The shard of redemption, p.9
The Shard of Redemption, page 9
“All right, we’re treatin’ the Wallace crash like it wasn’t intentional,” said Hayes. “Was it a vehicle malfunction?”
“It isn’t our jurisdiction,” Rucker said. “Look at the WSP conclusion. They didn’t find anything—other than the suicide note.”
“They closed the investigation,” said Hawkins, “and the vehicle was towed to a wrecking yard in Everett.”
“Which means the vehicle is under their jurisdiction and that's why we asked them for a review of the vehicle data information,” said Hayes. “We are actively investigating every case Wallace handled, which means we have access to all information about his death. If it is vehicle malfunction, we find out why. If we discover something relates to our investigation, we take over jurisdiction.”
The energy in the room raised.
I want everything we can pull: ECU, vehicle service records, and extended-area traffic surveillance. Let’s look at what we’ve got one more time.”
“There’s a vehicle I time-stamped. Might be worth a second look,” said Martin.
“Play it in slow motion."
Each frame was examined. As the footage approached the critical moment, Hayes leaned in.
“Freeze it. Zoom top right.”
There it was: a dark vehicle parked on top of the exit off ramp just before the bridge. Engine on. Lights low.
Six seconds after Wallace’s car hit the embankment, the parked vehicle pulled away and vanished.
“Pull the plate?” Hayes asked.
“Too blurry. We’ll try frame enhancement.”
“Keep at it.” Hayes turned to Rucker. “I want you to go over the accident report and create a spreadsheet of every notation—”
“No can do,” said Rucker. His eyes moved around the room. “Not that any of you lot would remember, but today is my last day. In one hour, I’m out of this joke of a detective unit and off to sunnier skies. I turned in my retirement paperwork to human resources — and the former Detective Sargeant John Wallace — a couple of months ago. I think I have just enough time to clean out my desk.”
No one congratulated him.
No one asked where he was going.
Four hours later, in his office, Hayes opened a fresh page in his case log, adding additional information.
A. Wallace Collision
Speed steady, turn signals used.
Abrupt veer contradicts prior driving behavior.
Exit ramp vehicle = suspect.
Suspect vehicle left immediately post-collision.
Wallace vehicle serviced 2 days prior at Cascade Cadillac, Destiny Pointe.
Why was he driving north?
B. Granger Murder Investigation
Granger case reopened
Rucker = first officer on scene, 2004 Granger case.
Possible connection to Wallace’s death
He flipped the page. Something stuck like a fishbone. Rucker had shown no concern for Wallace’s cases in the past. But the Granger review? He’d been right there. Not driving it, not leading. But hovering. Watching. Asking just enough questions to look interested, without ever getting close to the truth. Hayes included another note.
We’ve reviewed forty-five of the fifty cases Wallace investigated. He has a ninety-one percent clearance and conviction average. That’s high. The national average is sixty-one percent, and the rest of the detectives here are at that mark. The Granger case is the only one that warrants further scrutiny.
Hayes flipped through the Wallace case file again. Something wasn’t right. A reference to the Event Data Recorder, EDR, but no attached report.
He called the Everett PD and got patched to records. Took twenty minutes of red tape before someone admitted the report had been sent out, requested by name.
Hayes gave a tight thank-you and asked for a duplicate. When the email came through, he read it twice. The data showed erratic acceleration. No sign of braking before impact. Safety systems: auto-brake, lane assist, disabled moments before the crash.
One report was missing. The one that should’ve recorded last-minute driver input. Not enough to prove sabotage, but it scratched something deep. someone had asked for that report. And he hadn’t mentioned it once.
He opened his case log and started a new line:
C. EDR Report: Missing from file. Retrieved from Everett PD
Unexplained accel. No brake input.
Safety features disabled.
Driver input log = missing/corrupt.
Report pulled by Rucker. Never disclosed.
He tapped the pen once against the pad.
Another email from Everett PD. This time, logistics notifying him that Wallace’s Cadillac SUV is scheduled for demolition in 24 hours.
Hayes turned to another page in his case log and leaned back in his chair. How to describe this guy? I was told he had a breakdown. I’ve seen men unravel. Ames wasn’t unraveling. He was pulling thread.
He leaned in and began writing.
D. Neil Ames, PI
Long coat, navy. Playing a part but not faking it.
Hands steady. Movements practiced.
Eyes scan. Takes in everything.
Speaks with precision. Leaves things out on purpose.
Carries grief like a badge … Visible to anyone who’s worn one.
Tossing his pen on the pad, he let out a sigh, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the desk while he thought. He stopped drumming and grabbed his phone, tapping a text to Neil, attaching three still images from the extended traffic video.
HAYES
Wallace car goes under the claw in Everett. 24 hrs. Thought you’d want to know.
No pleasantries. Just respect. That’s what trust looked like in Hayes’s world: short messages and leaving the door cracked open.
The rest of the squad had gone. He leaned back in his chair, kicked one boot up onto the desk corner, and rubbed his eyes. Then a ping. Email.
FROM: Daniel Upton
Just a heads-up: Consultant PI Neil Ames has the Emily Granger case prosecutor’s file. I gave clearance.
Hayes narrowed his eyes, then brought up his reply window.
TO: Daniel Upton
You should’ve let me know before the release. I don’t like being bypassed. He’s not to interfere with the case.
He hit send. Then he swiveled his chair slowly and popped up the Wallace footage on his computer screen.
Wallace wasn’t reckless. This wasn’t suicide.
At the bottom of the Rucker page, he wrote:
Truth doesn’t shout. It leaves boot prints.
And I’m going to follow your trail.
Chapter 15
Neil didn’t knock. Robbie Carney had told him he didn’t need to. The hallway outside Jerry’s apartment smelled faintly of Pine-Sol and old wood. From inside, muffled through the door, came the unmistakable rasp and howl of a live Grateful Dead bootleg, the guitar solo stretching like it might never find its way home.
Sherlock sniffed at the door, then looked up at him, tail giving a cautious wag.
Neil let himself in.
The music hit him like a wave. Raw. Insistent. Defiant. A portable record player spun on the far table, speakers crackling with every guitar wail. Sunlight filtered through yellowing curtains, casting golden bars across the floor.
Jerry was lying in his bed by the window, his eyes closed, his face sunken but calm. The skin on his hands was translucent, pulled tight over bones. A bandana rested on his chest like a flag folded at half-mast.
Neil stepped inside and turned the volume down.
Jerry’s eyes fluttered open.
“Well,” he rasped, blinking at the ceiling, “figures the devil’d come in a navy coat. And he brought a dog.”
Neil gave a soft snort. “Hey, Jerry.”
Jerry grinned.
Sherlock padded forward and placed both front paws on the side of the bed. Jerry raised a trembling hand, and the dog gave him a gentle high five with a soft thunk of paw to palm.
“Good boy,” Jerry whispered.
Neil looked around the apartment, at the life on display. Photos were scattered across the shelves and dresser: black-and-white shots of childhood, war, and peace rallies. One of Jerry in a tie-dye shirt with his arm around a woman holding a protest sign. Another, frayed at the edges, showed a young Jerry in fatigues, leaning against a sandbag wall, with three equally young weary-looking soldiers, eyes squinting against the sun.
A wave of sadness rolled through Neil so suddenly he almost stepped back. Puzzled, he looked at Jerry, who continued to gently pat Sherlock on the head.
Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the pictures. Maybe it was just seeing someone who’d always been there, slipping into history right before his eyes.
Jerry’s lips were cracking, and a thick saliva film appeared to try to seal his mouth. Neil spotted a cup of ice chips on the bedside table. He spooned out one cube and gently placed it on Jerry’s lips.
“I’m trying to die,” Jerry murmured, accepting it between cracked lips. “But that’s when you really appreciate …” he let the cube dissolve, then swallowed, “the kindness of an arrogant so-and-so.” A slight smile came to Jerry’s face. “Always kind … when you didn’t know … anyone … was watching.”
Neil sat next to the bed. “Don’t tell anyone; it’ll ruin my reputation.”
Jerry’s breath came shallow but steady. “Reputations are for … people … who don’t … know you.”
The music faded out with a moment of lingering reverb. Silence fell between them. Then a soft, rhythmic click-click began as the stylus hit the tight loop of the run-out groove; a steady mechanical sound, faint but persistent, like a clock that’s lost its urgency. The tonearm gently bobbed with each rotation of the record.
“I need to ask you something,” Neil said. “Tell me what you know about the day Emily died.”
Jerry blinked up at the ceiling. “That’s why you’re here.” He closed his eyes as if to fall asleep.
Neil waited.
With a shuddering breath, Jerry opened his eyes and said, “Ice.”
Neil placed another cube on his lips. Jerry savored the melting ice. His eyes brightened, and he took a deep breath before speaking.
“I remember coming in that morning,” Jerry said slowly. “I’d gone out early for coffee … and one of those terrible bran muffins … I used to lie about liking.” He took another raspy breath. “I saw her assistant upstairs … almost mistook her for Emily.” He closed his eyes. “Laura.” He groaned and opened them. “They looked so much alike … Sweet girl, always smiling … But that morning, she looked … not right. Worried.”
“Did you see her leave?”
Jerry shook his head.
“Did you see Emily?”
Jerry’s face softened, and his breath became shallower. Neil sat back and waited. Sherlock put his head on Neil’s lap. Then there was a moan.
“I was vacuuming the back hallway … She came in with a guy … He had dark hair … looked like one of those … GQ guys.” Jerry smiled. “She waved at me.”
“You see him leave?”
Jerry shook his head.
“Did you tell the police? About Laura?”
“They only asked two things: If I saw Emily that day … If I saw any … strange men in the building.” Jerry scoffed, then coughed. “They didn’t ask the right questions … Never do … Not like you.”
Neil leaned in closer and whispered, “Who told you what happened?”
Jerry stared at the ceiling, and his voice dropped.
“Katherine … Late afternoon. She came down to the lobby … said … that Emily was dead … Murdered … she called 911.”
Neil studied him.
“But the way she said it …” Jerry added, voice growing rougher. “It was like … she was reporting a story. Like the word … wasn’t real yet. Like she … was trying to make it real … by saying … it out loud.”
Jerry motioned for another ice chip. Neil helped him.
Then, after a pause, Jerry’s eyes widened. “You know … there was something … a few days … before.”
“What?” Neil asked.
“I was scrubbing … the wall … by the stairwell … Some delivery guy … dropped a cup … of coffee … I heard shouting … Laura … stormed out … of Emily’s apartment. Emily … called after her … ‘Come back.’ But she didn’t.”
“You talk to Emily about it?”
Jerry gave a thin smile. “I made a dumb joke.” He took in a rattling breath. “Said it looked like … the season finale of … one of those … family dramas. Emily smiled. God, that smile …”
Neil looked away, eyes burning for reasons he couldn’t explain.
Jerry’s voice grew weaker. “Why did you become a detective?”
Neil didn’t respond.
“We’re all detectives, you know,” said Jerry.
Neil glanced back.
Jerry closed his eyes. His voice was thready. “Life’s a mystery … We’re all just walking around, asking …Why am I here? … What’s going on? … What’s true …What’s false? What did I miss … What did I see? … We’re all trying to figure it out.”
Jerry’s voice grew fainter. “I knew something was wrong. The air in the building … It changes. That day … it was cold. Like the heat had gone out of the walls.”
The door creaked open. A hospice nurse, a young woman with soft eyes, stepped inside and gave a gentle nod. Neil stood.
Sherlock leaped up onto the bed before Neil could stop him. The dog nosed Jerry’s cheek and let out a whine.
Jerry chuckled, wincing. “You’re a good boy. You keep this one out of trouble, all right?”
Neil reached down and squeezed Jerry’s hand.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Jerry smiled. “Sorry … I wasn’t … more help. Take away the ice … Play Richie Havens.”
Neil nodded. He removed the Grateful Dead and slipped it into its brown paper cover, then thumbed through the stack of albums, found Richie Havens, put it on the turntable, and placed the stylus on the record. After a few pops, Richie began singing like the sky was on fire.
Neil left the room, letting the music play him out.
He stood there a moment, listening to Richie Havens’s voice rise through the crack in the door, unpolished, full of longing.
Neil stepped into the lobby. People were coming and going. Waiting for the antique elevator. Laughing. Sprinting up the stairs.
Jerry has always been here. In the background. Grumbling. Watching. Remembering.
Now, all that noise, decades of it, is folding into silence.
Sherlock brushed against his leg and looked up at Neil, wagging his tail.
Time moves on.
“Let’s go to the park, Sherlock. I need to sketch.”
The dog spun in circles as Neil pushed open the doors into the open air.
He sent a message to Aidan.
Sherlock and I are at Lepht Park. I need a ride.
Lepht Park was empty except for a handful of joggers, their footfalls a soft rhythm on the paved path. A stunning array of evergreen and uniquely shaped trees from around the world stood prepared for the cold, rainy season, their needles and naked branches glistening with anticipation.
Neil settled onto the sculptured bench bearing a plaque with Katherine Sterling’s name. He shared a cookie with the dog, then opened his sketchbook. Sherlock watched the path. Waiting.
The sound of boots on gravel made Neil glance up. Aidan approached, toolbox clattering with each step, the other hand buried deep in his pocket.
“Robbie had me fixing a water heater,” he said. “I’ve got what’s left of Mom’s files in the van. There are six boxes, mostly her personal journals. I figured you might find something in them about Emily. I’ll help you take them up to your apartment.”
Neil stood. “Thanks, but first I need to get to Everett. Wallace’s SUV is scheduled to be demolished. I think the truth is about to be flattened.” He closed the sketchbook and slipped it into his coat. “I’ll pay for the gas.”
“Um … okay,” said Aidan. “Hopefully we’ll get through Seattle before it becomes a parking lot. I’m not good with stop-and-go traffic. The van’s over there, on the other side of the park.”
“Come on, Sherlock,” Neil urged, his voice filled with anticipation.
The dog sprinted across the park lawn, his paws barely touching the grass.
Chapter 16
Northbound I-5 was slick from a cloudburst of rain just minutes ahead of them and moving east, following the convergence zone, leaving gray ribbons of water lacing the pavement. Neil sat in the passenger’s seat of Aidan Sterling’s new van, sleek, silver, still smelling like factory plastic, his backpack wedged between them. Sherlock was curled in the back seat, tail thumping softly every time Neil shifted.
“Why are we going all the way to Everett?” Aidan asked, glancing sideways.
Neil didn’t answer right away. He watched a barge inch through the mist in the distance, low and heavy.
“Good question,” Neil said. “Why was Wallace driving with a note with my name in his pocket? Who was he meeting? And why?”
“What exactly are we looking for?”
“Confirmation,” Neil said. “Tampering. Hacked control system. If the car was hijacked, the evidence starts with the ECU.”
He pulled his sketchbook out and began an intricate mind map that looked like a jigsaw puzzle. “Physical tampering’s the first tier: scuffed ports, swapped parts. Then behavior: unexplained veers, failed safety systems. The deeper stuff lives in the firmware logs. That’s where Kozo comes in. He’ll rip it open, byte by byte. He doesn’t just pull data, he interrogates it. If it was compromised, he’ll find it.”
“Wow. I feel like I’m part of a spy ring.” Aidan grinned.
“My Uber driver says the same thing.”
A thick gray blanket of clouds pressed down on Everett, the air heavy with the threat of rain. When they reached the yard, a chain-link fence topped with ragged barbed wire hemmed in the cracked lot. Scrap towers loomed beyond it. A sign bolted to the fence read: Everett Vehicle Storage & Recovery—Municipal Impound Partner.
