The Moon Stands Still Page 3

  “No. Her name’s stuck in my head. She was found behind a sand dune by her science teacher. He also claims he picked up the rock because it was right next to her head—he thought she’d fallen and hit her head on it. He carried her body to the nearest road and called the police. He swears he did not kill her.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “You keep asking me.”

  “Because you’re asking me to take this case.”

  He nodded, as if to say, Fair enough. “Then let me clarify. I don’t disbelieve him. And I also don’t blame the local police, they did all they could. Maybe I was ready to say the same for myself, until Peter called—”

  Peter Rosser, my boss.

  “—and I thought of you, because of the rock.”

  My boss, Peter, had made the state an offer it couldn’t refuse. His private forensics lab would work for free on cases that were either getting cold—or gone ice-cold—for free. His one stipulation was that if our work solved the case, the state would then reimburse us for our services. Having managed the state forensic lab in Spokane, Peter knew the depth of the backlog. And the state trusted his work. Meanwhile, I wasn’t crazy about this idea since I was already broke. But private forensics labs had to earn their reputations. And this was honest work.

  “Think you can help?” Tom asked.

  I walked the pegmatite back to his exam station and set it beside the evidence bag. “I’ll try.”

  Looking almost happy, Tom reached into a lower cabinet and pulled out a three-ring binder. “I copied everything in our file. And you can take the rock because you’re now the lead investigator. Just don’t lose it.”

  “Promise.”

  He packed the items, then created a paper trail that included Peter’s new contract with its financial offer. I waited, as patiently as possible, but unknowns always bothered me. When Tom was finished with the paperwork, I asked, “Was this girl sexually assaulted?”

  He offered me a pen, then turned the chain-of-custody forms toward me. I held the pen—and his gaze, waiting for him to answer.

  “Tom, I need to know.”

  His face tightened. “Not that night.”

  My stomach clenched as I signed the documents. At fourteen, I was riding my bike around Richmond, learning about geology, oblivious to sexual assault. The following year, I met Lani. We got into some scrapes and discovered our callings. Now, we were adults. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Girls are supposed to grow up and follow their dreams and live to adulthood. Instead, kids get killed… then people like me and Tom O’Brien and Peter Rosser made a living trying to figure out who and why and how. I handed Tom the pen.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Fine.”

  But as I made my way back to my car, carrying the evidence, my mind refused to let go of the image of this one girl whose life ended at the water’s edge.

  5

  With Madame on my lap, I drove north to Pioneer Square and parked across the street from the geologic wedding cake known as the Smith Tower, a white granite neoclassical beauty that housed my new office.

  Shrugging into my backpack, I crossed the street and let Madame make a quick visit to the tiny park beside the Tower. The dog tiptoed around the homeless people slumbering on wooden benches under plastic tarps and crept into the deep ivy, politely leaving her scent where nobody ever walked. She trotted back to the corner where I waited.

  “You have the manners of a true Southerner,” I said. “Now let’s get to work.”

  Built in 1914, the Smith Tower was originally the tallest skyscraper west of the Mississippi—all thirty-eight floors. Inside the russet marble lobby, I shucked off my pack and looked for the elderly black guard named Patterson. He operated the antique Otis elevators, the brass contraptions that rattled while framing the exposed floors flashing by. But the guard’s desk was empty. Not even his coat was there. Some weeks back, I’d heard cutbacks were coming. Old buildings like this one ate money. And new tenants demanded the same bells and whistles found in modern offices.

  “Looks like we’re taking the stairs,” I told the dog.

  Twelve stories later, the rock in my pack feeling like 100 pounds, we trudged down the hallway, the dog’s toenails clicking on the white hexagonal tiles. My corner office faced the waterfront, at the far end. Most of the other offices up here were empty but we had a dentist who came in once a week, two architects who never spoke to anyone—or each other, and a psychologist named Lezlee whose office was directly next to mine. Passing her pebble-glass door, Madame paused. On the other side, someone was weeping.

  I keyed open my door. Madame trotted inside and hopped on the old leather couch that remained where Harry Anderson parked it forty years ago, below the large window that faced Puget Sound. In the kitchenette, I filled Madame’s water bowl, took a Coke from the mini-fridge, and booted up my computer. Only then did I turn on my cell phone.

  Five messages waited.

  First up, Lani.

  “Raleigh, I’m making this call on an actual cell phone—did you turn yours off? How dare you!” My childhood friend shunned cell phones even more than I did. She also rarely emailed and refused to live in a house that wasn’t on wheels. “I was listening to the news and they just said a ton of money was found buried on the Olympic Peninsula. Did you talk to them? Call me!”

  Second message was from my boss, Peter Rosser. The man who made the offer the state couldn’t refuse. “Howdy.” Peter’s voice twanged like a cowboy. “Just hopin’ everything’s okey-dokey. Fill me in when you got a minute.”

  I was making my to-do list as the third message began.

  “Harmon.”

  I looked at the phone. The pause in his voice was noticeable.

  “Turn on your cell phone.”

  The fourth message was also from Jack.

  “You need to get to the Bureau. This morning. 9:30 a.m. Sharp.”

  I glanced at the time: 9:52 a.m.

  Which explained the final message, sent nineteen minutes ago.

  “Harmon, why can’t you just keep your phone on?”

  I looked at the dog, laying on the couch, her black face resting on her paws.

  “Ain’t love grand?”

  Eight minutes later, I was jogging up Second Avenue—without the dog—as drizzle spattered the air. Men in black trench coats rushed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction as if a game clock was running out. At Spring Street, I hung a right and burned my quads up the hill’s thirty-degree tilt. In the street, a city bus groaned past and screeched to a stop at the hilltop, the long carriage precarious as a teeter-totter.

  Jack was waiting at the corner. He wore a dark suit, not nearly as nice as the one worn last night at El Gaucho. And the way he looked at me was nothing like his expression when I was wearing that spy dress.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Stop turning off your phone.”

  “Sometimes I need some peace and quiet.”

  “I would advise you not to admit anything like that during this meeting.”

  “What meeting?”

  Back in the days when I worked for the FBI, I maintained a fairly consistent problem with authority. My superiors inflicted a variety of disciplinary measures, including a probationary transfer to the Seattle field office. I was assigned to the Violent Crimes Unit and given a mentor who turned into a torturer…Jack.

  Since I’d left the FBI—amicably, depending on who you asked—our boss Allen McLeod got promoted. He was now the ASAC. Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the entire office.

  God help us all.

  “Before I start speaking, I want to say something,” McLeod said, ushering us into his new office, five floors above his last office. The sparkling-clean desk faced two gray upholstered chairs. I took a seat.

  “Have a seat, Raleigh.”

  Jack closed the door.

  “Close the door, Jack, would you?”

  I glanced over, hoping for some sh
ared levity, but Jack refused to meet my gaze.

  McLeod sank into the black leather chair behind the desk. He was a large man with an odd diffuseness, like a grizzly bear that woke up from hibernation unsure whether this was the right month for it.

  “Raleigh, your private work seems to be going very well.”

  Last month, my private investigation into a murder helped close a long-running Bureau case. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And now, the shoe is on the other horse.”

  I glanced at Jack. He continued to ignore me. “Yes, sir.”

  “Still calling me ‘sir.’ Just for that, I want to hire you.”

  I looked at Jack. Nothing. “Hire me, sir?”

  “But like I just said, I need to say something before we talk about this, get some verbal confirmation from you.”

  One more glance at … nope, nada. “Sir, I’m not sure—”

  “We’ve been over this before, Raleigh, when you were an agent. I know you know we don’t allow fraternization. Or sororization, you being a woman.”

  “I’m sorry, I still don’t—”

  “No dating. No romances on the Bureau’s time. You know that.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “So even if you’re working for us as a consultant, any relationship between you and Jack needs to be purely plutonic.”

  Plutonic. My mind was already inserting the correct word—platonic—as I turned to face Jack. Friends only. Now he met my gaze. And his eyes were the blue-green of a lagoon smothered with deadly algae. Friends.

  “Jack tells me nothing romantic is going on between you two,” McLeod continued. “I just need to hear it from you and we can get this consultation moving for this case.”

  My mind swam through the bits of information, flailing like a victim thrown in the algae lagoon. Bad ideas bumped into me like flotsam. Platonic? I knew Jack, he wouldn’t lie to McLeod. So that’s how he saw it—nothing romantic. My heart curled into a fetal position. Platonic. That’s how he wanted it. I forced a smile to stretch across my face.

  “That’s correct, sir. Nothing romantic. But I’m still not quite clear on the case you’re referring—”

  “I’m getting to it.” McLeod drove his big index finger into the call button on his desk phone and spoke into the intercom. “Tell Pierce the meeting’s back on.” He released the button and went into a long tirade about leaks to the press. How we couldn’t afford that. How Jack assured him the leak didn’t come from me. How we were all a family here at the FBI, even if I was like a distant cousin now, and it was probably somebody in Evidence Control who let the “scat out of the bag” because everyone wanted their “fifty minutes” of fame. He continued to remind us what leaks did to law enforcement, and the entire time he was speaking, all that went through my mind was—Jack wants us to be friends. That steak dinner at El Gaucho? It was goodbye.

  I glanced over once more. He had realized we were a mistake. Over the best filet mignon in Seattle, Jack had changed his mind. And his words echoed in my mind: Harmon, you are the least romantic woman…

  “… and that bring me to D.B. Cooper,” McLeod was saying. “Raleigh, you know about Cooper, right?”

  I snapped back. “Pardon?”

  “D.B. Cooper.”

  “The hijacker?” I blinked. D.B. Cooper was a legendary cold case for the Bureau. More than forty years ago, he’d hijacked an airline and disappeared without a trace. The FBI was still tracking down clues.

  McLeod gaped at me. “Is there another D.B. Cooper I should know about?”

  “No, sir.” I forced another smile. My teeth ached. “I’m just not that familiar with the case.”

  “Raleigh, you need to change that attitude. Knowledge will determine your loot in life.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door swung open—without a knock—and a man nearly as large as McLeod strode into the room. His black hair was going gray and his face looked wind-burned. When he looked at me, his eyes felt like a direct slap to the face.

  “Agent Pierce Grant,” McLeod said. “This is Raleigh Harmon.”

  I stood, shaking the man’s strong hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  His eyes said otherwise. He dropped into the other chair facing McLeod’s desk. Behind us, Jack remained standing—and now I realized why he’d stood in the first place. He knew this guy was coming to take the other chair. I focused my gaze on the one speck of dust resting on McLeod’s desk.

  “Pierce is our investigative expert for cultural property crimes. Art, artifacts, jewelry.”

  I nodded.

  “Pierce, in your thirty-five years with us, you’ve recovered how much in stolen property?”

  “Last count, around four hundred million dollars.”

  McLeod burst into the grin of a bear who finds a dripping honeycomb. “That’s why we call him The Finder.”

  All three men seemed to be waiting for me to say something about The Finder. “Very impressive.”

  “Pierce has worked tirelessly on the D.B. Cooper case.”

  “Not from its true beginning.” Agent Pierce Grant chuckled. It was a metallic sound, like toy trains uncoupling. “But when the trail went cold, the original agents gave me the case.”

  McLeod looked at me. I thought about bears waking up hungry in the woods. I thought about the name Pierce and how the verb made a good mnemonic device for remembering this man’s name, along with Grant—the Union general who destroyed the South. I thought about anything that would keep me from thinking about the words nothing romantic.

  “Pierce will be leading up this investigation. He knows the Cooper case forward and backwaters.”

  I nodded, my mind brushing aside the malaprop, scrambling to figure out what was actually happening. Finally, two words came. The money. The money that Lani and I dug up. The serial numbers on the bills. Traced. Traced to D.B.—

  “Cooper bills turned up some years back, too. Pierce did tremendous work following up on that. What year was that again?”

  “Eighty-one.” Grant turned to me. “You probably weren’t even born yet.”

  I nodded. Why didn’t Jack let me know before this meeting?

  “Raleigh’s not from around here. She might not understand some details. Here in Seattle, Cooper means more to us. He landed and took off from Sea-Tac.”

  “Hold on.” The agent’s piercing eyes glared at McLeod. “She’s working for us?”

  “Everything’s purely plutonic.”

  “I thought we decided this, we’re calling her in only to question her about the money.”

  “After you left this morning, Jack made a good point. Raleigh’s done some excellent geology work, inside and outside the Bureau. That money was buried, just like before, so we need a geologist. And with the holidays coming up, Raleigh can move faster on the materials analysis than our own lab.”

  “But we already have a geologist.”

  Jack spoke up from behind “That geologist retired. And he’s got terminal cancer.”

  The silence hanging in the room sat on my ribcage. One million seconds later, Pierce swiveled his red face toward me.

  “On the afternoon of November 24, 1971, a man calling himself Dan Cooper boarded a Boeing 727 in Portland. While the plane was airborne, this same man called over a stewardess and displayed the contents of his briefcase. The stewardess saw wires and whatnot. Cooper informed her that the device was a bomb. He then handed her a note demanding $200,000 in cash upon the plane’s arrival in Seattle. Today, that amount is equivalent to a million dollars. Cooper demanded the money in twenties only. He also demanded four parachutes. And food for the crew.” Grant’s lip curled. “Such a thoughtful guy, making sure the pilots and stewardesses didn’t go hungry while the FBI scrambled to meet his insane demands.”

  I blinked. What was with his bitter attitude?

  “After receiving the $200,000 in twenties, the four parachutes, and the food, Cooper released everyone on board except for three pilots and one flight attendant. Nig
ht had already fallen and it was raining. Cooper ordered the plane fly to Mexico. About forty-five minutes after takeoff, Cooper sent the flight attendant in the locked cockpit with the pilots. From that point on, we are only able to deduce what transpired because we lost our eyewitness. Several hours later, the plane landed in Nevada to refuel and Cooper was no longer onboard. Two parachutes remained. We also found several personal effects.”

  “One tie and one tie tack,” McLeod said. “But nothing else in more than forty years. Except some of the money.”

  “Identified by serial numbers,” Grant said. “In 1980, a kid in Oregon found about six thousand dollars. And now, somehow, you’ve discovered another ten grand.”

  So I was right—federal crime. I considered turning around and sticking out my tongue at Jack. But no tongues allowed. Now we were platonic.

  “Raleigh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thoughts?”

  “Uh, the soil can offer some significant clues.”

  “No kidding.” Grant muttered. “That’s why we hired a geologist the first time.”

  “Who is now retired,” Jack added, “and dying.”

  Grant spun around. “He can still help us. He knows this case.”

  “Did you talk to him recently?” Jack asked.

  “No, but what’s your point? You seem awfully busy with missy here.”

  Missy? I wanted to reply, I’ll give you Missy, you big—

  Jack got there first. “Harmon had no idea that the money was linked to the Cooper case, until right now.”

  Grant’s face resembled a boiled red potato. “What’s your point?”

  “My point,” Jack continued to lean against the wall, Mr. Casual, “is that the geologist we used before is now retired. And very sick. Meanwhile, we have a local forensic geologist who’s worked for the Bureau, a former agent—”

  “Former agent.”

  “—who is one of the best investigators I’ve ever worked with.”

  My heart uttered a pathetic little squeak. I gazed down at my clasped hands. My platonic clasped hands.