Date: May 11–15, 2004

  Location: Seattle, Washington

  On May 11, 2004, Seattle remained cool, the temperature steady at 15°C, with clouds drifting over Elliott Bay, reflecting the city’s lights. Downtown hummed with life—cars honked, tourists chattered, and the city prepared for the annual Northwest Folklife Festival, set for late May at Seattle Center. The festival would draw 250,000 visitors with folk bands and handmade crafts starting at $5. But for James Crowe, a 37-year-old private detective, these celebrations were a distant thought. His mind was consumed by the Alaskan Way bank heist, where $200,000 had vanished into thin air.

  Crowe returned to his office on Broadway in Capitol Hill after questioning Richard Mason, the bank’s security guard he suspected of involvement. But with no evidence, that lead had hit a dead end, and Crowe decided to dig deeper. He sat at his scratched desk, a cold cup of yesterday’s coffee beside him, reviewing footage from nearby security cameras provided by Lieutenant Jensen. His office hadn’t changed: a corkboard with photos, a 2004 calendar, and an old $20 Sony radio softly playing “Hey Ya!” by OutKast—a chart-topping hit that sold 1 million copies that year. Crowe listened, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “If I don’t find these robbers, Jensen will have me listening to his fishing stories for the rest of my life,” he muttered with a self-deprecating smirk. “And that’s worse than any heist.”

  He picked up the phone and dialed Tom Harris, a 40-year-old pawnshop owner in Pioneer Square who often heard whispers of the city’s underground dealings. Crowe had known Tom since a 2001 case in Chicago, where he’d investigated a scam involving fake antiques. Back then, Tom, a police informant, helped Crowe track down the fraudsters who’d pocketed $300,000. It was Crowe’s eighth case, leaving him with not just experience but a valuable contact.

  The drive to Pioneer Square took 15 minutes. Crowe maneuvered his 2003 Ford Taurus past the 1st Avenue intersection, where a group of students with backpacks snapped photos of the historic district. On the sidewalk, a 50-year-old street musician with a long gray ponytail and worn jeans played “Sweet Home Alabama” on his saxophone. Crowe tossed a dollar into his case but didn’t stop—his mind was on the case.

  “If I don’t crack this heist, maybe I should grab a sax and join him,” he joked to himself, picturing himself as a street performer. “Though I’m probably better at solving crimes than hitting notes.”

  Tom’s pawnshop, Pioneer Pawn, sat in an old brick building with a faded sign, the letters barely legible. Inside, it was cramped: shelves packed with old TVs, clocks, and even a Fender Stratocaster guitar priced at $500, which Tom kept for “special clients.” Tom stood behind the counter, a 40-year-old man with a short beard, wearing a $15 flannel shirt from Walmart. He was polishing a silver watch when Crowe walked in.

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  “James Crowe, you old wolf,” Tom grinned, setting the watch aside. “What brings you to my treasure palace?”

  “Your ‘treasures’ look more like junk, Tom,” Crowe replied, glancing around with a faint smile. “I need info. The Alaskan Way heist. $200,000. Heard anything?”

  Tom leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Word is, it might be a Tacoma crew,” he said. “They’re saying they had an inside man. One of them, a guy named Willie Kane, tried to sell a gold watch at a pawnshop in Belltown a few days ago. But it’s just rumors.”

  Crowe jotted down Willie Kane’s name in his $10 Moleskine notebook, a constant companion in his jacket pocket. He thanked Tom, slipping him $20 “for coffee,” and headed to Belltown to check out the pawnshop Tom mentioned. The drive took another 10 minutes—traffic in Belltown was heavy during lunch hour, and Crowe got stuck behind a King County Metro bus carrying office workers. On the sidewalk, he spotted a group of teens in Nirvana T-shirts, laughing and sharing a $2 bag of Lay’s chips. One, a lanky kid with a green mohawk, called out to Crowe:

  “Hey, man, your car’s as old as my grandpa’s!” His friends burst into laughter.

  “Maybe, but I bet your grandpa isn’t chasing robbers,” Crowe shot back with a grin, adding a touch of humor, though his mind was already on the next step.

  The Belltown pawnshop, Belltown Bargains, was smaller than Tom’s but neater: glass cases with gold jewelry, a few trinkets, and an old Schwinn bike priced at $100 hanging on the wall. The owner, Dorothy Wilson, a 55-year-old woman with gray hair tied in a bun and thick-framed glasses, sat behind the counter reading the Seattle Times. The front page headline read: “Microsoft Plans Xbox 360 Launch in 2005.” Dorothy looked up as Crowe entered.

  “How can I help you?” Her voice was calm, but her eyes held a cautious glint.

  “James Crowe, private detective,” he introduced himself, flashing his PI license issued by the Seattle Sheriff’s Office. “I’m looking for Willie Kane. Heard he tried to sell a gold watch here.”

  Dorothy nodded, set the newspaper aside, and pulled out her ledger.

  “He was here two days ago,” she said. “Sold a Rolex for $2,000. Claimed it was his grandfather’s heirloom, but I didn’t buy it. He was nervous, kept looking over his shoulder.”

  Crowe noted the address Willie had left in the ledger—later confirmed as fake when he checked it through Jensen’s database. Over the next four days, Crowe chased ghosts. He tracked down the Tacoma crew, interrogating their leader, 30-year-old Travis “Bulldog” Jones, in a dive bar in Tacoma that reeked of spilled beer and played Jimi Hendrix tunes. Travis, a man with a bulldog tattoo on his neck, denied involvement, and his alibi checked out—he’d been at a concert in KeyArena during the heist. Crowe also looked into Alison Clark, the bank manager, but her finances were clean, and her story matched footage from a nearby store’s cameras, which showed her leaving at 7:00 PM.

  By May 15, Crowe had exhausted every lead. He sat in his car outside the bank on Alaskan Way, staring at the glass windows reflecting the port’s lights. In 2004, Seattle was a city of contrasts: Amazon hired 2,000 new employees, and the Space Needle celebrated 42 years, drawing 1.3 million tourists. But for Crowe, those numbers meant nothing—the heist remained unsolved, and he felt the sting of failure.

  “Well, at least Jensen didn’t make me listen to his fishing tales,” he muttered with a self-deprecating smirk, starting the car. “But I think I owe him a hot dog now.”