Dead Ringer (14 page)

Andy gives him a reassuring smile and a shove toward the shore. “Go. Get out of the damn boat.”

Then they’re in the cold lake water, Andy pulling Lucas as he tries to swim with one arm. Andy says, “Just breathe and let me pull you. Let the life preserver keep you up.” Andy pulls him to safety.

J
OSH WAS LEANING FORWARD
, slack-jawed, a half-eaten burger in both hands. That was unusual for him. Usually he scarfed down burgers almost as fast as his father.

Finally, Josh laughed. “I can’t believe it. You and Andy actually did that?”

“Believe it. We did.”

“So, like, what happened?”

Lucas’s face burned with embarrassment. The story was bad enough, but to be telling it to his son … well, shit.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? We got caught. I’m still not sure how I ever got accepted to med school after that.”

“But what about Andy? I never knew he applied to med school. This is news to me.”

“Med school was what his parents wanted Andy to do. Not him. Never was into it. He applied simply to make them happy. He figured if he ended up having to go, he’d never do a residency. Instead, he’d go on to get an MBS and become an
administrator, maybe a medical director for a hospital or a biotech company. Business was really his calling.”

Josh sat silently for a moment. “Wow, so Andy saved your life?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“You ever tell this story to Mom?”

“Yeah, once, but it didn’t make any difference. She can’t see the good things in him.

W
ENDY PARKED THE UNMARKED
Caprice in a passenger loading zone, flipped down the visor with the police sign rubber-banded to its underside, and killed the engine.

So far, the majority of her day had been spent digging up information on Robert J. Ditto and the Medical Education and Research Company of Seattle. To her disappointment, Ditto had no police record other than two speeding tickets. He was divorced, held an honorable discharge from the army, owned a legitimate business, paid taxes, and was a licensed mortician in Washington State. Personally, he owned no vehicles. DFH Inc., on the other hand, owned three. The black Suburban seen in the alley around the time Lupita disappeared, a black Chrysler, and a BMW. She assumed the first two were for business and the last one for Ditto’s personal use.

DFH Inc. employed ten, including Ditto, the CEO. He owned 100 percent of the business. She ran every employee’s name through the law enforcement databases and was again disappointed to strike out. She thought about the disappointment and wondered if she’d lost her objectivity on this case. Was she trying to build a case that simply didn’t exist? But, she reminded herself, if there was no case, why had Ditto lied about the Suburban? Besides, what about Boynton’s accusations that
he was shipping more material than was reasonably possible? That was the thing really driving her.

She’d called around to ask sources about the body parts business in general and their opinion of DFH Inc. specifically. Professor Boynton apparently had several things correct. A huge, lucrative market for bodies and body parts did exist, and Ditto seemed to be doing a good business with it.

By all accounts, Ditto’s company was successful, if not envied, by his competitors. Ditto had developed a reputation as a smart businessman who paid attention to details and nurtured his company. Everyone emphasized Ditto’s canniness in creating a budget cremation company. Apparently, it was a niche no one had previously exploited because the profit margins were too big to consider discounting. As for the body part business, Boynton had that right too: no one understood how Ditto was able to meet demand. But no one echoed Boynton’s suspicions, and she wasn’t about to ask. No telling how fast that might work its way back to Ditto, tipping him off to her “inquiries.”

Wendy found it difficult to understand how a person might want to be a mortician and spend a career with dead bodies. Sure, everyone needed a job, but embalming, burying, and cremating the deceased? You had to be a little fucked up, right? And if that wasn’t creepy enough, what about shipping arms or legs or other body parts all over the world? You have to have a freaky, kinky mind to be into that shit, no matter how well it paid.

But the biggest question of all, the one Boynton raised, was how did Ditto get his hands on enough product to keep growing and sustaining the business?

The obvious answer nauseated her.

Until learning about Ditto, she’d worried the missing girls might be victims of another I-5 or Green River Killer. The problem with that theory was that none of their bodies ever turned up. Now, with Ditto in the picture, the answer to that was easy; he could be harvesting their body parts, then cremating them.

She climbed out and locked the car. Ahead, on the corner of Second and Blanchard, was the remodeled Crocodile Café. The original Croc was an icon from Seattle’s contribution to the grunge music scene. After it closed, the property was bought and reopened.

Wendy used the Second Avenue entrance. Just inside the door, she stopped to look around. About halfway down the room three Hispanic males occupied a table, two on one side, the other with his back to her, all wearing the baggy banger clothes that made it easy to hide weapons. Like it was some kind of regulation uniform.

She made eye contact with one. He muttered something, and his two homies pushed back their chairs and drifted off to another table nearby.

He was Luis Ruiz, Lupita’s brother. If not for the ragged scar on his left cheek, the misalignment of a poorly set broken nose, and a couple amateurish gang tats, he might be handsome. Instead, at the age of twenty-three, he was a poster child for the wear and tear of gang life. Since his sister’s disappearance, he looked even worse. Dark circles rimmed both eyes, and his face sagged from fatigue. Not knowing where Lupita was or if something had happened to her was destroying him. Wendy knew he held himself responsible for her
disappearance. Then again, they both knew the risks of the sex trade.

Years ago, Lupita and Luis’s parents died in a warehouse fire at work, leaving the two teenagers without family or money. Having been born in the United States, they were citizens in spite of their parents having been illegal immigrants. This left the kids limited choices: either return to Mexico to track down relatives they’d never even met or find a source of income. Luis had been hanging with a gang, but there wasn’t much money in that unless you were dealing drugs, which he didn’t want to do. Lupita knew a couple older girls who turned tricks. Without other skills, prostitution became the quickest way to earn enough money for the two of them to survive. She hated the work and was saving money to pay for school. Luis didn’t like his sister being a prostitute but had little choice. So in return, he and the other gang members made sure some pimp didn’t try to corral her or that she didn’t get started on heavy drugs. They took care of each other.

Wendy took the chair opposite him and leaned forward, forearms on the Formica tabletop. “How you doing?”

He answered, “Find out anything?”

Her drive over had been one internal debate on how much to disclose. She’d settled on divulging pretty much all, reasoning that with his street connections he might be able to dig up additional information on Ditto. Granted, it was a long shot, until you considered that Luis knew she was tracking other missing prostitutes. It was a small world on the streets, so you never knew what kind of information his network might yield.

“Maybe. But you need to understand it’s not much,” she said, knowing he wanted any scrap of information she could
give. She filled him in on the black Suburban seen in the alley a block from the video store where Lupita solicited. She purposely didn’t mention the business DFH handled and her nagging suspicions about Ditto.

Luis asked, “Who owns it?”

“Guy by the name of Bobby Ditto. Word has it he’s sometimes called Bobby Bobby. Any reason you should know him?” Maybe Ditto or one of his employees frequented the girls in the area or the store, meaning there could be an explanation for the vehicle being in the area.

“Uh-uh. But believe me, I’ll nose around, see what I can learn.”

“Do that. But don’t discuss details with anyone. Don’t let on why you’re asking.” She paused. “That’s it for me. How about you?”

“Nada.”

Wendy reached over and squeezed his hand. “Keep at it. Sooner or later we’ll get a lead.”

“Lead? We both know she’s dead by now. Shit, I just want the motherfucker who took her. If this Ditto’s involved, he’s a dead man.”

L
UCAS SLID OUT OF
his car, stretched both arms over his head, and arched his back. For several seconds he stayed like this, allowing muscles to unknot after long hours of driving. It was a long trip to Walla Walla and back. But it had been worth it to see Josh. Also, he felt vaguely vindicated, having always sensed that Josh frowned on his unwavering friendship with Andy. At least his son now seemed to understand. And this made him feel better. Too bad Laura didn’t see it.

When Laura had first expressed her hatred for Andy, Lucas explained how Andy saved his life in hopes of justifying their deep-seated friendship. But, unlike Josh, Laura chalked up the incident as only one bright moment of an otherwise degenerate life. Andy’s addiction blinded her from appreciating his good points.

Lucas and Andy are riding their bikes along a neighborhood street when a loud bang causes all of Lucas’s muscles to jerk. He hears laughter. Kids’ laughter. They stop to see what’s going on. Three older boys—maybe 15 years old—stand on freshly mown lawn, their backs to the street. There is a stake driven in the ground with a large tabby cat tethered to it with a ten-foot black nylon cord. The cat yowls and claws at the air. The boys are just out of the cat’s reach. One boy, wearing heavy gloves, grabs the cat, presses it hard against the ground while a second boy binds a large firecracker to the tip of its tail with electrical tape.

“Hey, stop that!” yells Andy.

The three boys stop, turn to Andy and Lucas, surprise on their faces. It only takes a second before the biggest one, the one with the heavy gloves, scowls, says, “Says who?”

The air suddenly goes eerily still. Lucas glances at Andy, wondering if he’s nuts, if he realizes those older guys are bigger and stronger and can beat the shit out of them. All three of the other boys are looking at Andy, daring him to mouth off at them.

“That’s cruel,” Andy says, with a nod toward the cat.

The leader says, “So what? What are you going to do about it, dickwad?”

“That’s someone’s pet. It doesn’t deserve to be tortured or killed.”

The leader takes a step toward Andy, the move sending a jolt of adrenaline through Lucas’s arteries. Lucas takes a deep breath and glances at Andy. Andy stands firm, eyes blazing right back at the leader.

The other two boys step forward to back up the leader, who seems to sense their approval without moving his eyes from Andy’s face. The leader continues straight over to Andy, their faces now only a foot apart. The other two boys close ranks to either side of him.

“Know what I think?” the leader says. “I think you’re a pussy.”

Andy doesn’t wait to say a thing, just hauls off and smacks the guy in the nose as hard as he can. Blood squirts everywhere. The other two guys start swinging.

He and Andy, bruised and bloodied, make up a cover story on the bike ride home.

Lucas walked around Laura’s Volvo to the kitchen door, pressed the switch to close the garage door, and waited to make sure it started down before entering the kitchen.

Laura sat at the table, the
Seattle Times
spread before her. She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Well, well, well. The traveler returns. How’s Josh?”

Her icy tone and body language made it clear that Josh’s well-being wasn’t tonight’s main topic. He played along by saying, “He’s fine.”

Hungry and thirsty after such a long drive, he went straight to the cupboard, withdrew a glass, and filled it with cold tap water. He felt her eyes on him. “How was your day?”

“Fine.”

Lucas cringed.
Okaaay
. “What’s for dinner?”

“When you weren’t back by six thirty, I assumed you ate something on the road. I went ahead and made a salad.”

He opened the fridge, found a thigh and a drumstick of leftover roasted chicken. It’d do. He shoved the chicken in the microwave to warm. “I’m having a martini. Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

He mixed the drink in an oppressive silence broken only by the rattling of ice in the shaker. Disregarding the olive, he poured it into a cocktail glass, dumped the cubes in the sink, and upended the shaker in the drainer. Took a sip and turned to her.

Laura feigned interest in the newspaper.

“What?”

She looked up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know you didn’t. That’s why I’m asking what’s wrong.”

“I notice you’re not packed.”

“Right. I’m not.”

“And why is that?”

“You know why. We went over it, and I’m sorry, but I have to find out about Andy.”

She shot him a look of disgust. “I don’t believe it. We’ve had this trip planned for at least two months.”

“Feel free to go if you want, but I thought I made it clear. I have to find out what happened to Andy. Maybe even file a missing persons report with the police. I can’t help cancelling. Two months ago, when we accepted the invitation, I didn’t anticipate seeing Andy’s head on a stainless steel tray in Hong Kong.”

“Goddamn it. It
can
be helped. All you have to do is pack some clothes, jump in the car, and go. It’s that simple.” Laura stood, hands on her hips, and yelled, “What you’re really saying is that you don’t
want
to go. That’s the issue, isn’t it?”