Date: May 10, 2004

  Location: Seattle, Washington

  On May 10, 2004, Seattle was cool, the temperature hovering at 14°C, with a light rain falling from a gray sky, leaving glistening droplets on the asphalt. Downtown buzzed with its usual rhythm—skyscrapers and port warehouses loomed over noisy streets. In 2004, Downtown was the heart of Seattle, home to landmarks like Pike Place Market, which drew 10 million visitors annually with fresh seafood like Dungeness crab at $15 a pound. But the area had a darker side: according to the Seattle Police Department, 300 robberies were reported here that year, making it a risky place after dark.

  James Crowe, a 37-year-old private detective with a decade of experience, sat in his cramped office on Broadway in Capitol Hill when his phone rang. The office was a mess—a scratched wooden desk piled with papers, an old Mr. Coffee machine worth $30 humming in the corner, and a corkboard covered with photos and notes pinned haphazardly. A 2004 calendar hung on the wall, May 10 circled in red marker—a day Crowe had planned to take off to catch a Seattle Mariners game against the New York Yankees at Safeco Field, where tickets cost $25. But those plans were about to change.

  “Crowe, we’ve got a robbery,” Lieutenant Mark Jensen’s voice crackled through the phone, sharp as ever. “Bank on Alaskan Way. $200,000 gone last night. I need your help—my guys are drowning in paperwork.”

  Crowe sighed, glancing at the game ticket on his desk.

  “Mark, I told you today was for baseball, not bandits,” he replied, a faint smirk in his voice tinged with irritation. “Don’t you have someone else to chase your robbers?”

  “You’re the best I know,” Jensen shot back. “And you owe me for that Tacoma case.”

  Crowe rubbed his temples, recalling the 1998 case in Tacoma where he’d solved the disappearance of a 17-year-old student kidnapped for illegal fights. Jensen had covered for him when Crowe accidentally broke down a suspect’s door without a warrant.

  “Fine,” Crowe said, a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. “But if I miss the game because of your robbers, you’re buying me a hot dog at the next one. Not the cheap kind—with mustard and sauerkraut.”

  He hung up, grabbed his worn leather jacket—a $50 steal from Nordstrom Rack—and headed to Downtown. His dark blue 2003 Ford Taurus, slightly dented from a bad parking job last month, waited outside. The drive to Alaskan Way took 20 minutes through morning traffic: cars honked, drivers shouted, and at the Westlake Center intersection, a group of tourists in raincoats snapped photos in front of the original Starbucks, opened in 1971. Crowe spotted an elderly woman with a bright red umbrella struggling to cross the street, stuck in the flow of traffic. He stopped to let her pass, and she waved, calling out:

  “Thanks, handsome!” Her voice was raspy but warm.

  “Appreciate the compliment, but I’m already taken,” Crowe joked, flashing a grin, though his mind was already on the robbery.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The bank on Alaskan Way, a Washington Mutual branch, was a modern building with large glass windows and a blue neon sign flickering above the entrance. A crowd had already gathered outside: several uniformed cops, a KOMO News reporter clutching a microphone with the channel’s logo, and a dozen onlookers whispering among themselves. Crowe parked a block away near an old port warehouse and walked to the scene, passing two homeless men sitting on the sidewalk with cardboard signs reading “Help for Food.” One, a man with a gray beard and a tattered Seattle Seahawks cap, held out his hand.

  “Got any change, sir?” His voice was quiet, but his eyes held a flicker of hope.

  Crowe pulled a dollar from his pocket and placed it in the man’s palm.

  “Don’t spend it all on lottery tickets,” he said with a small smile. “But if you win, share the jackpot with me, alright?”

  Inside the bank, Crowe was met by Jensen, a 45-year-old man with short gray hair and a weary expression. Jensen held a tablet with notes, standing beside the bank manager, Alison Clark, a 38-year-old woman in a sharp gray suit worth $200, her name tag pinned to her chest. Her face was pale, hands trembling as she spoke.

  “They broke in at 7:30 PM, just as we were closing,” Alison said. “Two men in masks, armed with guns. They took $200,000 from the safe and fled through the back door.”

  Crowe surveyed the room: marble floors, plexiglass counters, a few clients giving statements to officers, and security cameras in the corners—which, according to Alison, had malfunctioned due to a technical glitch. His eyes lingered on the back door leading to an alley, where tire marks were still visible on the wet asphalt.

  “A technical glitch, huh?” Crowe raised an eyebrow, looking at Alison. “Sounds like someone on the inside might’ve helped your robbers. Or maybe I’ve just watched Ocean’s Eleven too many times.”

  Alison shook her head, but her eyes darted away, avoiding his gaze. Crowe made a mental note to dig into her later, but his suspicion quickly shifted to another suspect—the bank’s security guard, Richard Mason, a 42-year-old man seen near the back door an hour before the heist. Mason stood in the corner, talking to a young officer, looking calm as he sipped from a $1 Dasani water bottle. Crowe approached, noting Mason’s uniform was neat but his tie was loosened, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “Richard Mason, right?” Crowe extended his hand, his tone cool. “James Crowe, private detective. I hear you were at the back door before the robbery. What were you doing there?”

  Mason shook his hand, his palm cold but his grip firm.

  “Checking the doors,” he replied, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “It’s my job. I do a round every two hours. Didn’t see anything unusual.”

  Crowe leaned in closer, noticing Mason didn’t flinch—a sign of either honesty or a very good liar.

  “Funny how you didn’t notice two masked men bursting through the doors you just checked,” Crowe said, his voice calm but laced with sarcasm. “Either you’re a very thorough guard… or a very careless one.”

  Mason smiled, but it was a cold, calculated smile.

  “I do my job, Mr. Crowe. If you’ve got evidence I’m involved, show it. If not, I’m going home. My shift’s over.”

  Crowe spent another 20 minutes questioning Mason about his routine, but the answers were airtight: Mason had worked at the bank for five years, lived in Renton with his wife and two kids, and had no financial troubles, at least according to the quick background check Jensen ran through the police database. Crowe found no evidence—no fingerprints, no witnesses tying Mason to the robbers. In 2004, Seattle was in the midst of a tech boom: Microsoft was gearing up to release the Xbox 360 in 2005, and Amazon was expanding its Downtown offices, hiring 2,000 new employees. But for Crowe, those headlines were distant. He felt Mason was hiding something, but without proof, his suspicion was just a hunch. For now, he set the theory aside, determined to dig deeper.