Chapter 3: An Old Friend's Price

Helen finished with, "Noah doesn't like people with dirty hands," and the line went dead.

I stared at the black screen as rain lashed against the window. In my headphones, that 4KB audio clip started playing again. A low-frequency hum pressed down beneath the sound of coughing, like an old generator running behind a wall. I turned up the volume, took off the headphones, and scribbled the timestamp on a piece of paper.

Megan sent a message: "Did you hear it? The frequency repeats every forty-seven seconds, and there’s the sound of a metal bolt sliding home in the background."

I replied: "Heard it. There’s an old warehouse near Cooling Tower No. 3. The lock model matches the echo in the audio."

"Are you planning on going there?"

"See Raymond first. He sent me an address half an hour ago."

The messages paused for a few seconds. Then Megan added: "Raymond Hansen doesn't invite you out for no reason. He knows who you're investigating."

I copied the recording onto two hard drives and pulled out my insurance investigator credentials. My authorization from the insurance company only covered claims; the old warehouse was Starport Group property, and entering it could be considered trespassing. But Ellis’s death record already had two conflicting timestamps, and Helen’s call had placed Noah near the scene. The clearer the evidence, the higher the risk.

The rain at Pioneer Square was heavier than it had been outside my window. Raymond stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the cafe, wearing a dark gray overcoat, no umbrella in hand. His forty-year-old face still held the sharpness of his lawyer days, though a few streaks of white had appeared at his temples. He saw me and pushed a cup of black coffee to the seat opposite him.

"Jack, you're three minutes late," he said. "I almost thought you’d finally learned to put personal grudges behind your work."

I sat down. "You invited me to a public place, which means you're afraid of the recording. Three minutes was enough for me to confirm that."

Raymond picked up his coffee. "You still have that old habit of looking for where the other person is lying first."

"I make a living off that habit. What do you make yours off?"

"Making other people believe I’m worth trusting."

He pulled a document from his briefcase stamped with the Starport Group logo. The paper was thick, with the law firm's name and today’s date printed in the footer.

"Ellis’s insurance claim contains major fraud," Raymond said. "Once you sign off on it, Starport Group will pay a forty-thousand-dollar consulting fee. You only need to state that the deceased forged warehouse records to claim compensation for fake injuries."

I didn't flip the page. "Ellis is already dead. Dead men are the easiest ones to frame as scammers."

"That sounds exactly like you twelve years ago." Raymond placed his hand on the file. "During that accident, you insisted on suspecting the Walker family but couldn't produce complete evidence. The final report proved you had tampered with the investigation records. You lost your license and almost went to prison."

"The final report was submitted by you."

"I was your defense attorney at the time."

"You were also the only one who got hold of the original files."

Raymond didn't answer. He pushed a bank card toward me; it had no name on it, and a sticky note was pressed against it: $40,000.

"This is the retainer," he said. "Another three hundred and sixty thousand after you sign. You can walk away from claims investigation and open your own firm. No one will ever bring up that old case again."

I looked at the card. "You aren't trying to buy my report. You’re buying my silence."

"I’m trying to buy a controllable conclusion," Raymond said. "Seattle’s ports, warehousing, and satellite launch operations all require stability. Ellis’s death will panic investors and cause regulators to re-examine Starport Group."

"The sooner the regulators examine them, the fewer people get hurt."

"Still pretending you only care about the victims." Raymond tapped his fingers on the table twice. "You want to clear your own name. I want to keep Starport Group intact. Both sides get what they want."

I opened the file. The first page was the engagement agreement, the second was the scope of liability, and the third was a confidentiality clause. The fourth page read: The investigator shall not access unauthorized related materials and shall not disclose any information related to this case to any third party. The final page had a statement attached regarding the dismissal of the old case, titled "Review Recommendation for the Miller Investigation Misconduct Case."

I closed the file. "You put the review recommendation from twelve years ago behind the fourth page, hoping I’d miss it when I signed."

Raymond’s gaze locked onto mine. "How did you figure that out?"

"The font on the page numbers is different. The first three pages were generated by the same printer; the review recommendation came from a scan. The binding holes are also off by two millimeters. Someone shoved it in later—not to show me, but to make it look like an addendum."

Raymond leaned back in his chair. "You always find trouble in scrap paper."

"Claims investigation is all about trouble. There’s very little left at an accident scene, but people who fake things always leave behind repetitive motions."

He took back the file and replaced it with a single-page agreement.

"Sign this," he said. "Waive all rights to pursue the old case and accept the Starport Group consulting fee. You don't have to prove Ellis committed fraud; you just have to stop investigating."

"This one is more honest."

"Honesty won't keep you alive any longer."

I pushed the bank card back. "Forty thousand dollars can't buy back twelve years of infamy."

"Then what do you want?"

"The entry and exit logs for the Cooling Tower No. 3 warehouse, the original surveillance footage from the day Ellis died, and the work terminal logs for Helen Walker over the last six months."

Raymond’s knuckles went still. "You don't have the clearance to touch Helen’s terminal."

"And I don't have the clearance to write reports for dead men."

"Helen is just a financial director. She has nothing to do with this."

"She mentioned Noah’s birthday on the phone. Ellis mentioned the same date before he died. One coincidence can be ignored; two require verification."

Raymond tucked the bank card into his briefcase. "You heard Helen’s call."

"She called me."

"She’ll deny it."

"Then let her deny it. The recording has a timestamp."

Raymond looked out the window. A bus across the street drove through a puddle, its tires kicking up black spray.

"You think you’ve found a path," he said. "That path leads to the case from twelve years ago, and it leads to the real cause of Ellis’s death. You’ll lose your license, lose your clients, and even lose the reason Megan is willing to dig up files for you."

"You’ve been investigating Megan?"

"I’ve investigated everyone close to Starport."

"Including me?"

"Especially you."

I pulled out my phone and tapped the recording. Raymond’s voice came through the speaker: "I’m trying to buy a controllable conclusion." I pressed pause.

"You just admitted that the agreement requires me to provide a pre-set conclusion," I said. "If you want, I can hand this recording to the police right now."

Raymond reached out to cover the phone. "You won't do that."

"Why?"

"Because you still want to know who messed with the old case files."

He guessed right. I didn't dial. Raymond pulled his hand back; there was no victory on his face, only a layer of exhaustion.

"Noah is preparing to take over all port authority for Starport Group at Friday’s board meeting," he said. "Ellis held an authorization record that could stop him. Helen took that record and later gave a copy to someone else."

"To whom?"

"I don't know."

"You know she leaked financial files."

"I know she’s afraid of Noah."

"Are you afraid of him too?"

Raymond looked at me. "What I’m afraid of is a man who treats everyone like family property. But I need his support to get a seat on the board."

"So you want me to clean up Ellis for you."

"I want you to prove Ellis’s death has nothing to do with Starport. Once the board strips Noah of control, I can take over."

I couldn't smile. "You want to take Noah’s position and hold that same power in your own hands."

"At least I’ll use it for a greater goal."

"Every ambitious man says that."

Raymond took out his phone and pulled up a photo. It showed the back door of the old warehouse, with a yellow maintenance tag stuck next to the lock. The date on the tag was three days ago, and the signature line read Helen Walker.

"Helen was there last night," he said. "If you want answers, go to Cooling Tower No. 3 before midnight. The demolition crew moves in tomorrow morning."

I zoomed in on the photo. A small piece of blue plastic was stuck to the edge of the maintenance tag—the same material as the seal inside Ellis’s file folder. Starport Group changed the color of their file seals every year; blue had only been used twelve years ago.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you’ll go."

"You want me to retrieve the authorization record for you."

"I want you to get the evidence. Who you decide to give it to after that is up to you."

"You give me forty thousand dollars, then send me into a warehouse that’s about to be demolished. Raymond, your goodwill is starting to look like a liability waiver."

He pushed the single-page agreement toward me. "Sign it. At least guarantee you won't disclose anything to the media while you’re investigating."

I tore up the agreement. The sound of the paper ripping drowned out the hiss of the espresso machine.

"You only tore up paper," Raymond said.

"Enough for you to print another one."

"Jack, once the old case is pried open, no one can guarantee you’ll come out clean."

"I don't need a guarantee."

"Then what do you need?"

I stood up and placed the bank card next to his coffee cup. "I need to see who’s lying."

Raymond didn't stop me. As I reached the door, he said, "The power at Cooling Tower No. 3 won't stay on forever. Remember that before you go in."

I looked back. "You gave me the address, but you didn't give me the access code."

"The access code will expire at 11:47."

I stared at him. "You even scheduled the time."

"I just know who will open the door for me."

I left the cafe, rain trickling down my collar. Megan called, her voice very low.

"Jack, I found the files on the old warehouse," she said. "On the day Ellis died, the maintenance logs for Cooling Tower No. 3 were changed twice. The first change came from a financial terminal, the second from Noah’s office."

"Is Helen’s name next to the first change?"

"No signature. Just her login credentials."

"And the second?"

"An administrator account. High enough clearance to delete the original records."

I stood under the bus stop sign, watching the time on my phone screen.

"Megan, help me look up the serial number on the blue seal."

"Are you going to the old warehouse?"

"I’m going to get the original."

"That will cost you your investigator’s license."

"Someone is already deciding my qualifications for me."

The sound of keyboard clacking came from the other end of the line. After a moment, Megan said: "Found the number. The seal originally belonged to a batch of transferred files sent from the old Starport port area to the Seattle City Archives twelve years ago. The registrant was Noah Walker."

I wrote the string of numbers on the back of my hand.

"One more thing," Megan said. "The checkout record for the seal shows someone re-applied for that same number early this morning."

"Who was the applicant?"

She paused for a few seconds. "Jack, the applicant used your investigator ID."

I looked deep into the curtain of rain. Under the overpass in the distance, headlights flickered on one by one. Raymond was still standing by the cafe window, not following me out.

I dialed his number.

"You used my ID to pull the old files," I said. "Now tell me, what’s in Cooling Tower No. 3?"

Raymond was silent for a moment. "An authorization record that’s enough to destroy Noah."

"And what else?"

"Something that’s enough to destroy you all over again."

"I’m going tonight."

"You don't have to."

"Whose hands will that record be in?"

"If you don't go, it will be in Noah’s hands by tomorrow."

The line went dead. I opened the car door, saved the file number Megan sent into my phone, and forwarded the recording and photo to her.

"If you don't hear from me by one in the morning," I said, "send all copies to the police and the insurance company."

Megan asked: "Are you sure you want to give up your career?"

I looked at the old investigator ID on the passenger seat. The edges were worn white, and the number of that tainted report from twelve years ago was still printed on the back.

"I’m sure I need to know why it’s still in my hands."

I started the car and drove toward the old warehouse. My phone screen glowed on the dashboard; the last text from Raymond was only one line:

"11:47. Don't trust the person who opens the door for you."

I parked outside Cooling Tower No. 3, killed the engine, and took out the old ID. From the iron door in the distance came the sound of a bolt sliding, and a line of cold white light appeared in the crack of the door.

I didn't get out immediately.

There was a forty-thousand-dollar retainer in my account, and a string of handwritten numbers on the back of the bank card. The numbers matched the serial number of the blue seal perfectly.

I deleted Raymond’s text, pushed open the car door, and walked toward the door.