Smoke, Mirrors, and Murder

choice of companionship is limited behind bars, and most prisoners go their own way when they get out.
    Bill even purchased one of Yancy’s artistic efforts to write to his children, an envelope with a beautiful long-stemmed red rose on the front.
    Yancy was released on July 10, and he had prospects he didn’t have before he met Bill Jensen. He was armed with a phone number that belonged to a woman who lived near Bremerton, Washington. Bill had given it to him; it belonged to Bill’s older sister Iris.
    Within an hour of his walking out of the King County Jail, Yancy Carrothers called Iris. She was expecting his call, but she waited until he gave her an agreed-upon password: “Flying Kings.”
    He and Bill came up with that, honoring the gang that Yancy had once belonged to.
    “Oh, yes,” she responded, “Bill told me you would be calling. I was wondering why you didn’t call me last night.”
    “I didn’t get a midnight release, like I thought I was going to. I just got out.”
    Iris Pate and Yancy Carrothers discussed when and where they would meet. She understood she was to give him some money—$2,500. Bill had told her that it was for his bail, and since she now held her brother’s power of attorney, she was in a position to give the cash to the friend he had specified.
    They decided that Iris would come across Puget Sound from Kitsap County on the ferry, an hour’s ride, and Yancy would meet her at the ferry dock. He told her what he looked like, and she described herself.
    Once Yancy had the money, he knew what he was supposed to do next. It had to be accomplished in less than two weeks. Bill had stressed that the timing was vital. He wanted his problems solved before July 28. And if things worked out as he had choreographed his plan, there would be more money for Yancy—a lot more money.
    Yancy met Bill’s sister at the ferry, counted the bills she gave him, bought her a Starbucks latte, and waved at her as she reboarded the ferry for its return run to Bre merton, completely unaware of what the cash was for.
     
    On July 23, Sue and Scott Jensen were home alone shortly after 9 P.M. Summer evenings in Seattle yawn on endlessly, but it was almost fully dark now.
    She jumped when the phone rang. The male voice on the other end of the line said he was a Seattle Police detective. He told her that it was a matter of urgency for him to talk with her, and asked directions to her house. Without thinking, she gave him the address and driving directions.
    As soon as she hung up, Sue berated herself for being so gullible. How did she know it was really a detective who had called? It could be a setup, and she realized she had practically rolled out the red carpet for a stranger.
    When she heard someone knocking on her door, she sent Scott out to the back door with a cell phone, telling him that if she shouted “Go!” he was to dial 911 and then run to their neighbors.
    This was the way they lived now.
    Sue peered nervously through her drapes; she could see an unmarked car in front of her house, and a big man dressed in street clothes standing outside her door. He identified himself, but she didn’t trust him.
    “Hold up your identification,” she instructed. “I need to be sure who you are.”
    He held up his badge and his police identification, and she opened the door and let him in. She had never seen him before.
    He explained that he was a Homicide detective, not from King County, but from the Seattle Police Department. Half expecting him to slap handcuffs on her for some further complaint of Bill’s, she invited him to sit down.
    “Mrs. Jensen,” he began, “my name is Cloyd Steiger. I wanted to talk to you in person, and as soon as I could.”
    She waited, her heart thumping. Either Bill was dead or maybe something a lot worse had happened.
    Steiger seemed to be a kind man as he questioned her about her marriage and her upcoming divorce. He told Sue he needed to validate information he’d received a few hours earlier. The source of this intelligence was a little suspect, but it had had the ring of truth to it.
    Sue gave the detective a rundown of the chaos in her life over the past few years, and he nodded. He had heard enough to go ahead with what he needed to tell her.
    “I want you to pack and get out of here as soon as you can. We think someone is going to try to kill you.”
    Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, she wasn’t even shocked. She had known that she was a target for