Date: July 10–12, 2005

  Location: Chicago

  On July 10, 2005, Chicago baked under a swelter of 90°F, the humid air clinging to the skin like a second layer. In the Loop district, towering skyscrapers cast long shadows over historic buildings, the streets buzzing with a frenetic rhythm. In 2005, the Loop was Chicago’s financial heart—the Sears Tower (not yet renamed Willis) loomed as a tourist magnet, its 110 stories piercing the skyline. But beneath the gleam, shadows lurked—the Chicago Police Department reported 200 fraud cases in the district that year, often tied to financial schemes and organized crime.

  James Crowe arrived in Chicago after a long flight from Portland, his notebook tucked under his arm with Eric Wolfe’s name and the phone numbers Wolfe had used to contact the city. He rented a 2005 Chevrolet Cobalt at O’Hare Airport and drove to the Loop, checking into a modest motel on West Monroe Street. That evening, he sat on the creaky bed, reviewing his notes under the dim glow of a bedside lamp. The “temporary family” he’d seen in Portland, paired with Wolfe’s international calls, pointed to a network far larger than he’d imagined—one that spanned not just the U.S., but Europe.

  The next day, July 11, Crowe headed to Midwest Financial Solutions, an accounting firm on the 20th floor of a high-rise on West Washington Street, linked to Wolfe’s calls. The building’s lobby was a flurry of activity: office workers in suits hurried to lunch, one 30-year-old man in a tie chatting on a flip phone—a popular 2005 model. At the reception desk, Kelly, a 25-year-old with red hair and a crisp blouse, greeted him with a cautious smile.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her tone polite but guarded.

  “Not exactly,” Crowe replied, flashing his detective ID. “James Crowe—I’m investigating a case involving Eric Wolfe. I’m sure your boss will want to talk.”

  Kelly called her boss, and within minutes, Crowe was ushered into an office. Paul Reynolds, a 50-year-old with a shock of gray hair and a tailored suit, sat at a desk cluttered with folders, a University of Chicago diploma from 1980 on the wall behind him.

  “Mr. Crowe, how can I help you?” Reynolds asked, his voice calm but his eyes betraying a flicker of tension.

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  “I’m looking into Eric Wolfe and the network he works with,” Crowe said, his tone direct. “I know he’s been calling here.”

  Reynolds denied any connection, but Crowe noticed his hands trembling as he shuffled papers. Using his “Mirror Game” technique, Crowe mimicked Reynolds’ calm posture, leaning back slightly to match his demeanor. Within 10 minutes, Reynolds cracked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “I just pass messages along,” he admitted, his eyes darting to the door. “There are people in London and Paris giving instructions. I don’t know who they are, but they’re… everywhere.”

  Crowe left the office but stayed to tail Reynolds. That evening, he followed him to The Gage, a restaurant on Michigan Avenue, its warm lights casting a glow on the sidewalk. Reynolds met a 60-year-old woman Crowe recognized—the same woman he’d seen with Wolfe in Portland, now in an elegant gown, introducing herself as “Mary Evans,” a businesswoman. Beside her was the 15-year-old girl from Portland, but now she called Reynolds “uncle” instead of “partner.” Crowe snapped a photo from a distance, hiding behind a group of tourists ordering dinner.

  On July 12, Crowe followed “Mary Evans” to the West Loop, where she entered Little Stars Daycare. There, she played the role of a caregiver, tending to children aged 3 to 5. A 4-year-old girl called her “mommy,” but Crowe noted Mary’s lack of emotional attachment—just another role. At the daycare, he also spotted a 70-year-old man posing as a “grandfather” to one of the kids, his mannerisms familiar—it was the same man in a dark suit he’d seen with Mason in Portland.

  The network’s scope crystallized: a global operation spanning generations, from infants to the elderly, who shifted roles and identities across cities. Mason’s “family” in Seattle had been a cover for the 2004 robbery; “Mary Evans” and her “daughter” transitioned from Portland to Chicago, playing new parts; the 70-year-old “grandfather” was likely a coordinator. Crowe couldn’t tell who was truly related to whom, but the organization’s scale was staggering.

  “Well, looks like I’ve stumbled onto an army of actors,” Crowe muttered, a self-deprecating smirk on his lips as he scribbled in his notebook. “Only their ‘performances’ end in heists and vanishings, not applause. Maybe I should’ve been a casting director.”

  In 2005, Chicago pulsed with culture: Fall Out Boy soared with their new album From Under the Cork Tree, and the Chicago Blues Festival had drawn thousands earlier that summer. But for Crowe, those details faded into the background—the network he’d uncovered was the key to the Alaskan Way robbery and far more, and he knew his next step was to trace its origins, starting with the “StarLink Innovations” clue that echoed the Order of the Star Path from 1753.