Chapter 40

Seattle, Washington

Monday, March 9, 2020

Seattle’s 911 call center is located in Seattle PD’s West Precinct. I have no idea why it’s called that. It’s not visibly

“west” of anywhere, except maybe the I-5 corridor, and it’s smack-dab in the middle of downtown Seattle at Eighth and Virginia.

Leaving Seattle PD Headquarters, I headed uptown. Denny Regrade Parking at Ninth and Leonora wasn’t exactly inside the boundaries

of what I consider to be the Regrade proper, but as with the West Precinct mentioned above, I’m not in charge of naming things.

The parking facility was a low-rise, four-story affair that advertised an all-day rate of twenty bucks. It seemed to me that

if someone was trying to scrape by on minimum wage in downtown Seattle, they wouldn’t be able to afford parking, even at the

eight-hour rate. It would take too big a chunk out of their paychecks.

Hoping I wouldn’t be stuck there for a full eight hours and expecting to pay the shorter hourly rate, I took a ticket and drove up to the second level where I quickly located Constance’s parked Prius. Since traffic went both directions inside the garage, I knew that when it came time to exit, she’d have to go back the same way I had come. With that in mind, I parked in a vacant space five or six vehicles beyond the Prius.

I pushed the S 550’s plush leather driver’s seat back all the way, reclined it as far as it would go, and then pressed the

button that heats the seat. After that I settled in for what I expected to be a long winter’s wait. It may have been a number

of years since I’d last done a stint of solo surveillance, but I’d still had the presence of mind to stop in the lobby and

use the facilities before turning in my visitor’s badge and leaving Seattle PD.

I remained disappointed that, after doing all the legwork on the Constance Herzog investigation, I had been aced out of participating

in the execution of those hard-won search warrants. The payoff for me would have been seeing the shocked expression on Constance’s

supposedly cherubic features once she realized the jig was up.

But sitting in the parking garage, the worst part for me was not knowing what was going on. Had the warrants come through?

Had the warrant team showed up at the call center yet, or were they still mired down in some kind of paperwork jungle at police

headquarters? For the briefest of moments I remembered the old, old days when I would have passed the time by pulling out

a package of Marlboros and lighting up. But alas, those days are gone, too, right along with my reliance on McNaughton’s.

Forty-six minutes into the wait, my phone rang. I hoped it would be Scott giving me an update. It wasn’t. The caller turned

out to be Kelly and she was pissed.

“What the hell?” she demanded.

“Why?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

“Jeremy just called me in tears. He says Caroline told him that the baby isn’t his. She’s leaving him to go live somewhere

in Arizona with her aunt, and he says it’s all your fault. I thought I told you to stay out of our business—that I had things

handled.”

I was in no mood for being read the riot act by my daughter.

“You and Jeremy aren’t the only people involved here,” I reminded her. “Kyle is, too, and he’s the one who asked me to look

into the situation. If you think I’m going to apologize for that, you’re dead wrong. And if getting to the bottom of it means

having Caroline admit that the child she’s carrying is someone’s other than Jeremy’s, wouldn’t he be better off finding that

out sooner than later, as in before he marries her rather than after?”

Kelly seemed dismayed when I growled back at her like that, but having her come after me because her cheating husband’s girlfriend

had taken off on him got on my last nerve.

“But Kyle...” she began.

“But Kyle nothing,” I snapped. “There were red flags showing up in Jeremy and Caroline’s household well before Kyle took off.

In fact, they’re the reason he did take off. That’s why he came to Bellingham—to get away from what he considered to be a

toxic situation.”

“What red flags?” Kelly wanted to know.

“You’ll have to ask him,” I answered. “He told me about those in confidence. When I accepted his case, I did so as his private investigator, not as his grandfather. As far as I’m concerned, those red flags fall under the heading of client privilege. The same holds true for any information I uncovered about Caroline Richards. If Jeremy has discussed some of her history or issues with you, that’s up to him, but telling you about them is not my responsibility. Neither is the fact that the child she’s carrying isn’t his.”

That’s the exact moment when I heard a car door slam shut somewhere on that level of the parking garage. I raised the seat

far enough to see out and cracked open my window in time to hear a car engine turn over somewhere off to my left. Then a pair

of backup lights came on. Moments later, I spotted the red Prius heading down the ramp that led to the exit. At that point

I made no effort to hit the starter button. With Sandra Sechrest’s AirTag hard at work I wouldn’t need to keep Constance’s

vehicle in sight to follow its every move.

Holding Sandra’s phone in my hand, I watched the red dot leave the garage and turn onto Lenora. That’s when I heard Kelly

say, “Dad, are you even listening to me?”

I wasn’t. She had me dead to rights on that score.

“Kelly, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back later so we can finish this conversation, but now I have to go.”

“Figures,” she said and hung up.

By then the red dot on Sandra’s phone was turning right onto Boren. That probably meant that Constance was headed for I-5,

but I wouldn’t be able to tell which direction until she turned either onto Howell or Olive—Howell to go south or Olive to

go north. When she chose door number two, so did I.

Seattle’s weather is nothing if not changeable. By the time I merged onto northbound I-5 it was raining hard enough that the spray thrown up by passing vehicles was almost blinding, even with the wipers running at full speed, but since the red dot was moving steadily ahead of me, I knew I was on the right track. I thought maybe Constance would turn off at Northgate. If the search warrant team was still at the call center, she might try to beat them to her house. But no, when she reached the Northgate exit, the red dot went straight past without slowing down, and I did the same.

Where the hell is she going? I wondered. Is she making a run for the Canadian border?

North of Seattle, she could have turned off toward the Edmonds Ferry Terminal, but she didn’t. Instead, she stayed on I-5

as it passed Mountlake Terrace and curved around to the right, passing under the south end of Lynnwood. When the intersection

with 405 also went by without incident, it seemed likely that she was opting for Canada. A quick check of the gas gauge told

me I was down to less than a quarter of a tank—not enough to make it that far.

That’s when Scotty called. “We’re at the house and starting to process the ADU,” he said. “Where are you?”

“I’m northbound on I-5 south of Everett,” I told him. “If she heads for Canada, I’ll have to stop for gas.”

“Should we send another chase vehicle?” Scott asked.

“You could,” I replied, “but I’m the only one with a tracker, remember? I’ve got a quarter of a tank now. If it looks like

I need to stop, I’ll run up the flag.”

And just that fast, on the outskirts of Everett, things began to go south as brake lights lit up all over the roadway ahead

of me. Traffic slowed first to a crawl and then to a full stop. Clearly Constance had somehow dodged the backup because the

red dot was still moving at a steady pace.

I inched along for another few minutes or so in what was now down to one lane of traffic before I finally reached the exit to State Route 526 where a box truck had zigged when it should have zagged, taking out another vehicle in the process. That one was up against a guardrail on the median while the truck lay on its side with wreckage blocking both the exit lane and the two right lanes of the freeway. The accident had occurred recently enough that I was able to thread my way past it before emergency responders arrived on the scene. At that point the red dot was still northbound on I-5. That’s when Scott called again. “Where are you now?” he asked.

“In Everett,” I said. “There was a traffic tie-up that slowed me down. Constance’s Prius is still moving north. How are things

on your end?”

“A search of the ADU turned up nothing,” he said. “As for the house itself? The place looks like a hoarder’s paradise. We’re

leaving a team of CSIs to deal with that. If there’s any incriminating evidence to be found in addition to the devices, it’s

probably wherever she left the van, which is where she’s most likely going. Sandy, Ben, and I are coming your way, and we’re

heading out now.”

“There’s a big accident in Everett,” I warned him. “That’s going to slow you down.”

“Lights and sirens can move mountains,” he replied. “Constance is a dangerous woman, and I don’t want you coming up against

her without backup.”

“That makes two of us,” I agreed.

Once I regained speed, I accelerated until I was going a good ten miles over the posted limit. Just as I seemed to be closing

the distance between me and the red dot, I realized it was veering onto an exit ramp. I’ve driven this stretch of highway

often enough that I know it by heart. I didn’t need a road sign or a GPS to tell me it was Exit 206—the one that leads to

Smokey Point on the right and the North Lakewood neighborhood on the left.

Smokey Point, Washington, isn’t exactly a traveler’s paradise, so why was she getting off there? Did she need gas, too? Was she stopping to get something to eat? Or had this been her destination all along? But then, rather than stopping at one of the businesses near the freeway exit, she continued eastbound on 172nd. I was aware that there’s a small general aviation airport located a couple of miles north of that east/west thoroughfare. If Constance had a private plane lined up and waiting to take off, she might be able to make a clean getaway, especially since I had zero official standing in this jurisdiction and had no right to detain her.

When she drove past the road that leads to the airport without slowing down, I breathed a sigh of relief. But then, a quarter

of a mile or so farther on, the moving dot turned right and came to a stop. Then, after a minute or so, it began moving again,

southward this time, but at a much lower speed.

By then, I, too, had taken the Smokey Point exit and was proceeding east on 172nd, once again going well above the posted

limit. Right about then I would have welcomed the flashing red lights of a traffic cop. I have a concealed carry permit, so

I was armed, but when it comes to facing down a likely serial killer, having accidental backup from a passing patrol officer

would be preferable to no backup at all.

I slowed as I approached the turnoff directly to the south of where the red dot had now come to rest. By then, businesses

had thinned out. Since my stopping there might have attracted unwanted attention, I motored on past. As I did so, I noticed

that the building in question was a YouStoreIt facility surrounded by a stout fence and with a closed gate barring the single

lane entrance.

The idea of Constance having a storage unit—especially one located out of town—made total sense. Since the search team had

found nothing of evidentiary value at her residence, it was probably all stored here, including, no doubt, the missing van

itself.

I called Scott. “Where are you?”

“Lynnwood and heading north.”

“Set your GPS for the YouStoreIt on 172nd in Smokey Point,” I told him. “That’s where she is. Let Sandy know she’ll most likely

need another search warrant to cover the storage unit. I’m guessing Constance is about to ditch the Prius and head out in

the minivan. If she does that, the AirTag will be useless.”

“I’ll let her know,” Scott said. “We’ll be there soon. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Roger that,” I replied.

Half a mile farther down the road, I made an illegal U-turn and headed back west. Scotty’s advice was well taken, but...

I may have been excluded from the search warrant team in Seattle, but Smokey Point is a hell of a long way outside Seattle’s

city limits, and I’d be damned if I was going to miss out on this one, too.

During my second pass of the storage facility, I paid close attention to the fence. Obviously the owner had serious concerns

about possible thievery. The eight-foot-tall chain link was topped by a layer of rolled razor wire. The gate itself looked

sturdy enough, but that was the facility’s sole weak point, and that’s what I targeted.

The entrance itself was one lane wide. There were signs posted on the gate, but I was too far away to read them. Since Constance

had been able to let herself onto the grounds, I suspected that the entrance was equipped with some kind of keypad arrangement

that allowed customers to come and go even when no employees were present.

Months earlier, I had been involved in a missing persons case in Alaska that had suddenly morphed into a homicide. With the perpetrator about to fly the coop in a private aircraft, my driver at the time, a memorable character named Twinkle Winkleman, had come to my rescue by smashing through an airport security gate in her aging International Travelall. Twink stopped the fleeing Cessna in a nose-to-nose standoff out on the tarmac.

Studying the gate, I came face-to-face with my own Twinkle Winkleman moment. If I parked my Mercedes directly parallel to

the gate itself, Constance would be trapped. Her only way out of the facility would be blocked. She might be able to open

the gate itself, but to get away, she’d have to go through or around my aging but beloved S 550.

Having decided on a strategy, I immediately put it into action. On my next pass, this time with headlights off, I turned into

the storage facility’s entrance. It took some backing and forthing to maneuver the Mercedes into place parallel with the gate.

Once it was in position, I grabbed Sandy’s phone and mine, too, and bailed. If Constance decided to try smashing her way through

the barrier, I didn’t want to be anywhere inside that vehicle.

Out of force of habit, I always carry a bulletproof vest in my trunk. I thought about grabbing it on my way past, but I was

afraid the sound of the trunk opening and closing might attract unwanted attention. Besides, as far as I knew, Constance Herzog

murdered people with drugs and knives. There had never been any hint of her using firearms.

It had stopped raining, but outside the vehicle it was bitingly cold. That morning when I left home, I hadn’t anticipated

being out in the weather for any length of time. Knowing I’d be riding in a heated vehicle and going in and out of heated

buildings, I’d seen no need to bring along cold-weather gear. I was dressed like detectives should be—in a suit and tie—which

was good for camouflage on a dark winter’s night, but didn’t do a damned thing to keep out the icy chill.

The area around the entrance gate was well lit, so I quickly moved out of the glow of that and huddled behind the welcome barrier of a stout wooden telephone pole half a block away. I had tucked in behind it and was breathing in the odor of creosote when my phone went off. The shrill sound cutting through the stillness startled me. Afraid Constance might have heard the noise, I answered in a hoarse whisper.

“What?”

“According to the GPS, we’re fifteen minutes out. How are things?”

“All’s quiet on the western front,” I assured him. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

I thought it best not to mention that my beloved Mercedes had suddenly been transformed into a sacrificial lamb. Call it a

sin of omission. I wasn’t exactly lying to my son, because things really were quiet at that very moment, but I had no idea

how long they would stay that way. Once the call ended, I switched the ringers on both phones to silent and waited for something

to happen, and nothing did—for the next interminable five minutes.

But then a light flashed on inside the facility. At the time I had been standing in the dark long enough for my eyes to readjust.

I was able to make out that YouStoreIt consisted of one large multistory structure as well as four rows of single-story buildings,

all of them separated by narrow strips of pavement.

The glowing headlights appeared to be located between the third and fourth set of low-lying buildings. I caught a slight bit of movement of the lights before they stopped again. With no traffic noise, I heard a car door open and close as clear as a bell. Seconds later another set of headlights joined the first. This time there was a tiny bit of movement on my AirTag monitor. The vehicle edged forward a few feet before turning abruptly to the left and then, only a few yards later, coming to a full stop. At that point the second set of headlights vanished.

That meant Constance was doing exactly what I had expected, ditching the Prius in the storage unit and taking the minivan

on the road. In terms of my Mercedes, that wasn’t good news since the van was a much larger vehicle and could do far more

damage.

Gluing myself to the back of my sturdy phone pole, I waited, holding my breath, to see what would happen next. Moments later

a pair of headlights emerged from between the buildings and came snaking toward the gate where the vehicle again came to a

stop. The gate was built to swing open into the property. I’m not sure if Constance even realized the Mercedes was there until

after the gate opened and the van was back in motion. At that point, she slammed on the brakes and laid on the horn. When

nothing happened, she gave the horn another blast.

If I’d been in her situation on the wrong side of that makeshift barrier, I would have eased the van up to the rear of the

parked vehicle and started pushing there. With the weight of the engine in the front, the center of gravity on most vehicles

is slightly more than halfway between the front and back bumpers, causing the rear end to weigh a bit less than the front.

Once I’d eased the parked car aside far enough for me to squeeze past, I’d be able to head for the hills.

That’s what I was expecting, but it isn’t what I got. Instead, Constance Herzog rolled down the minivan’s driver’s-side window and fired six shots one after another directly into the passenger side of my once beautiful Mercedes, shattering both the front and back windows in the process. So much for her not having a gun. And so much for my not doing anything stupid since my vest was still in the trunk. Even so, my immediate response was by the book. I held up my phone, punched in Scott’s number, and announced those words every cop dreads hearing: “Shots fired.”

“What?” he demanded.

“You heard me,” I muttered. “Shots fired. Send backup.”

It wasn’t exactly your standard father/son conversation, and Scott’s response wasn’t, either. “What’s your location?”

“Outside the front entrance of YouStoreIt on the north side of 172nd Street in Smokey Point.”

“Contacting the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office,” he said and rang off.

I was worried Constance might have heard that exchange, although it seemed likely that the roar of those gunshots would have

temporarily disrupted her hearing. All I could hope was that the telephone pole was still providing enough cover to keep her

from knowing where I was.

For the better part of a minute, nothing happened. When the door of the minivan opened and she emerged, I could tell from

the light inside the vehicle that she was still holding the handgun. That’s when I realized that she had used that short interval

to reload. She stood there for several seconds, swiveling her head from side to side as if trying to locate the owner of the

parked car.

I had no idea how long it would take for reinforcements to arrive on the scene, so trusting my safety to that massive piece

of Douglas fir, I attempted to engage her in conversation.

“It’s over, Constance,” I told her. “Put down your weapon and get on your knees.”

She didn’t do either. “That’s not a cop car,” she responded. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said, “hired by the grandmother of one of your homicide victims, but I’m really working for all of them, Constance. And I’m going to take great pleasure in putting you away for the rest of your life.”

“Like hell you are,” she replied. Then, in what must have been a blind panic, she climbed into the minivan, shoved the gas

pedal to the floor, and slammed into the passenger side of my poor Mercedes, striking it directly amidships. Although the

vehicle hardly budged, the alarm went off letting anyone within hearing distance know that someone had just whacked the hell

out of it. But did Constance quit then? She most certainly did not! Instead, she backed up a few yards, hit the gas, and slammed

into it again.

In the meantime, I heard the welcome sound of approaching sirens wailing in the distance, but I stayed put behind my pole.

Constance Herzog was still armed and dangerous, and it was a good thing she still had no idea where I was hiding.

Moments later a bevy of cop cars rolled up on the scene. Armed officers, some of them carrying Kevlar shields, began spilling

out, but none of them were able to put a stop to the pathetic bleating of my stricken Mercedes. To do that, you need a key,

and the key was still in my pocket.

I stayed right where I was, thanking my lucky stars Constance Herzog hadn’t shot me. If she had and Scotty had found my vest

still in the trunk, there would have been hell to pay. I might not have died from the gunshot wounds, but someone else would

have taken me out, and it would have been a footrace to see who got to me first—Scott Beaumont or Melissa Soames.

My money is on the latter.