Perfect Grave

Chapter Fifty-One

I n the side mirror of his rented Ford Taurus, Ethan Quinn watched Henry Wade’s pickup pull out of the West Pacific Trust Bank half a block down Yesler.

Quinn set his video recorder down, started his sedan, and wheeled round into traffic, careful to keep several cars between him and Wade’s truck.

As he gathered speed, Quinn’s heart rate picked up and he exhaled slowly. This was the biggest psychological gamble he’d ever taken on a case. And, at the outset, he was certain that he’d blown it.

But now, some forty-eight hours since he’d rolled the dice and began his surveillance of Henry Wade, Quinn was convinced that he was on the right track-convinced that his instincts were right.

Henry Wade was a wise old fox.

Contacting him cold was a calculated risk.

But it yielded the result Quinn needed. He’d caught Henry unawares. Quinn saw it in the old guy’s face. As expected, Henry played his grief card, telling him that the case had taken a toll. That he couldn’t help, that sort of thing.

That was fine.

That was expected.

All that really mattered were Henry’s actions after the meeting.

Quinn had done his homework. He’d studied the files of the case exhaustively for months. Months. Because this old case fascinated him.

Things just did not add up.

The armored-car company was owned by ex-cops. There were a lot of cops there the day it went down and $3.3 million in cash vanished. An innocent bystander died in a botched hostage bid. Leon Sperbeck, the one suspect caught, the only suspect caught, was convicted without breathing a word about the other suspects.

Were there other suspects?

There were witness statements with descriptions so general-two other suspects in ski masks-one was thin, the other heavyset-they were useless.

All of it was very unusual.

The case fades.

As Sperbeck does his time, years roll by. People die. The case grows cold.

None of the money surfaced. No word on the street of it being circulated. And contrary to popular belief, Quinn knew from criminology studies of convicted armed robbers that often those who commit big heists are condemned to live in fear, to always look over their shoulder. Man, in many cases, they’re so paranoid, they live modestly because they’re afraid to spend the money. They fear that spending the cash would draw attention. It was common to find most of the stolen cash in their possession, even years after the crime.

That was exactly what Quinn believed was at play here.

A textbook case.

Sperbeck and Wade were the only two survivors linked to the heist. No way did Sperbeck do all that hard time only to walk out and commit suicide. Quinn didn’t buy that for a second. Sperbeck likely staged his death so that he could start a new life after he collected his share of the heist.

Henry Wade had to be involved.

Quinn was convinced of it. That’s why he’d taken a gamble by contacting Henry, tipping his hand while feeding Henry that line about sharing any recovered portion of the cash. It was a strategic move designed to draw him out, to gauge what he knew about the case-hoping that maybe Henry would lead him to the cash.

And now, Quinn’s gamble was paying off.

What was he doing at Sperbeck’s bank, talking to a bank manager? No private detective was that fast. That good. No way. Henry Wade played the recovering drunk ex-cop thing like a B-movie actor. For him to move this fast, he had to be working with Sperbeck. Had to know something.

Quinn was certain of it.

He glanced at his camera in the passenger seat, thinking that if he cleared this one, it would be his biggest payday ever.

Upward of $1.5 million.

For a moment, Quinn entertained his financial options when suddenly the rear of a Seattle Metro bus was all he saw in front of him. Rubber screeched as he slammed his brakes, stopping dead.

Traffic ahead halted.

Quinn cranked the wheel to the left, craned his neck to see that a construction crew was working ahead.

No sign of Henry Wade’s pickup truck.

Quinn slammed his palms against the wheel.

The roar of a Detroit diesel engine in a dump truck unloading steaming asphalt onto the street ahead drowned out Quinn’s cursing.