Date: July 5, 2005
Location: Portland
On July 5, 2005, Portland sweltered under a scorching 84°F, the clear sky glinting off the glass windows of the Lloyd Center mall. In the Lloyd District, modern office buildings bordered shopping centers and green parks, the area alive with a summer buzz. In 2005, Lloyd Center was one of Portland’s largest malls, its hundreds of stores drawing crowds from across the region. But beneath the surface, trouble brewed—the Portland Police Bureau reported 150 petty thefts in the district that year, often linked to organized crime.
James Crowe parked his Ford Taurus in the mall’s lot, his notebook open to the page where he’d written details about Richard Mason: the security guard who, according to Jensen, had taken a job here after leaving Seattle. The drive from Seattle to Portland had taken three hours along I-5, with a stop at a Vancouver gas station for coffee and a sandwich. There, he’d noticed a group of bikers in leather jackets revving their Harley-Davidsons. One, a 45-year-old with a beard and a wolf tattoo on his neck, had called out, “Hey, man, your car looks like it’s been through a war!”
“It’s survived more battles than you’d think,” Crowe replied with a faint smile, adding a touch of humor. “Still gets me where I need to go.”
Inside Lloyd Center, Crowe weaved through the crowd: families with kids clutching balloons, teens in Nirvana T-shirts snapping selfies, and elderly folks on benches with ice cream cones. He spotted Mason near a store entrance, dressed in his security guard uniform, a walkie-talkie in hand. Now 43, Mason looked much the same as he had in Seattle—short dark hair, a weary expression—but his eyes were restless, constantly scanning the crowd.
Crowe approached, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Richard Mason, remember me?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with tension. “James Crowe, from Seattle. We talked about the Alaskan Way robbery.”
Mason flinched, but his composure returned quickly, his gaze turning cold. “I told you everything, Mr. Crowe,” he said, his voice steady. “I had nothing to do with that robbery. I’m starting fresh here. Leave me alone.”
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Crowe noted the tight grip on the walkie-talkie, a telltale sign of nerves, but decided not to push—yet. He stepped back, taking a seat on a nearby bench, and began observing with his “360 Method.” Within an hour, he saw Mason speaking with a 30-year-old woman in a business suit, her badge marking her as a store manager. Their exchange was quick, hushed; Mason handed her a small envelope, which she slipped into her bag. Crowe snapped a photo from a distance with his Canon PowerShot, hiding behind a group of teens sharing a bag of chips.
He tailed Mason after his shift ended at 6:00 p.m. Mason climbed into a beat-up 1998 Toyota Camry, dark green with a cracked rear windshield, and drove to a modest house in the Sellwood neighborhood, a 20-minute trip. Crowe parked a block away, watching through binoculars. What he saw raised more questions: there was no sign of the “family” Mason had mentioned in Seattle—no wife, no kids. Instead, Mason met with a 50-year-old man in a dark suit who arrived in a black BMW. They spoke briefly, and the man handed Mason a suitcase before driving off.
Crowe jotted down the BMW’s license plate and called Jensen to run it. Jensen, sitting in his office with a fresh cup of coffee, identified the owner: Eric Wolfe, a 42-year-old Portland accountant suspected of money laundering for local gangs.
“You were right, Crowe,” Jensen said, his voice tinged with respect. “Wolfe’s the guy your informant mentioned. And get this—he’s got ties to some folks in Chicago.”
“Chicago, huh?” Crowe mused, his gaze sharpening. “Well, looks like my old case just got a lot more interesting. If I don’t crack it, I might at least write a bestseller—The Mystery of the Vanishing Family,” he added with a self-deprecating smirk.
Crowe spent the night in a Portland motel, a dingy place with flickering lights and a mattress that creaked with every move. He lay awake, piecing together the puzzle: the offshore account, Wolfe’s involvement, and now the absence of Mason’s family. The next morning, he returned to Mason’s house, but it was empty—door ajar, furniture gone, and a note on the table that read, “Don’t look for us.” Crowe realized Mason’s “family” in Seattle had been a facade, likely a cover for the robbery. The envelope he’d seen Mason hand over at the mall nagged at him—could it be tied to the “StarLink Innovations” sign he’d found at the warehouse? The name still echoed with the cryptic journal entries his ancestor Elizabeth had uncovered about the Order of the Star Path.
In 2005, Portland buzzed with culture: Powell’s Books celebrated 34 years, and Nike, headquartered nearby, continued its growth. But for Crowe, those details faded into the background—he was closing in on something far bigger than a bank heist, and he wasn’t about to let it slip away again.
