Chapter 3 - Operation Northstar

I did not sleep.

At 5:20 the next morning, Internal Affairs called.

Detective Lena Ortiz.

I knew her professionally.

Nobody liked seeing her name on a phone.

That usually meant your week was about to become paperwork.

“Officer Reed.”

“Detective.”

“We need a formal statement regarding park incident.”

“Titan?”

“And evidence discovery.”

“I understand.”

“Do not discuss contents with your brother.”

I stopped.

“You know I spoke with him?”

“Deputy Chief Reed notified command he contacted you.”

At least Evan had disclosed.

“That’s good, right?”

Lena paused.

“It’s appropriate.”

Not the same.

At headquarters, I sat across from her and another investigator, Special Investigator James Cho from the city inspector general’s office.

That surprised me.

“Why is IG here?”

Cho answered:

“Because Case 19-44721 involved city asset-forfeiture funds and property transactions.”

Property?

That was new.

I repeated everything.

Titan’s behavior.

The hatch.

The box.

My phone call with Evan.

Then Lena slid photographs across table.

The box had been opened overnight under warrant.

Inside:

an old body-camera unit.

three sealed evidence envelopes.

a handwritten notebook.

a portable hard drive.

photocopies of property records.

and $18,400 in cash.

Not $740,000.

“What was in envelopes?”

“Still processing.”

“Notebook?”

Lena turned one photograph.

Red cover.

My father’s handwriting.

I knew instantly.

He wrote in block letters when working.

The first visible page:

NORTHSTAR — DO NOT ENTER INTO RMS UNTIL VOSS REVIEWED.

My stomach tightened.

“Voss?”

Assistant Chief Graham Voss.

Retired now.

My father’s closest friend.

Evan’s godfather.

He had been head of Special Operations in 2019.

Lena said:

“Do you know why your father would keep records outside official system?”

“No.”

“Did he keep personal notebooks?”

“Yes.”

“Were they official?”

“Sometimes reminders.”

“Did he ever remove evidence?”

“No.”

I answered too quickly.

Lena noticed.

“You don’t know.”

I looked at notebook.

“No.”

That was harder.

Then Cho explained the property records.

During Operation Northstar, detectives investigated a narcotics network using shell companies to buy distressed commercial properties.

One company was Rainier Civic Holdings LLC.

It purchased three acres beside what later became Centennial Park.

Purchase price:

$1.9 million.

Eighteen months later, the City of Seattle bought the parcel for park expansion and infrastructure.

Price:

$8.6 million.

Profit:

millions.

Who owned Rainier Civic Holdings?

Public filings hid behind two LLCs.

Investigators now believed one beneficial owner was a man named Peter Voss.

Graham Voss’s younger brother.

I stared.

“Assistant Chief Voss’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“Was that investigated?”

“Not officially.”

“Why?”

“That’s one of our questions.”

Then Lena showed another page from Samuel’s notebook.

Evan says Peter had no knowledge. Graham wants property issue kept separate from narcotics case.

My stomach dropped.

My brother’s name.

“Evan was involved?”

“He was task-force sergeant.”

“I know that.”

“What we don’t know is what he knew.”

Then the body camera.

Technicians had recovered partial video.

One clip.

Six minutes.

The image was dark.

An old municipal evidence annex.

I recognized my father’s voice.

“Turn that off.”

Another man answered:

“No.”

Luis Ortega.

The evidence officer blamed for missing money.

Then Luis said:

“I counted three cases twice.”

“Seven-forty is gone.”

My father:

“I know.”

I stopped breathing.

Luis:

“Then why are you writing this like it’s me?”

Silence.

Then another voice.

Evan.

“You signed transfer.”

Luis:

“Because your lieutenant told me totals were reconciled.”

Evan:

“Careful.”

Luis:

“No.”

“You be careful.”

“This is bigger than cash.”

“Ask your godfather about Rainier Civic.”

The video shook.

Then my father said:

“Enough.”

Luis replied:

“You protect Evan, you bury yourself with him.”

Video ended.

Nobody spoke.

I stared at frozen frame.

My father.

My brother.

Luis Ortega.

The man our family called careless.

The man whose career ended.

Lena asked quietly:

“Did your father ever mention this conversation?”

“No.”

“Did Evan?”

“No.”

“Did Voss?”

“No.”

Then Cho said:

“There’s more.”

One evidence envelope contained an original signed transfer sheet.

The official case file held a copy.

The amounts differed.

Original:

$2.86 million.

Official:

$2.12 million.

Someone changed the figure.

Whose initials approved correction?

S.R.

Samuel Reed.

My father.

I stood.

“I need a minute.”

Lena nodded.

In hallway, I leaned against concrete wall.

The man who taught me that reports mattered more than excuses had altered a report.

Or someone had forged his initials.

I wanted that.

I wanted an easy rescue.

Then my mother called.

I answered.

“Marcus.”

“Mom.”

“You saw the notebook.”

Not a question.

“How do you know?”

“Because your father told me it existed.”

I closed my eyes.

“When?”

“Before he died.”

“And you said nothing?”

“He made me promise.”

“Why?”

My mother began crying.

“Because he said if that box ever came back, one of his sons was going to lose everything.”

I felt cold.

“Which son?”

She whispered:

“I don’t know.”

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And for the first time, I wondered whether the secret under Centennial Park had been buried to protect my father—

or my brother.