Dead Ringer (12 page)

Earlier today he’d Googled McRae, searching for every bit of information he could find. Then, for good measure, he’d driven past his two-story house in the Magnolia neighborhood in northwest Seattle.

Ditto handed Gerhard a slip of paper. “Here’s his address. Have a beer, relax a bit, maybe even nab a few hours shut-eye, then drive over. Find a way in. See what you can figure out in case we have to, you know …” He nodded at the oven.

B
Y THE TIME LUCAS
removed the key from the front door, Laura was halfway down the block, not having bothered to wave good-bye. Welcome home. He watched the Volvo round the corner and disappear. He’d forgotten what it was she was going to do. Meet one of her girlfriends, maybe. Was that one of the problems? Not paying as much attention to what she said, his mind too busy with other things?

With a mixture of sadness and frustration, he carried his suitcase inside the modest two-story remodel that had originally been a one-level rambler. The upstairs master bedroom provided a southeasterly view over multiple layers of rooftops to the downtown Seattle skyline. The panorama wasn’t as grand as the multimillion-dollar homes two blocks away on Magnolia Boulevard, the first tier above the bluffs, but he loved it. Seattleites appreciated views regardless of limitations.

He went to the phone and called all three of Andy’s numbers. No answer. Go over to his condo? If he was there, he’d answer. So what next? He sat down at his desk and thought about that a moment. Initially, he intended to go over to Andy’s condo, but now that he thought about it, that wasn’t likely to yield much because he’d not be able to get past the doorman. Besides, it wasn’t unusual for Andy to take a three- or four-day vacation with his latest girlfriend. Or maybe he’d gone to Las
Vegas to play with the hookers. He did that once in a while. Probably shouldn’t get too worried unless he didn’t show up for work on Monday.

Lucas unpacked, tossed his few dirty clothes into a wicker hamper, and removed his safety razor from the shaving kit before replacing the kit in his bag. Then he stowed the bag on the top closet shelf. He stripped, showered, dried with one of the oversized bath towels Laura liked so much, put on black jeans and a black T-shirt. Didn’t bother with socks or shaving.

He padded down the hall to the small guest room that doubled as a home office. On one wall hung a framed black-and-white poster from
Casablanca
, the one with Bogart leaning on a café table with an almost empty bottle of booze touching his right hand. It brought to mind the line, “You played it for her and you can play it for me.”

He settled into the rolling chair and started the small CD player. Albert Collins started singing about not being drunk.

For a moment he studied Josh’s framed high school graduation picture. His son had inherited Laura’s nose and eyes. From Lucas he’d inherited persistence. Now he lived in an apartment with two other students on the other side of the mountains at Whitman College as an economics major. Lucas shook his head. What do you do with an economics degree? Business, well, that was pretty obvious, but economics? He’d never mentioned these doubts to Josh, believing instead that what really mattered was for Josh to do whatever fulfilled him and gave his life purpose. Economics seemed to do that.

Lucas missed having him around, even if only for Sunday dinners. He would prefer him closer at the UW or even Seattle University, but Josh claimed the huge UW campus made
him feel intimidated and insignificant. So after touring several West Coast schools, he opted for the family feel of Whitman. At least he wasn’t 3,000 miles away at some East Coast school.

Lucas debated calling Trish, Andy’s ex. Far as he knew, she was the only one Andy ever listed as an emergency contact. He dreaded talking to her because she’d always resented him. Never understood why exactly, but suspected she held him partially responsible for Andy’s self-destructive behavior. As if Lucas could’ve made a difference. Sure, he’d talked with Andy about it numerous times, but addictions were impossible to change with only words.

Reluctantly, he dialed Trish’s number. She picked up after the third ring.

“Hello, Trish. Lucas.”

“What do you want?”

Great
. “Just got back to town and haven’t been able to reach Andy. Have you talked to him recently?”

“No.”

Figures
. “Ah, how long since you talked to him?”

“Why?”

“Like I said, I haven’t been able to reach him. I was wondering if something was wrong.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. An illness, maybe.”

“The world should be so lucky. But if Andy had a problem, he’d call one of his girlfriends, not me. He knows better. That’s it? I have to run.”

“Okay, well, thanks. Good-bye.”

Lucas stared at the phone, wondering what to do next. Had to do something.

Lucas pushed through the front door to Andy’s condominium building and entered the lobby. The doorman looked up from behind the counter, asked, “May I help you?”

Lucas didn’t recognize the man and assumed he was a temp for one of the regulars who was either ill or on vacation. “Dr. McRae to see Mr. Baer.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Yes,” Lucas lied.

The doorman put the phone to his ear and dialed. Then started drumming the eraser end of a yellow pencil on the granite counter. After thirty seconds he hung up, said to Lucas, “He’s not answering.”

“That’s strange. He’s expecting me. Did you see him go out?”

“No.”

“Have you seen him during the past couple days?”

“Dr. McRae, we’re not allowed to give out personal information.”

“I’m just asking if you’ve seen him. That’s not personal.”

The doorman returned an icy stare. “Anything else I might help you with?”

Lucas trudged along First Avenue wracking his brain for another place to look or call. Nothing came to him. This was Saturday and if Andy took one of his girlfriends on a trip, he might not be back until Monday. He’d go nuts waiting until then.

The diffuse uneasiness in Lucas’s gut returned, but this time he knew what was causing it. Before leaving for Hong
Kong, he’d signed out of the office for ten days of vacation when he got back. He and Laura planned on visiting friends at their weekend cabin at Black Butte Ranch in Oregon. But he couldn’t very well leave now. Not until he found Andy. To say Laura would be pissed about it would be a gross understatement. Well, it couldn’t be helped.

A need swept over him—not a want, but a soul-wrenching need—to see Josh and do something simple, just the two of them, like share a meal. He dialed Josh’s cell and waited for an answer, visualizing his son frantically rummaging through his rucksack for the phone.

Josh answered, “Hey, Dad. Back from Hong Kong already?”

“Got in about a couple hours ago. You free for lunch tomorrow?”

“Guess so. Why?”

“Thought I’d come over, see how you’re doing. That fit your schedule?”

“What’s wrong?” Josh sounded alarmed.

Aw, man, was it that apparent? The last thing he wanted was to upset him. “Nothing. So, it’s okay to come?”

“Not unless you tell me what’s up.”

“I’ll tell you when I get there. Noon? Your favorite place?”

“Okay.”

Lucas hung up and began rehearsing ways to explain to Laura. No matter how carefully he chose the words, she’d never understand.

G
ERHARD SAT BEHIND HEAVILY
tinted windows watching the front of McRae’s house. He’d parked the black Chrysler across the street and down one lot to appear as if he were visiting a neighbor. He knew the tinted windows made it impossible for an observer to tell if anyone was inside, much less see well enough to provide a description. Sure, some nosey Neighborhood Watch asshole might jot down the license number of an unfamiliar car, but he’d switched to bogus Montana plates, something he should’ve done that night with the fucking Suburban. And that one, it turned out, had been a spur-of-the-moment opportunistic catch. Which, in retrospect, was really stupid.

He watched a Volvo station wagon turn onto the street and slow as it approached McRae’s driveway, then turn in. It stopped while the door to the double garage opened, then went forward to park beside an Audi.

Gerhard was out of the car, trotting across the street, timing his move.

The garage door started down. He hesitated, out of range of the car’s rearview mirror, before hunching down and stepping under the closing door without triggering the safety beam, between the driver and the Audi. He ended up hidden underneath the German car’s rear bumper. The garage door motor
stopped groaning a second before the car door slammed. Then he heard footsteps slap cement followed by the thunk of another door closing. The steps had been quick and light like a woman’s.

Minutes later the garage went black as the door light timed out. He smelled concrete and motor oil, heard the ticking of a cooling car while waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

His butt cold from sitting on concrete, arms wrapped around knees, Gerhard catnapped as the hours ticked slowly by. Having familiarized himself with the garage, he was now positioned in the spot least likely to be seen if someone opened the door from inside the house. Sporadic sounds came from inside, but these diminished over time until finally he heard only the occasional creak of cooling joists.

He stood and waited for his legs to come back to life before pulling on disposable exam gloves. After flicking on a tiny Maglite, he carefully made his way to the interior door, put his ear to it, and listened for sounds from inside. There were none.

He tried the doorknob. Unlocked.

Then he was in a kitchen, looking around. Enough streetlight angled through windows that he didn’t need the flashlight.

Fuck a duck, what luck! A purse and key ring sat on the kitchen table. The ring held a car key, one that looked like it could be for a locker, and a Schlage. The last one had to be for the house.

From his pocket he pulled a wad of clay and folded it over the key and came away with an impression good enough for a
locksmith. After putting the key ring back on the table, he left the kitchen to explore the rest of the house.

Gerhard stood at an open bedroom door listening to the soft snores of two people, thinking if McRae turned into a real pain in the ass, this was an excellent way to quickly and quietly take care of him, no problem. He pointed his finger like a gun, thought,
Pop, pop
. All done.

He crept down the stairs and out the front door.

L
UCAS AWOKE WITH A
start, aware of something wrong. He sat up in bed, careful not to disturb Laura. To his shock, he detected the faint odor of formalin, the embalming fluid, something he hadn’t encountered since medical school. The nebulous dread congealed into fear. He reached for the phone to call 911.
This is stupid
.

Instead, he slid out of bed and edged to the door to the hall.

Nothing.

At the head of the stairs he looked down to the first floor, saw only familiar shadows in the weak streetlight through the windows, the house deathly silent. With the lights out, he went downstairs, checked the doors. Locked.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of something wrong, that someone had been inside.

L
UCAS FIGURED WALLA WALLA
was about as far as you could get from Seattle and still be within Washington State. It hugged the Washington-Oregon border in an area rich with wineries.

Lucas was up, showered, and out the door by five thirty wolfing a breakfast sandwich and sipping a grande latte from a downtown Starbucks before hitting the I-90 interchange and heading east toward the Cascade Mountains, the navy Audi A6 on cruise control three miles above the speed limit and his iPod blasting Albert Collins, Freddie King, and a raft of other serious blues players on the car stereo. He sang along to Collins’s “Master Charge” while blowing past North Bend, the sun in his eyes.

Figured four to five hours each way with maybe an hour for lunch and he’d be back in time for dinner. Josh, as much as he loved his dad, couldn’t sit still for a conversation much over sixty minutes. Even that was pushing it. The kid got restless easily. But so had Lucas at that age.

After Snoqualmie Pass he nudged the A6 a hair past seventy-five, the highway patrol thinner on this side of the mountains. Eventually he left I-90 to cut down through Yakima and Pasco, the synthesized GPS voice constantly reminding him which exits and turns to take. The first time he used the
GPS, he named it Maddie and wondered if the voice was 100 percent synthesized or modeled after a real person’s voice. The best thing about Maddie was she never got angry if he missed a turn. She just recalculated.