That afternoon Shaw called the main line for Seattle PD and claimed to be a detective from the North Precinct calling on his mobile. The operator put him through.
“John Guerin.”
“It’s Shaw.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s skip the recriminations. Did you and Kanellis talk to our friend from China?”
“About three sentences before he referred us to the chief consulate. He claimed he’d never seen you before today and that you accosted him while he and his junior associate were shopping.”
“Which we knew he would.”
“Sure. I asked the consulate for information on Chen’s visit to Seattle, and they directed me to the State Department. I expect I’ll get answers about the time that Chen Li’s grandchildren die of old age.”
“The asking is enough.”
“For you, maybe. For me it’s zero. I put a request in to a contact at the FBI—they have a watch on Chen’s passport. We can’t stop him from traveling, but we’ll know if he does.”
“Bet you a penny he’s out of the country by end of the week.”
“You already owe me a hell of a lot more than you can afford. You need to turn yourself in, Shaw. Now’s the time. Our witness on Edgemont’s murder turned out to be a false lead.”
“They recanted?”
“Ghosted. The name and contact information she gave Officer Beatts were fake. Said she lived just down the street. That was horseshit, too.”
Shaw was silent for half a beat. “This woman a redhead?”
“What’s that have to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
“Hold on.” The line went quiet for a second, and then a recorded message about SPD’s commitment to community involvement began playing. After a long-winded sentence and a half, Guerin returned. “No, not a ginger, Beatts says. Brunette. Athleisure type. Said she was out running when she supposedly saw you. Why’d you think our slippery witness might be a redhead?”
“Healthy paranoia. Forget it. Sorry you’re stuck working the holiday weekend.”
“You’re the cause of it. You and these pages you wrote of what’s probably ninety percent fiction.”
“Only ninety? Sounds like you’re starting to believe me, Lieutenant.”
“Let’s talk about that in person. I can’t do anything to help until you meet us halfway.”
“There’s somebody else you need to meet first. One of Hargreaves’s lead operatives.”
“Christ, Shaw.”
“She’ll talk. In exchange for immunity.”
“Immunity from what?”
“Accessory after the fact on the corporate theft from Avizda. Probably some other minor charges. Nothing with real weight. She’s white-collar, not a thug.”
“Not like you, you mean. What’s her name?”
“There’s more I need done.”
“You’re dreaming. Give me her name.”
“Rohner has to incriminate himself for you to have any hope of charging him. I’ve got an idea to make that happen. But it’ll take her help, and yours, and some official pressure. She’ll lay it out for you.”
“Start with your witness and we’ll see.”
“Karla Haiden. New York resident. PI license. I’ve got her stashed away. Hargreaves’s men already tried to kill her once.” Shaw gave Guerin the number of Hollis’s burner. “Get her to a safe house and she’ll cooperate.”
“You better be sure on this.”
Shaw had been thinking much the same thing. He was taking a big risk on where Karla Haiden’s loyalties would land when the wheel stopped spinning.