“Let me check.” Dolores typed something into the computer. “Yes, he has office hours today. Room six oh six. Make a left when you leave the elevator.”
Morris thanked her one last time.
Two minutes later, he was standing outside a small, sparsely decorated office, staring at the back of Ethan Wolfe’s head. The grad student was seated behind his desk but was turned toward the window, his back to the doorway. Morris rapped his knuckles hard on the doorframe.
“It’s open,” Wolfe said, spinning around in his chair. His face froze.
Morris stepped inside.
The kid was better looking than he remembered, but then again, he hadn’t looked at Wolfe too closely the night they’d met. Morris had been too focused on whether Sheila had liked her diamond bracelet. Feeling self-conscious, he sucked in his gut and stood up straighter.
Wolfe was on the phone. “Gotta go,” he said quietly into the receiver. “See you at home.” He placed the handset back in its cradle.
“Howdy.” Morris was trying for pleasant, but it came out gruff. “Don’t know if you remember me. I’m Morris Gardener.”
“Sheila’s fiancé. Of course.” Looking less than enthused, Wolfe lifted himself out of his chair.
They shook hands and Morris found himself pressing harder on the younger man’s palm than was necessary.
“What brings you by?”
“The lady in the office asked me to pack up Sheila’s things.” Morris gave the smaller man a deliberate once-over. “Guess they need the office space.”
Wolfe nodded and sat back down. The Seahawks bobble-head on the desk vibrated. “Office space is like gold around here. Sheila had the best spot in the building, with the best view.”
“Mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.”
Morris reached for the door.
“Would you mind leaving it open?” Wolfe said quickly. “It gets pretty stuffy in here.”
That pang again.
Morris shut the door firmly behind him. “I think you’ll agree that what we need to talk about is best kept private.”
Wolfe stiffened.
Morris eased himself into the small chair across from Wolfe and studied the young man, who was sipping something from Starbucks and watching him with a furtive expression. Christ, Ethan Wolfe was still a kid. And he looked completely uncomfortable. It was a total one-eighty from the last time Morris had seen him, when he was all cock and swagger.
Something about the way the kid sat in the chair was familiar. The thought nagged, and Morris allowed himself to ruminate on it for about five seconds before reminding himself that he and Wolfe had met before.
The TA finally broke the silence. “Is there news about Dr. Tao?”
“I don’t have any answers for you, son.”
Wolfe bristled at the condescending term. “Well, if you talk to her, let her know we miss her. I’m working under Professor Easton now, and just between you and me, I’m afraid to pick up a pencil, if you know what I mean.” Wolfe’s chuckle sounded forced. A bead of sweat was at his hairline, though the room was cool. He stood up suddenly. “Mind if I open a window?”
“Not at all.”
As Wolfe tugged at the small pane, Morris couldn’t help noticing the bulge of the younger man’s biceps below the short sleeves of his T-shirt. The last time he’d been that lean, Morris was sixteen and playing high school football. A moment later a blast of cool air filled the room.
Wolfe sat back down, his face a little brighter than before. His lips turned up in an arrogant smile. “So, Morris, if there’s no news, what is it you want to discuss?”
“How long have you been working with Sheila? A year?”
Wolfe’s expression was cool. “Just about. She was my mentor. I’m really disappointed she left because this is my last year. I would have loved to finish under her.”
And over her, and from behind, and any other position you get her into, blowhard.
“She’s the best professor at this school,” Wolfe continued. “Hands down. Her lectures were incredible, as I’m sure you know.” He sipped his coffee again, no longer rattled.
“I wouldn’t know, actually.”
“You’ve never heard her lecture?”
“Never had the privilege.”
“Wow.” Wolfe leaned back in his chair, smug. “I’d have thought being engaged and all, you’d have taken an interest in her work. She was the most dynamic—”
A knock at the door interrupted Wolfe midsentence. Morris realized he was breathing hard and forced himself to calm down. Turning his head, he saw Dolores in the doorway.
“Hi again, Morris.”
She gave him a warm smile and he forced himself to smile back. The woman had no idea she’d just saved Wolfe from getting his face smashed into the desk.
“What’s up, Dolores?” Wolfe sounded breezy.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you gentlemen, but, Ethan, Danny Ambrose is here. He’s really upset. He said Dr. Tao told him he was getting a B, but you entered a C into the system and now he’s having problems with his scholarship. Can I steal you for a quick sec?”
“This might take a few minutes,” Wolfe said, standing. He seemed amused for no reason Morris could see.
“I’ll wait,” Morris said.
Alone, he looked around at the dismal office, much smaller than Sheila’s and lacking personality. He poked hard at the Seahawks bobblehead to make it nod faster and contemplated how he was going to ask Wolfe about the affair. Should he come straight out with it? Or dance around it and try to make the kid squirm?
The bobblehead’s abnormally large cranium fell off its skinny body with a clatter and rolled around on the desk a few times. Morris made a grab for it before it could fall over the edge and hit the floor.
Shit, it was broken. Holding the plastic head in his hand, he allowed himself a smirk at the sight of the headless body. It was a nice parallel for what he felt like doing to Ethan Wolfe.
Fumbling with large fingers, he worked at reattaching the head. As he fiddled with the springs, something small and shiny rolled away from the base. Morris picked it up, assuming it was another broken part. But it wasn’t, not even close.
He knew exactly what this was, because it belonged to him.
Stunned, he traced the engraved initials on the platinum face. MG.
It was the missing cuff link he’d been looking for. What the hell was Wolfe doing with it? Morris’s mind raced.
Had Sheila given it to her boy toy? No, that made no sense. What would have been the point of giving Wolfe just one cuff link? Besides, they were personalized with Morris’s initials.
Had he left it at Sheila’s house and Wolfe had swiped it from there? No, impossible. Morris had never worn the cuff links to Sheila’s house.
Wolfe would be back any minute. Slipping the cuff link into his pocket, Morris made his way out of the office.
Six minutes later he was in his Cadillac. He closed and locked the car doors. In the privacy of the vehicle, he pulled out the cuff link and stared at it in disbelief.
What the hell did it mean? Think, damn it.
The last time he’d worn these cuff links was when he was working on the Okinawa deal. He’d had an early-morning breakfast meeting with two of the investors and had worn his charcoal suit with his favorite cerulean blue tie. Then he’d had a conference call with another investor in Japan. Afterward, if he wasn’t mistaken, he’d met with Randall’s friend Tom Young for a preliminary interview. They’d gone out to dinner later that evening.
Christ. Tom Young. The pieces fell into place.
He knew he’d remembered Ethan Wolfe from somewhere. The desire to leave the door open at the interview, the posture, the cocky grin . . .
Tom Young was Ethan Wolfe.
The hair was different, the skin lighter, but the voice, the mannerisms . . . Morris would bet his life on it.
He grabbed his phone. Jerry answered on the first ring.
Morris did
n’t bother with pleasantries. “We got a problem.”
CHAPTER : 33
“It was a bonehead thing to do,” Jerry said for the fourth time. “You’re getting way too involved in this. You shouldn’t have even talked to him.”
“You lectured me yesterday.”
“You’re quite possibly the most thickheaded person I’ve ever known. And that’s saying a lot ’cause I know a lot of people. The idea was for him not to know we’re watching him.” Jerry’s expression was pained. “When he can’t find the cuff link, he’ll know you took it.”
“Nah, he’ll probably think he lost it. Happens to me all the time.”
“Because you’re old.”
“So are you,” Morris finally snapped. “Quit busting my balls, it’s done now. What I want to know is, why get into disguise and pretend to interview for a job? What the hell’s the point?”
“Scoping you out, probably. Ballsy, but he’s good at it, too. You wouldn’t have put it together if it weren’t for the claustrophobia thing. Jesus, he took the cuff link right off your wrist.” Jerry whistled. “And brought it to the office like it’s some kind of trophy.”
“What does it all mean?”
“We might never know, but I do know you shouldn’t have talked to him. You should have kept your distance.”
Morris kept his eyes on the building in front of them. They’d been sitting outside Ethan Wolfe’s apartment for the past four hours and both men were getting irritable. Morris was starting to wonder why he’d insisted on tagging along. He should have been at work. So far Wolfe hadn’t gone anywhere interesting—besides the university for a few hours—but, according to Jerry, that was the way it went sometimes.
Morris felt nauseated in Jerry’s tiny car. He stretched his legs out as far as they could go, longing for the roominess of his Cadillac, and complained again that his head was actually touching the roof of the Honda.
“Oh, let it go already.” Jerry’s voice was gruff. “I get it, the car’s small. But might I remind you I normally do this alone? You invited yourself.”
Morris stifled a chuckle. He enjoyed getting a rise out of the private investigator. It provided some comic relief to what had so far been a dull day.
The background check Jerry ordered had turned up some interesting information about Ethan Wolfe. He was twenty-three, born in Omaha, Nebraska. His Social Security number showed a dozen past addresses all over the United States, with not one but two current residences. The first was a rental apartment in the university district, which he co-leased with a female named Abby Maddox, also twenty-three. The other was a house in Lake Stevens, ownership in Wolfe’s name only. No mortgage. He’d paid over half a million dollars for it.
Wolfe had been a ward of the State of Nebraska from age ten onward and had lived in several foster homes before he was released at the age of eighteen. His mother, Cheryl, had died in a house fire. There was no record of his father’s current location, but the man had spent a year in prison for assault and battery when the boy was two years old. His mother had been the victim.
Wolfe had attended three other colleges in addition to Puget Sound State, two in California and one in Oregon. Aside from his TA gig at PSSU, he’d never held another job of any kind. DMV records showed two speeding tickets in the last three years—both paid on time—and the ownership of one 1968 Triumph motorcycle.
There was also a sealed juvenile criminal record. There was no way to unseal it without a subpoena, and since Wolfe wasn’t under official investigation, Jerry wouldn’t be able to get one.
Not exactly the standard record of a twenty-three-year-old graduate student.
“Where do you think the money came from to buy the house?” Morris asked.
“Inheritance would be my guess.”
“What do you think he did to get the juvenile record?”
Jerry shrugged. “Could be anything. He grew up in a violent home, bounced around in the foster care system, couldn’t have been fun. Probably assault, or drugs. Those are the most common.” The PI yawned.
Morris was learning that investigating was not nearly as interesting as people thought. It wasn’t like it was on TV. Jerry had explained to Morris that a lot of the so-called investigating happened on the phone and over the Internet, and sitting in your car in dark corners waiting for something to happen. There were few face-to-face interviews, and almost no drama. Adultery tended to be more interesting than other cases since sometimes you got to take pictures of the action. But missing persons? Nope. Morris was disappointed to see that today was no different.
They had been following Wolfe on his ultracool motorcycle and it appeared to be a day of errand-running for the graduate student. Jerry, who knew nothing about motorcycles, was shocked to learn that the vintage Triumph Wolfe was riding—perfectly maintained with custom modifications—would have cost more than Jerry’s Honda Accord . . . if he had bought the car new.
Morris’s eyes were getting heavy, and he finally stopped fighting and closed them.
He woke up to Jerry’s elbow in his side.
“Up and at ’em. They’re moving.”
Morris sat up and looked at his watch. It was just after 6:00 p.m. He’d slept for an hour. Wolfe and his girlfriend were climbing onto Wolfe’s motorcycle.
“You have to admit, the girl looks good on the bike.” Jerry waited ten seconds before starting the ignition. “Could her jeans be any tighter?”
Abby Maddox had her slender arms wrapped around Wolfe’s slim waist.
“You know, I don’t get it.” Morris rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “The kid gets to come home every day to her. What did he want with my Sheila?”
Jerry snorted. “You know damn well men don’t cheat because the other woman’s better looking. We cheat because we can.” He glanced sideways at Morris. “Don’t sell your fiancée short. She’s attractive, and an authority figure. That bodes well for a young man’s fantasies.”
“You ever cheat on your wife?”
“Not this one. But I’ve had my share of temptation.” A funny expression crossed Jerry’s dark face. “I love my wife. Annie’s a good woman. Been married twelve years now and she still rocks my world, as my niece Keisha would so eloquently put it.”
“This is your second marriage?”
“Third, actually. It took me that long to learn that one woman really is enough for me.” Jerry smiled ruefully.
“Kids?”
“You’re a nosy dude.”
“Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
“She couldn’t have kids with her first husband, and it never happened with my first two wives.” Jerry’s voice held regret. “We’re too old now. It’s okay, some things aren’t meant to be.”
They followed the couple about a mile to a soup kitchen called St. Mary’s Helping Hands. Morris had read about this place in Seattle magazine. It had a great reputation, thanks to its tireless staff of volunteers who did everything from raise money and solicit food donations, to cooking, cleaning, and serving.
Wolfe left his motorcycle out front, and he and his girlfriend entered the worn building holding hands. Jerry parallel-parked on the other side of the street where they had a clear view of the entrance. It was a no-parking zone, but if Jerry noticed, he wasn’t deterred. He turned the engine off.
“What now?” Morris asked.
“We wait.”
“This is what I pay you for? To sit around in front of buildings?”
“It requires great instincts and superb observational skills.”
Morris snorted. “Hard to believe those two are volunteers.” He settled back in his seat and yawned.
“After thirty years as a cop, I’ve learned there are no rules when it comes to human behavior.” Jerry looked out the window at a group of homeless men hovering by the soup kitchen’s door. “You know those FBI shows on TV? Where they do the profiling?”
“Yeah.”
“Cops hate that stuff. While it’s all well and good to
sit behind a desk and have assigned characteristics and fancy medical names for criminals,” Jerry said in a prissy voice, “at the end of the day, you just don’t know what anybody’s gonna do. You gotta prepare for everything. Human beings are unpredictable. After three decades with PD, I still get surprised.”
“Did you like being a cop?”
“Yeah.” Jerry’s voice was rueful. “Mostly I did, but the job was stressful and the money was shit. You like being a banker?”
“Yeah. Mostly I do, because the hours are good and the money’s fantastic.” Both men laughed.
Three hours later, they were still in the car, listening to sports talk on the radio and drinking the hot coffee that Morris had gotten from the street vendor down the block. Jerry wasn’t much of a football fan, and Morris was enthusiastically explaining the finer nuances of the game.
Someone rapped sharply on the driver’s-side window.
Startled midsentence, Morris jumped, splashing hot coffee into his lap. He cursed as Jerry rolled down the window slowly. A parking-enforcement officer was staring in at them through the tinted windows, her hawkish face against the glass.
Jerry got the window halfway down then stopped. “Hey there.” He reached into his breast pocket and flashed a Seattle PD detective’s badge. Morris was surprised—he didn’t think retired officers were allowed to keep their badges.
“And that means what to me?” The woman was not impressed. “Move on. You’re in a no-park zone. Or I’ll have to ticket you.” She tapped her clipboard to make a point.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Jerry snapped, but he put his badge away. “Go bug the tourists who park illegally in the shopping district.”
“So you’re saying you want me to write this up?” Her ballpoint pen was poised over a pad of yellow tickets.
Jerry finally gave a stiff nod and started up the car. He drove down First Avenue, grumbling under his breath.
“No respect,” the private investigator muttered. “If I’d been on active duty, I’d tell her where she could stick her motherfucking ticket.”
“They let you keep your badge?”
“It’s a replica.” Jerry sounded sheepish. “They let you order one when you retire, to keep as a memento. Sometimes I use it to help with this job.” He looked at Morris and put a finger over his lips as if to say, Shhh. “Like I said, most days I don’t miss being a cop. All things considered, I transitioned well from public servant into private life. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss some of the perks. Like the goddamned respect.”