

James was in a state of shock as he watched
the remains of the door swing, but Sylvia was calm, cool, and
collected. “Sir, I asked you to wait in the reception room. This
isn’t going to help your dark aura. Who is going to pay for my
door? Do I have to call the cops?”

Mr. Wrong pulled his wallet, selected a
hundred dollar bill and placed it on the table. Sylvia frowned and
he placed another hundred dollar bill on top. “Not a word from
you.”

Mr. Wrong seized James’s arm and piloted him
to the reception room. “It’s time to go, Mr. Spain.” He looked at
Shelly. “We’re leaving now, let’s go,” he ordered.

He escorted both of them with force back to
the corner of Post Alley and University. “Time to go back to work
and, Mr. Spain, if you ever go back there again, I’ll shoot you in
mid-stride. I mean it. I won’t kill you, but you’ll never make it
there unless you can crawl on two blown-out knees.”

Mr. Wrong crossed his arms over his chest and
watched as they headed back toward the bank.

James and Shelly had crossed 1st Avenue, when
Shelly commented, “Wow, he really didn’t like that place. Too much
of a guilty conscience? I wanted to warn you, but couldn’t say
anything. I was scared to death.”

James said, “It’s okay, don’t worry about
it.” He picked up his cell phone and began mocking those listening,
“Don’t hold that against me. I had no idea your muscle was scared
of ghosts and psychics.” They both chuckled.

His cell phone rang.

He answered without looking at the caller ID,
“I’m serious, I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Mr. Stone asked.

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone
else.”

“James, when was the last time you saw Steven
DuVall?”

“I haven’t spoken with Steve since his
promotion in December. I’m almost at the lobby now, just finished
lunch. Want me to stop by your office?”

“Meet me in conference room four. All OTS
management will be there to talk with bank security. Standard
operating procedure. James, Steven DuVall’s body has been found,
apparent homicide in Belltown, looks like a car-jacking or
something. Our concern are his files, they are a mess. His entire
office is a mess and bank security found an empty digital camera.
We have to determine the bank’s risk.”

“Yes, sir, on my way.” James placed the phone
back into its carrier.

“I thought it was Mr. Wright, too, or
Bridget. Is everything okay?” Shelly asked, holding the lobby door
open.

“One of the bank’s senior financial analysts
has been found murdered in Belltown,” James casually responded. His
mind was swimming, wondering if William Paul Wright had anything to
do with the death of Steven DuVall.

* * * *

James entered conference room four and at
once felt the somber mood of the room. It was like an odd funeral
reception, except the guests weren’t talking up Steven DuVall and
offering comfort. They were instead talking about secrets, deep,
dark, dirty secrets. Mr. Stone, three other OTS supervisors, and a
horde of bank personnel he had never seen had taken seats and they
were all in deep discussion about Mr. DuVall and the situation. A
Seattle police officer was guarding the door.

The officer challenged James, “Who are you?
ID.”

James reached for his OTS credentials and
started, “I’m James Spain, OTS—” before Mr. Stone came to his
rescue. “It’s okay, he’s an OTS agent.”

The officer did not give ground. He put his
hand on James’s chest, looked at the OTS ID, and said, “Detective,
an Agent Spain with OTS.”

The Seattle police detective standing at the
front of the conference room waved James in. “Is Mr. Spain the last
one?”

Mr. Stone and the bank president said,
“Yes.”

“Perfect, we are ready to begin,” said the
detective.

The detective didn’t hold back a single
gruesome detail and wasn’t afraid to point the finger. James found
his lack of political correctness refreshing, but disturbing. “I’m
Detective McCoy. Mr. DuVall’s body was found along Elliot Bay Trail
at six A.M. by a bicyclist. He had a single kill shot to the head.
The exit wound was the size of an apple. We suspect at least a .40
with a magnum-class round was used. The murder took place nine
hours earlier at an abandoned warehouse in Belltown.

“His vehicle, a 2007 Lexus LS, was pulled
over by a patrol officer near Denny Park at eight A.M. The driver,
a local crack addict, didn’t even bother to wipe down the interior
of the car and was found with eight one-hundred dollar bills, all
of them covered in blood, which we are certain will be Mr.
DuVall’s. But there is a catch. The addicts name isn’t Mr. Wright.
Does anyone know a Mr. Wright?”

James’s heart jumped into his throat and
tried to strangle him. In his mind he could see his coronary
arteries acting as left and right hands slowly wrapping around and
choking him with vigor. Everyone in the room shook their head and
looked at the person next to them. James felt all eyes were on him,
especially when the detective said, “Mr. Spain.”

The detective stopped in mid-sentence,
flipped his notepad, “Mr. Spain, you were in a car accident
recently, correct?”

“Yes, last Friday.”

“Did you know Steven DuVall?”

“I met him a couple of times. All of it
professional, nothing social.”

“How about Karl Brownstone, did you know him?
He was an OTS agent, correct?”

“Yes, but again it was more professional than
social. Am I a suspect or something?”

“No, you’re not. Sorry if I gave that
impression. My point is there is something wrong with this bank. In
a matter of what, four months, there are two dead bodies on my
docket and at least one car accident that I know of. Let’s not
forget the suicides. The last victim is especially troublesome
because his office voicemail clearly captures part of the murder
and seems to indicate a deal or something. Listen.”

The detective turned a couple of pages deeper
into his notepad, wrote something down and placed a digital
recorder onto the table. “This is the recording. We think it is the
start of the meeting.” He pressed play.

“Where is Mr. Wright?”

“He’s back there. Pull around and stay in the
vehicle, turn on your interior light, and turn your headlights
off.”

“Driving to the north side of the warehouse
on Western Avenue, it’s nine P.M. I’m meeting with Mr. Wright and
an associate....Where is Mr. Wright?”

“He’s coming. Let me see yo cell fone.”

“Why?”

“Ya know, in case ya recording.”

The detective pressed stop and began
dissecting the recording. “Firstly, this was obviously a
pre-arranged meeting. Mr. DuVall knew he was going there and had
the presence of mind to record it. No crack-head I know of would
ever say, “Mr. Wright” or interact with a fellow criminal the way
it’s portrayed on this recording. It’s just too formal. An addict
certainly wouldn’t have the forethought to ask for the cell
phone.

“Of course, this recording, tied in with the
murder, the mess we found Mr. DuVall’s office in, plus the empty
digital camera, indicates to me, at least, that Mr. DuVall was
dealing in bank material.”

The bank president protested, “Detective,
what you’re suggesting is an outrage. Mr. DuVall was a model
employee. I will not stand and let you smear—”

The detective cut the president’s speech
short. “I disagree and you will let me smear. Model employees don’t
end up dead in Belltown. They might show up dead from an accidental
drowning off their yacht at the yacht club, but not in Belltown. So
no one here knows a Mr. Wright?”

Everyone was murmuring, but the clear
consensus of the room was a collective no.

“Look, what’s happening here at the bank,
that’s your business. I’m sure you have security measures in place.
My job is to find a killer and I will continue to do my job, but
I’m just telling all of you on the front line to stay vigilant.
There is something fishy going on at this bank. There’s a piece of
paper on the table. I want each of you to write your name and
address on it.”

He looked at the bank president and Mr.
Stone. “If you two will stay behind for a moment, I think we can
let the rest go. I’d like to talk with you and your security team
about protocol. No one from this bank found it concerning that an
analyst didn’t come into work today. Not a single call to any of
our precincts.”

James made his way back to the office. He was
sick to his stomach. He’d suspected Mr. Wright when he first heard
Steven was murdered. The detective and the recording solidified
it.

Shelly was a nervous wreck. “What was that
all about? Are we okay?”

“We’re fine, I guess. Steven DuVall isn’t.
Mr. Wright murdered him.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard it on a recording. There is no doubt
in my mind he did it.”

“Oh, my God,” Shelly whispered, “I mean, I
know he said he’d hurt me or my daughter, but it just hit home. He
will actually do it. He has no problem doing it.”

“It appears that way. We should finish up and
try to put this behind us.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, as
she rushed from the office.

James fell into his chair and glared at the
sleeping computer monitor. He used to daydream of quick getaways to
the Caribbean with Bridget. Images of thatched cabanas, white sandy
beaches, and the bluest water he could envision. Another favorite
was him letting the Mustang grip the concrete on Route 66, windows
down, listening to the hum of the engine and tires. Now he was
thinking,
I’m not going out like Steve. I have to get Mr. Wright
before he gets me.

He called Bridget, told her about the murder,
and told her he loved her.

Shelly returned, sat in the chair across from
James, and was lifeless.

* * * *

Associate number three inside the bank lobby
was chirping into Mr. Wright’s earpiece.

“What is it?” Mr. Wright questioned,
annoyed.

“Sir, a plain suit officer and a blue suit
just entered the bank lobby.”

“So?”

“I overheard the plain suit ask the
receptionist about DuVall. Sir, he looked pissed.”

“Is Spain still at the mystic house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Wrong, you on this channel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get your ass to the psychic’s house and pull
Spain out, pull him out by the hair if you have to. I need eyes and
ears back at the bank now!”

“Yes, sir. On my way.”

“Associate three, tail the officers and find
out what floor they are going to. Try to stay in earshot. Send
associate four outside to find the car the plain suit came in, it’s
probably at the curb. I want to find out who he is.”

Associate three attempted to board the
elevator with the officers, but the plain suit officer stopped him,
claiming, “This elevator is out of order, catch the next one.” The
associate watched the elevator stop on the seventh floor and caught
the next elevator up.

Wright’s team was moving in three directions.
One associate was on his way to the seventh floor, another had
found the car and reported that the placard on the unmarked car’s
dashboard showed Detective McCoy, Homicide, and Mr. Wrong reported
he was about to enter the mystic house.

The two associates at the bank were on the
ball and had their assignments covered, but Mr. Wrong was
unexpectedly silent.

“Mr. Wrong, status please?” Wright asked.

Radio Silence.

“Mr. Wrong, are you in?”

More radio Silence.

“Mr. Wrong, are you in? Over!”

More radio Silence.

“Mr. Wrong you’d better get your ass in
there!” yelled Wright.

More radio Silence.

Wright was enraged and screaming, “Mr. Wrong,
you have five seconds to get in there and extract Spain and
Spenser. Don’t fucking piss me off!”

Silence for four seconds then Mr. Wright
could hear, “I’m going, I’m going.” Then the sounds of a door being
kicked in and the conversation between Mr. Wrong and Lady Sylvia
saturated the channel. Moments later Mr. Wrong reported, “Spain and
Spenser on their way back to the bank.”