When I retired from journalism and started my own book and memoir editing service last October, one of the primary reasons was to binge-watch Yellowstonetry new vodkasbecome a TikTok sensation get back to my roots of fiction writing. At the top of the list was dusting off an original manuscript for a suspense novel I had written a draft of back in 1996 called No Safe Harbor.
I was living in Atlanta working as a chef, but spent the better part of a year interviewing detectives, crime scene technicians, and members of the Smyrna Police Department’s Internal Affairs office in my free time. Among those I interviewed was a private investigator named JR Noland who would only speak with me from pay phones. To this day, I still have no idea what he looks like. And since the book was set in Seattle — my absolute favorite big city — but I was in Atlanta, I had to research it the old-fashioned way: by catching a stagecoach to…
Ok, I’m not THAT old. But I did contact the Seattle Chamber of Commerce and lied pretended I was moving there and needed all the information I could get.
Hey, Google Maps and internet searches weren’t things back then.
Now in protective custody, Shane and Jacob share what they know, helping establish the details surrounding Lynda Bettington’s murder by Seattle Police officers Perkins and Taylor. With that knowledge, FBI agent Jack Dalton devises a plan to close the noose around them, and Rick Sparlo — with help from Shane.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shane and Jacob were separated, each of them accompanied by a handful of investigators from the FBI, Internal Affairs and the Washington Bureau of Investigation. Also on hand, at the official request of Russ Braden, were James Kazad and Walter Aames. In each interview room was a video camera recording their accounts of the events leading up to yesterday’s incident on 35th Street. The debriefing took nearly three hours, with Shane and Jacob elaborating on every question in as much detail as possible. Along with Mead’s testimony taken earlier that day, a timeline began to form and, by late afternoon, a picture of Lynda Bettington’s final hours came into focus.
The night of her death, Lynda was definitely leaving her husband. The car packed with suitcases, along with Jacob’s testimony that he and his mother were on their way to his grandmother’s in Oregon, supported that. As did the evidence of child abuse recorded by Hollins in the crime lab. The decision to stop at Sharon Reese’s, whether to stay the night or say goodbye, was the turning point.
Lynda was obviously unaware of Reese’s activities, and certainly any connection to Rick Sparlo.
When officers Taylor and Perkins arrived, Lynda found herself hiding with Jacob in the bedroom where, together, they overheard the threats and struggling that prompted Lynda to rush to her sister’s aid — a move that made her a potential threat to Perkins and Taylor.
And ultimately Rick Sparlo.
When Lynda left the condo with Jacob and raced away in their Dodge, she probably wasn’t aware Perkins and Taylor had seen her. Fearing what she could expose, they began pursuit shortly after. It was doubtful murder was their intent at that point. What wasn’t in doubt was their lack of knowledge concerning Jacob; they had no idea he existed, and Lynda managed to keep it that way by letting him out in Lincoln Park. It appeared her plan was to come back for him or, at the very least, draw them away from Jacob. Unfortunately, the crash in the industrial district changed everything.
As detectives Kazad and Aames prepare to expose what they know to Internal Affairs, new revelations change everything they thought they knew. Meanwhile, Shane and Jacob’s captors turn out to be something unexpected as the tables begin to shift against Rick Sparlo.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When the door to Braden’s office opened, both Kazad and Aames were surprised by the sight of Tabitha Mills standing in the far corner of the room. Braden rose and motioned to a cluster of chairs around the edge of his desk. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
As Kazad sat, he noticed a thick manila folder held closed with a wide rubber band resting on the desk in front of Braden.
“Gentlemen, I know you’ve met officer Mills before.”
“Officer?” said Kazad. “I thought she was with Child Protective Services.”
“She works for me, at least for the time being. I asked for help from the state attorney general’s office because I needed someone who wouldn’t be recognized from I.A.”
“I’m not following you, Russ,” said Hammond.
“There’s a lot that we’ve kept from you,” Braden confessed. “You have two officers we believe are murderers. But that’s only part of it.”
“Only part of what?” said Hammond, his shock quickly shifting to anger. He didn’t like being blindsided. “You’re telling me you suspect dirty cops in my percent — cops you think might have committed murder, for Christ’s sake — and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”
“There’s more to it than that, Chief. Much more. Enough to involve a team from Washington, D.C.”
“The feds are part of this too?” Hammond suddenly stood from his chair.
“It’s their show, Russ. We became involved when your officers became involved. Since then, we’ve been working together and trying hard to keep it under wraps. You’ll understand why after I explain, so please — have a seat.”
With the discovery of Sharon Reese’s body, coupled with their secret meeting with crime scene tech Roy Hollins, detectives Kazad and Aames’ suspicions about a cover-up continue to grow. Meanwhile, still on the run, Shane and Jacob come up with a risky plan to expose the truth about Lynda Bettington’s murder.
Chapter Eighteen
Kazad and Aames followed Hollins as he crossed over one of two bridges on Highway 90 that spanned Lake Washington and connected Mercer Island with the surrounding Seattle area. During summer months, the lake was alive with Jet Skis, canoes, seasonal fisherman and the occasional late-night couple skinny dipping. But in the off season, when rain showers were the only disturbance over the quiet waters, life centered near the southern tip of Lake Washington on The Mercer.
Leaving highway 90, Hollins headed south on Island Crest Way, which was the main artery connecting the northern and southern ends of the island. His destination was located at the furthest point south and surrounded by a private community of expensive weekender homes purchased primarily for short get-aways and lazy stretches of summer. As a result, most remained empty for a majority of the year.
But this morning, among a cluster of fancy cabins near the Mercer Island Beach Club, one unit was occupied by a team of police investigators — and the body of Sharon Reese.
Following Hollins in the Sable, Kazad and Aames left the paved road and maneuvered over a narrow gravel drive that took them past a small wooden sign labeled “cabins.” Police lights broke between clusters of trees as they neared the end of a large cul-de-sac bordered by two-story structures designed to feel rustic while still providing every possible amenity.
For any amenity not available in the cabins, there was someone at the Beach Club able to provide it.
It was an idyllic spot, thought Kazad. Except for the strands of bright yellow crime tape.
Ahead, Hollins parked along the cul-de-sac, leaving room for the medical examiner’s vehicle to eventually arrive and transport the body. He stepped from this car carrying a leather bag as he entered the cabin.
A patrolman recorded his badge number and arrival time.
Kazad and Aames came to a stop and waited before exiting the Sable to avoid the appearance of arriving with Hollins. After a few minutes, they approached the crime scene, hands buried in their coat pockets.
The patrolman clicked his pen, ready to jot down their badge numbers from memory. “How’s it going with the Bettington kid?” he asked. “Is this tied to that?”
As detectives Kazad and Aames begin to question the “justified” shooting of 8-year-old Jacob’s mother by police, they also begin to question private investigator Shane McPhearson’s role as a “kidnapper.” With Jacob now in police protective custody, the answers they are getting only seem to be leading to more, darker questions.
Chapter Twelve
Spotless white nurse shoes squeaked past Aames and Kazad as they waited in plastic chairs across from the examination room, paper cups of coffee between their feet. They had been at St. Anne’s Hospital for more than an hour and had yet to see Jacob.
At the other end of the hall, elevator doors opened, releasing a thin brunette wearing a tweed jacket and dark slacks. She walked briskly toward them offering a courteous smile.
“I’m Tabitha Mills. Child Protective Services,” she said, extending her hand. “I’ve been assigned to Jacob Bettington. Any word on his condition?”
“Not yet. So far, things seem pretty routine,” Kazad said. “The exam should be finished any time now. Would you like some coffee?”
Mills declined with a wave of her hand. “Caffeine triggers my PMS.”
Kazad and Aames exchanged glances as Mills took a seat, unclipping a barrette and releasing folds of thick hair. “It was a joke, boys,” she said, gathering her hair into a ponytail. “So, what can you tell me about Jacob?”
“Missing since Wednesday night. Probable kidnapping,” said Kazad.
“Noted,” said Mills. “Now can you tell me anything I haven’t already read in the paper or seen on the news?”
“I can speculate,” said Kazad. “Then again, the news seems to be full of that, too.”
Mills slipped a pen and legal pad from her courier bag with fleeting amusement. “I’m not the enemy, detective. I need information — speculative or otherwise — that can help me help that little boy in there,” she said, pointing her pen at the exam room.
Kazad began to reply but Aames broke in. “Please forgive my partner. He’s had a long day,” he said, patting Kazad’s shoulder. “He’s usually in bed before 7 p.m.”
A bleary-eyed doctor emerged from the exam room and crossed the narrow hall. “I’m Dr. Freely. You must be with the 8th Precinct,” he said as all three stood and exchanged introductions.
“How is he doing?” asked Kazad.
“Well, other than the need for a bath, some supper and a good night’s sleep, he seems to be in good shape,” said Dr. Freely, who then added: “Come to think of it, that’s about all I need, too.”
“Any idea how long he’s been on the street?” Mills asked.
“It’s only a guess, but judging from his condition and what little he told me, maybe ten to twelve hours,” said Dr. Freely.
“Did he say anything to you about where he’s been?” Kazad asked. “Or has he mentioned any names?”
“No. The conversation has been very limited,” said Dr. Freely. “You have a very frightened little boy in there.”
Private investigator Shane McPhearson, now identified as a kidnapper and sought by detectives, takes to the streets disguised as a transient in order to find 8-year-old Jacob and protect him from crime boss Richard Sparlo and cops on his payroll. WARNING: These two chapters contain strong language and an attempted sexual assault.
Chapter Ten
As the heavy rains edged across Puget Sound and away from Seattle, a lazy drizzle followed, stalling out over Lincoln Parkway. In the alley between the deli and coffee shop across from Sharon Reese’s condo, Shane had propped open a trash dumpster lid, angling it against the wall to create a makeshift cover as he huddled beneath it and listened to the dull strike of raindrops.
His collar-length hair was now slicked back and oily. Two days without shaving had darkened his face. A plastic garbage bag had been fashioned into a poncho over torn khakis and a soiled sweatshirt. The boots were gone, replaced by dirty sneakers; no socks.
Exhaust fumes spiraled down the alley as a city bus departed from a stop near the entrance, continuing on its route through Lincoln Park and to a ferry a little more than a mile away. Shane had parked the Wrangler there for safe keeping, then caught the bus to avoid the risk of being seen.
He shifted uncomfortably as renewed concerns seeped into his thoughts. The sitting and waiting in the darkness while staring at Reese’s drawn curtains allowed his mind to wander into places he preferred not to go — places where Jacob was frightened and alone.
They were places mapped by Shane’s own childhood of being shuffled between foster homes and time spent on the street avoiding them. It wasn’t that he’d experienced a lot of neglect or physical abuse, although there had certainly been some measure of both. However, it was the constant and prevailing sense of indifference that stung the most. The feeling that he was just another kid being moved through a limbo-like system until he was old enough to be booted out, making room for the next sad story and monthly state check. Though he was now a grown man with a life of his own, the twin prongs of abandonment and indifference that defined his childhood still lingered. His cautious approach to friendship was testimony to that. So was his fear of commitment to Sam.
She was everything he could want in a companion and a lover, which made her everything he was afraid of losing again.
Shane sat quietly under the battered dumpster lid, understanding that his connection to Jacob was deeper than he’d been willing to admit.
In this installment, Shane, now a suspected kidnapper, searches for eight-year-old Jacob, who is running scared on the streets of Seattle. As Shane’s identity begins going wide, Jacob discovers the truth about his mother, setting up a collision course between himself, Shane and the detectives trying to piece it all together.
Chapter Eight
Shane returned to Lincoln Park, parking the Jeep near the pay phone across from the playground. He knew the park was now dangerous territory; if the police were looking for him, this was a likely place to start. But it still remained his only link to Jacob. If he was going to spend time on the phone and looking through reports, it was going to be where there was a chance — no matter how slim — of spotting Jacob.
Scanning the area, Shane stepped from the Wrangler and into the phone booth, punching the numbers to The Nook. Sam picked up on the second ring, dishes clanging in the background.
“The Nook, this is Sam.”
“You beeped?” asked Shane.
“Oh thank God,” she said. “I’ve been watching the T.V. looking for you in handcuffs. Did you get what you were looking for?”
“I did. It was a little dicey but I managed to slip in, get the reports and slip out without sounding the alarms,” said Shane. “How about Gerald at City Hall. Did he get you anything on the dad?”
“Unfortunately yes. He’s a colorful guy.”
“What shades?” asked Shane.
“My guess is black and blue,” Sam replied. “Two DUIIs and a charge of disturbing the peace. All in the last year. The man is a drinker and he’s violent. You fill in the blanks.”
“What did the report say?”
The clanging kitchen sounds faded as Sam moved into the storage room. “Neighbors called the police and reported yelling and screaming from the Bettingtons’ apartment. The incident report describes broken plates and furniture, but no obvious marks on Jacob or his mom. Police charged the father with what they could and left. I think if the neighbors hadn’t called, the marks would’ve been there.” She paused. “As you know, I’m a bit of an expert on the subject.”
Shane absently nodded. Sam was open with him about her childhood and a father she only referred to as Jack Daniels. “The file I got shows the Bettingtons living in Woodway. That’s a good forty miles from from here. That’s too far away for Jacob to find his way back to. And if your abuse theory is right — ”
In this next installment, a new threat is revealed as private investigator Shane McPhearson and detectives are in a race against each other in the search for 8-year-old Jacob Bettington on the streets of Seattle.
Chapter Six
A white-jacketed man in his mid fifties held out a tray of assorted colognes, pointing a well-manicured finger at one fragrance in particular. “Started carrying your favorite, Mr. Sparlo.”
A nod of acknowledgment, and Sparlo lifted the slender bottle from the tray before slapping the bold, musky scent between his thick palms. He applied it to his face and neck, finishing with a trip over his slick hair as a crisp, white hand towel was handed to him. He promptly soiled it with remnants of cologne and hair oil.
“See you tomorrow, Benjamin,” he said, tipping the man a twenty. He then shifted his tie and left the exclusive spa frequented by wealthy lawyers, doctors, political gamers and businessmen like himself.
His business was commodities: heroine, cocaine and the leasing out of desirable women to the financial elite. It was an enterprise that afforded him a lifestyle attained by those who were either incredibly lucky or incredibly deceitful.
And luck had never played a role in the life of Richard Vincent Sparlo.
Glossy Gaziano alligator wing-tips galloped over white tile as he passed through the spa entrance, oblivious to the assortment of fresh-cut flowers, reflecting pools and instructors who were all young and obscenely in shape. He caught the stare of a 20-year-old with “Dangerous Curves” printed over the tight swell of her breasts. He exchanged an appreciative grin and passed through large double doors that parted on his approach, quickly making his way into a dark limousine that was waiting to take him to his daily brunch reservation at Le Pichet — a small, 32-seat restaurant in the Pike Place Market District. The restaurant’s French cuisine was as exquisite as it was expensive. And its limited seating assured the level of service and anonymity he required.
A novel in the making, join the mystery — and feedback — each Saturday at 9 a.m. as I release a new chapter in the final draft of my latest book
Chapter Two
Seven hours had passed since an officer-involved shooting dragged Roy Hollins from his bed a little after midnight. He had driven up the mid-section of Seattle to the seedy West Industrial District along Highway 99, where “Circus of the Stars” was well underway when he’d arrived. Acting as ringmaster had been Capt. Bill Whitmore, shining the spotlight on the appropriate stages while amazing feats of speculation drew gasps from the crowd. Two clowns — one from homicide and the other from Internal Affairs — separately questioned the two patrolmen involved in the incident.
In all the hoopla, the main event was practically forgotten.
Lynda Bettington was still lying under a damp canvas blanket when Hollins began his initial walkthrough of the crime scene. As lead crime scene technician, he’d been with the department for sixteen years, the last ten of which he’d spent picking through crime scenes. He still attended every seminar he could and lectured at a few of his own. Police shootings always required his presence. He was thorough, unblinking and unbiased in his investigations.
Except for Chief Hammond and Internal Affairs, he answered to very few.
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