Date: June 30, 2005
Location: Seattle
On June 30, 2005, Seattle sweltered under a balmy 81°F, the clear sky reflecting off the glass windows of Downtown skyscrapers like a mirror. In Renton, a quiet suburb where modest homes bordered industrial warehouses and small shops, the air carried the hum of everyday life. In 2005, Renton was known for the Boeing plant, a major employer manufacturing 737 aircraft, but it had its shadows—the Renton Police Department reported 90 fraud cases that year, often tied to financial schemes.
James Crowe sat in his 2003 Ford Taurus, parked on a quiet Renton street, a notebook in hand with Richard Mason’s address scrawled on the page. The bank security guard from the 2004 Alaskan Way robbery had been a lingering thorn in Crowe’s side, even after his recent successes with Lillian Grayson and the forged Picassos. Mason’s airtight alibi had stalled the case, but Crowe’s gut told him there was more to the man’s story. Armed with his “360 Method” and a renewed determination, he decided to dig deeper.
The drive to Renton had taken 30 minutes, slowed by heavy traffic on I-5 due to roadwork. Crowe had been stuck behind a truck hauling Boeing aircraft parts, its logo gleaming in the sun. On the roadside, a group of workers in orange vests took a break, clutching paper coffee cups. One, a 40-year-old man with an eagle tattoo on his arm, shouted at a coworker, “You’re late again, Joe! The boss’ll have your head!”
Crowe smirked to himself. “At least I’m not the only one with scheduling problems,” he muttered, adding with a self-deprecating edge, “Though my ‘bosses’ are cold cases—they don’t fire you; they just haunt you.”
Mason’s house on 5th Avenue was a modest single-story with gray stucco and a neglected garden, rose bushes wilting in the heat. A “For Sale” sign hung on the door, and the windows were shuttered with wooden blinds. Crowe knocked, but no answer came. He circled to the backyard, finding it empty except for a rusty child’s bicycle—a strange detail for a man who’d claimed to have a family. Suspicion deepened.
As he returned to the front, a neighbor spotted him—Margaret Lewis, a 60-year-old woman with silver hair in a bun, wearing a floral apron. She was watering her flowers with a hose, her eyes curious as she looked up.
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“You looking for the Masons?” she asked, her tone friendly. “They moved out in January. Said they were heading to Portland—Richard got a new job.”
“Portland, huh?” Crowe jotted this down, his mind racing. “Did they say where?”
Margaret shook her head. “No, but Richard seemed on edge before they left. Kept looking over his shoulder, like he thought someone was watching. I saw him talking to a man in a black suit the day before they moved.”
Crowe thanked her, handing her his business card, and returned to his car. He called Lieutenant Mark Jensen, his contact at the Seattle Police Department, who’d worked with him on the robbery case. Jensen, a 46-year-old with short gray hair, was in his office, sifting through reports with a cup of coffee in hand.
“Crowe, you’re still on that Alaskan Way case?” Jensen asked, his voice a mix of weariness and respect. “You’re like a dog with a bone.”
“If I’m a dog, at least I’ve got a nose for trouble,” Crowe replied with a faint smile. “Mason and his family moved to Portland. Can you run a check on him?”
Jensen’s search turned up a lead: Mason had taken a job as a security guard at the Lloyd Center mall in Portland. More intriguing, a month before leaving, Mason had received a wire transfer from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands—a red flag that made Crowe’s pulse quicken. It was the first solid lead in a year.
Crowe drove to Pioneer Square to see Tom Harris, the pawnshop owner who often picked up rumors from the city’s underbelly. The drive took 15 minutes, the streets alive with vendors at Pike Place Market shouting their wares. One, a 50-year-old man in an apron, held up a massive salmon, yelling, “Fresh from the sea!”
Crowe smiled to himself. “If I don’t crack this case, maybe I’ll try my hand at fishmongering,” he muttered, adding with a wry edge, “Though I’m probably better at reeling in crooks than fish.”
At Pioneer Pawn, Tom stood behind the counter, a 41-year-old with a short beard and a flannel shirt, sorting through vintage watches.
“Crowe, back on that old case?” Tom asked, grinning. “Thought you’d solved all of Seattle’s mysteries by now.”
“Not quite,” Crowe said, his tone serious but with a hint of humor. “Mason got a wire transfer before skipping town. Heard anything about offshore accounts or shady deals?”
Tom leaned in, his voice low. “There’s a guy in Portland—Eric Wolfe, I think. Works at an accounting firm, but word is he launders money for local crews. Might be your man.”
Crowe wrote down Eric Wolfe’s name, feeling the threads of the mystery start to pull together. He thanked Tom, slipping him a few bucks “for the tip,” and headed back to his car, ready to follow Mason’s trail to Portland. In 2005, Seattle was a city of contrasts: Modest Mouse prepped for a tour after their latest album’s success, and the Bumbershoot Festival drew thousands. But for Crowe, those were just background details—Mason’s sudden move and the offshore money hinted at a larger scheme, one he was determined to unravel.
