Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Foster’s Auto Sales
Tacoma, Washington
The cramped apartment filled Jason's mind as he drove away.
Gerald and Susan Kowalski had greeted him with fresh coffee and warm cookies, their hospitality as genuine as it was heartbreaking.
They'd lost everything to Richard Calder's Ponzi scheme, investing their retirement savings and even the modest home they paid off across thirty years.
Now they lived in a two-bedroom with water-stained ceilings and windows that didn't quite close, surviving on Social Security checks that barely covered rent.
Framed photographs lined the walls. Grandchildren, Jason guessed, their faces frozen in better times. A wedding portrait hung near the door, showing a younger Gerald and Susan in front of a white clapboard church, both of them beaming with hope that assumed a kind and welcoming future.
Calder had stolen more than money. He'd stolen their lives.
But, surprisingly, the Kowalskis hadn't been bitter. Not toward Sterling, anyway. And not toward Judge Vance.
“Mr. Sterling was a blessing,” Susan had said, her hands folded in her lap like she was in church. “He fought for us when nobody else would. He made sure we were heard.”
Gerald nodded along. His hand found Susan's on the armrest between them, and she held it without looking. “Judge Vance listened to every one of us during the victim statements. Looked us in the eye. You could tell it mattered to him. He didn't just go through the motions.”
Then Susan's expression had shifted, and grief settled over her features like a shadow.
“When we saw the news about Mr. Sterling, we couldn't believe it. It’s such a terrible thing. And then Judge Vance too.” She shook her head slowly.
“We wanted to send flowers or something, but we didn't know where. It didn't seem right to do nothing.”
Jason had listened, taking notes he didn't need, because the couple deserved to be heard again.
They spoke about the trial with a mixture of relief and exhaustion, recounting how Sterling had walked them through the process, explaining legal terms they didn't understand, and preparing them for what to expect.
They appreciated how patient Judge Vance had been during sentencing, acknowledging the depth of their loss without making it feel performative.
The couple's grace had struck Jason harder than their circumstances. They'd been victims twice over—first by Calder, then by whoever had killed the people who'd secured them justice.
Before he left, Gerald had mentioned Calder's former business partner in passing. Michael Brennan had taken a plea deal and was working at a car dealership somewhere in the area. Gerald had said it without malice, just a fact, the way people mentioned weather or traffic.
Jason left with a knot in his chest that still hadn't loosened.
Now, pulling into Foster's Auto Sales, he scanned the lot.
The dealership sprawled across a quarter-acre of asphalt, rows of late-model sedans and SUVs gleaming under overcast skies.
Colorful pennant flags snapped in the wind above the office.
The lot was busy for a Monday afternoon.
A young couple circled a blue Civic, the woman pointing at something under the hood while the man nodded.
Near the back, a salesman in a cheap suit gestured enthusiastically at a black Explorer.
His voice carried across the asphalt in a practiced pitch about safety ratings and cargo space.
The wind caught the fabric of Jason’s jacket, tugging at the hem.
A man in his early forties stood near the showroom door with his arms crossed, watching a couple inspect a silver Accord.
He wore a navy polo with the dealership's logo stitched over the chest—white script that read Foster's in a jaunty font surely meant to inspire trust. His stance was casual, but his eyes tracked the couple with focus.
Jason approached. “I’m looking for Michael Brennan?”
“That’s me. What can I help you with?” His expression shifted from neutral to wary in the span of a heartbeat as Jason badged him.
Recognition flickered behind his eyes—not of Jason specifically, but of what the badge meant.
His face went pale. For a second, Jason thought Brennan might bolt.
He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to give chase.
Then the moment passed, and Brennan's shoulders sagged.
“Yeah.” Brennan's voice came out strained. He glanced toward the couple by the Accord, then back at Jason. His jaw worked, grinding something invisible. “Can we—can we talk inside? Away from customers?”
Jason nodded. “Lead the way.”
Brennan moved quickly. His shoulders were hunched now, as though he were trying to make himself smaller.
He led Jason through the showroom and into a small office at the back.
The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the ambient noise of the dealership.
Through the window, Jason could see the showroom floor and salespeople circulating like sharks in a tank.
The office was cluttered in a way that suggested constant activity without much organization.
Papers stacked on a metal desk in uneven piles, coffee-stained mugs crowding the corner, and a calendar from two years ago still pinned to the wall above a filing cabinet.
A framed photo sat on the desk of Brennan with a woman and two kids, all of them smiling on a beach somewhere.
The glass was smudged with fingerprints.
It was the only personal item in the room.
Everything else belonged to the dealership.
Brennan circled behind the desk and dropped into the chair like his legs had given out.
The springs groaned under his weight. Jason remained standing, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
He let the silence stretch, watching Brennan's hands move restlessly across the desk, picking up a pen, setting it down, adjusting the photo frame.
Brennan picked up the pen again and fidgeted with it, clicking the mechanism in a nervous rhythm. Click. Click. Click. “I don't want any trouble.”
“I'm not here to cause any,” Jason said evenly. “I just need to ask you a few questions about the Calder case.”
Brennan's shoulders sagged again. He set the pen down and gave a shaky exhale. “Look, I cooperated fully five years ago. I testified against Richard. They gave me a deal because of it. I put all that behind me. Why can’t the FBI?”
Jason nodded. “Yes. Three years at a minimum-security facility. You've been out for over a year now.” He shifted his weight, keeping his tone conversational. Non-threatening. “How are things going?”
“Better than they were.” Brennan gestured vaguely at the dealership outside the glass. I'm trying to rebuild. Pay my debts. Stay clean. The owner here gave me a chance when nobody else would. He knew about my record and hired me anyway.”
“That's good,” Jason said. He let the words settle, watching Brennan's face. The man was scared, but he didn't seem to be acting guilty. Not hiding anything beyond the standard anxiety of someone who'd already done time and didn't want to go back. “Must've been hard, starting over.”
“You have no idea.” Brennan's voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Prison's one thing, man. Getting out and trying to convince people you're not the same person you were—that's something else. My wife stuck with me though. The kids were young enough they don't really remember.”
He glanced at the photo on his desk, and something softened in his expression. Love, or fear perhaps. The desperate need to protect what he'd almost lost.
Jason let the moment pass before continuing. “I'm here because Thomas Sterling and Judge Vance were recently murdered. I'm looking into anyone connected to the cases they worked.”
Brennan's face went pale again, but this time shock replaced the earlier wariness. “I heard about them on the news, but I didn't—” He stopped. His Adam's apple bobbed. “You think it's connected to Calder?”
“That's what I'm trying to figure out,” Jason said. “Did you have any grudges against Sterling or Vance?”
“Grudges?” Brennan shook his head emphatically, the motion almost violent.
“No. God, no. They gave me a second chance.
Sterling could've buried me, could've pushed for the maximum. But he offered the deal because I gave him what he needed to take down Calder. And Judge Vance was fair during sentencing. He acknowledged my cooperation, said it showed I was willing to take responsibility. My god, you don’t think I killed them?”
Jason watched him carefully, cataloging his micro-expressions and body language: the way Brennan's hands moved when he talked about Sterling—open and grateful; the slight tremor when he mentioned Vance.
Brennan's distress seemed genuine. His hands trembled as he picked up the pen again, clicking it faster now.
“I feel terrible about what happened to them,” Brennan continued in a thick voice.
“Sterling was decent to me. Professional, you know?
He didn't treat me like garbage, even though he could have.
And Vance—he listened during my allocution.
Really listened. You could see it in his face.
I can't imagine who would want them dead.”
“What about Calder? Any family or close associates who might have blamed them.”
Brennan considered the question. He stared at the desk with his brow furrowed, as though sifting through memories he wanted to leave behind. The silence stretched long enough that Jason almost prompted him again, but then Brennan spoke.
“Richard had a younger brother,” he said finally.
“Eric. He was vocal during the trial. Really vocal. Kept saying Richard was a scapegoat, that the real criminals got away. He was angry and confrontational.” Brennan's voice took on a distant quality, as if he were replaying scenes in his mind.
“He showed up at the courthouse most every day, glaring at Sterling and the jury like they'd personally wronged him. He would sit in the gallery with his arms crossed, just radiating hostility. A couple times the marshals had to tell him to calm down.”
“Did he ever make any specific threats?”
“Not that I heard. But the vibe was there, you know? Like he was barely holding it together.” Brennan shook his head. “I haven't spoken to him in years, but I remember thinking he was dangerous. Not physically, maybe, but emotionally. Unstable.”
“What was his relationship with Richard like?”
“Close. Eric idolized him. Richard was the older brother, the successful one—or so everyone thought. Eric worked some dead-end job, lived in Richard's shadow. When everything fell apart, I think Eric took it personally. Like the prosecution wasn't just attacking Richard, it was attacking him too.”
It wasn't much, but it was more than he had an hour ago. “Any idea where Eric is now?”
“Seattle area, I think. Or he was last I heard.” Brennan shrugged. “Like I said, we haven't kept in touch. Richard and I weren't exactly friends after everything came out. He blamed me for testifying, even though he was the one who brought me into the scheme in the first place.”
“Did Richard ever express anger toward Sterling or Vance from prison?”
“Again, I wouldn't know. We haven't spoken since the sentencing.” Brennan hesitated, but then added, “But if I had to guess?
Yeah. Richard never took responsibility for anything.
It was always someone else's fault. The investors were greedy, the regulators were incompetent, and Sterling was overzealous. Richard probably spends every day inside building up this narrative where he was the victim.”
“Anything else you can think of?” Jason asked him. “Anyone else Richard was close to? Friends, business associates, family members who might've felt wronged?”
Brennan hesitated, then shook his head slowly.
“No. Richard didn't have a lot of friends. The people in his life were either marks or accomplices. Eric was really the only family he had left—their parents died years ago. As for associates, most of them scattered when the indictment came down. Nobody wanted to be associated with the guy who stole millions from retirees.”
Jason pushed off the doorframe. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Brennan. If you think of anything else, give me a call.” He handed over a card, which Brennan took with both hands, as if it were something fragile.
He looked like a man who'd just been told the storm he'd survived might be changing course and circling back around.
As Jason walked back through the showroom, a salesman tried to catch his eye near a display of financing options, but Jason kept moving. Outside, the pennant flags snapped overhead, their cheerful colors garish against the gray sky.
He slid into the driver's seat and sat for a moment, staring at the flapping banners but not really seeing them. He considered the Kowalskis’ gratitude and Brennan's relief and remorse.
Two different perspectives on the same case, and both of them colored by time and survival.
Together, they agreed that Sterling and Vance had done their jobs well and had treated people with dignity even when the law didn't require it.
Jason started the engine, needing to do something to feel like he was making progress. They were moving, but it felt glacial. There were just too many cases, too many victims. Too many threads to follow, and each one led to more questions than answers.
Eric Calder was a name now, so that meant a potential lead. But how many other Eric Calders were there? How many siblings, parents, friends, and business partners felt wronged by the justice system? How many of them were angry enough to kill?
Their unsub was out there, and they were still chasing shadows, trying to find one name in a sea of people who had reason to hate the justice system.
Jason thought about Allie, about the team back at the office poring over case files, cross-referencing victims, looking for patterns.
They were all good at this. In his estimation, they were the most competent team he could imagine.
But even the best could miss something when the field was this wide and the connections this tangled.
He pulled onto Pacific Avenue, heading back toward the office. Traffic was light, and the road stretching ahead was a gray ribbon. He'd run Eric Calder's name through the system as soon as he got back and see if anything shook loose.
But he wasn’t holding his breath.