Dead Ringer (19 page)

“Looking for what exactly?”

Wendy felt her blood pressure rise and struggled to keep from sounding angry. Pissing Redwing off wasn’t going to help her cause. She owed Ruiz her best shot. Letting her ego ruin it wasn’t going to happen. “For starters, how about blood?”

“What?” Redwing pointed at her. “You telling me what you just outlined is evidence of a crime? Compelling enough for a warrant to search that Suburban? Get real.”

Why was he pushing back so strongly? It didn’t feel right. Intuition warned her not to rise to the bait. Something was going on she didn’t understand. “That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t know that he has committed a crime, but here’s what we do know. Two people are missing: Ruiz and Baer. You at least agree with that?”

“So
you
say.”

Wendy shot him a look. “Maybe this is the reason we’re out of synch here. They’re both missing. That’s a matter of record. Want a copy of Baer’s missing persons report?”

“No need. But keep in mind how many of those reports end up false.”

She balled and unballed her fist. “For the sake of this discussion, can we agree they both have a missing persons reports on file?”

“Point made.”

“Next point is that Baer’s head showed up in Hong Kong. Far as I could determine,” she said, “there is no record of him being sick or in an accident. That being the case, how do we explain that?”

Redwing leaned forward on the desk. “Here’s where we don’t agree. How can you be so sure it was Baer’s head over there?”

“McRae’s known—”

Redwing cut in. “Baer for years. You said that earlier. But there’s no proof, and I’m not about to simply take his word on
that one. People look alike. That’s why there are cases of mistaken identity every damn day.”

He was right. McRae claimed it was Baer’s head, but how could he be absolutely sure? After all, he’d mentioned jet lag and fatigue, both of which can result in weird perceptions. Dead people look different from live ones. Even live people can be dead ringers for someone else. Moreover, other than he seemed to be a trustworthy person, she had no real reason to believe him. Then again, it was hard to see why he’d fabricate such a story.

“Maybe I don’t have proof of that specific point. At least not yet. But unless I’m mistaken, this is an investigation, not a trial. All I’m asking for is a warrant to have that vehicle inspected.”

“Yeah, you made that exceedingly clear. In return, I’ll make myself equally clear. No dice. For me to ask for a warrant, I need damn solid compelling evidence a crime’s been committed. If Ditto takes issue, we’re talking civil rights blowback you wouldn’t believe. We can’t start using Gestapo tactics and impound personal property just for our amusement.” He paused to study her. “Anything I just said make one bit of sense to you?”

She decided it was best not to answer.

Redwing said, “Didn’t you say that both Ditto and the courier told McRae it wasn’t his friend in Hong Kong?”

“Yes.”

“For just a minute, sit in my chair and take an objective look at your argument. We have two conflicting stories, Ditto’s and McRae’s. One from the supplier of the head, the other from a person who, upon seeing it became so emotionally upset he
had to leave the room. Given these facts, which version should we believe?”

Wendy blew out a long breath, then sucked in another. “I’ll give you one thing: I have nothing evidentiary. But I’ve interviewed both parties. My gut says to believe McRae. Why? First, because he has nothing to gain by lying. Second, Ditto
is
lying, at least about the Suburban.”

“Fuck.” Elbows on the desk, Redwing cradled his temples in both hands. He stayed like that for several seconds. He shook his head and sighed. “Let’s say it
was
Baer’s head in Hong Kong. Where’s your link between Ruiz and Baer?”

“DFH.”

“Based on?”

“That’s why I need a shot at the vehicle.”

“We’ve just gone full circle.” Redwing looked up at the ceiling. “Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll ask around, see if I can get a sympathetic ear. Check back with me in the morning. This may take some finessing.”

Goddamn right I will
. Wendy stood, smoothed the front of her pants. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

B
OBBY DITTO WAS WALKING
the son and daughter-in-law of a terminally ill eighty-year-old man to the DFH reception area when his cell phone began vibrating against his leg. Discreetly as possible, he slipped it from his pants pocket enough to peek at the screen.
Redwing
.

Another lesson Dad taught him was to always remain calm, reassuring, and unhurried when dealing with customers. After all, these were very trying times for the soon-to-be deceased’s loved ones, especially if they were signing up Mom or Dad for one of his premier cremation packages. He put the phone to his ear and said, “I’ll call you right back.” Then disconnected without waiting for an answer.

He rested a reassuring hand on the son’s shoulder and with sad eyes said, “I’m terribly sorry, but this is an extremely urgent call. Could you possibly excuse me?”

“Oh, certainly,” the man said almost apologetically.

Ditto extended a warm hand and an even warmer sympathetic smile. “I appreciate your inquiry. If I can be of service during this trying time, you can always reach me here.”

“Thank you so much for making this easier for us.”

Ditto gave a hint of a bow and backed away, turned and walked briskly toward his office. As soon as he had the door closed he dialed the number. It was picked up before the first ring completed. Ditto said, “I’m back.”

Redwing said, “Did you get the Suburban taken care of?”

Are you fucking crazy? Only an idiot would’ve ignored it
. Ditto said, “Roger that. I had it completely detailed yesterday. Looks brand new.”

“Then do it again. Now. Have them pay particular attention to the interior. Vacuumed and scrubbed. And I mean vacuumed and
scrubbed
. You don’t want to take any chances, and I can’t delay this forever.”

Ditto checked his watch. The place over in Freemont stayed open late. He’d pay triple for them to do it tonight and then again in the morning. He could run it over himself with Gerhard following in the Chrysler. If they were already closed, he’d scrub and vacuum the fucker down himself. “Thank you. Consider it done.”

“And one more thing. You told Detective Elliott the vehicle wasn’t out of the building that night. Why?”

A chill settled in the depth of Ditto’s gut. “I don’t have a good explanation. I wasn’t about to admit to something I didn’t have to. Why?”

“It was parked in a no parking zone, and a patrol car ran the plates. It’s a matter of record it was there. The point of this little conversation is that Elliott knows damn well you lied. You realize the danger this puts you in?”

Shit.

“Just make sure there’s nothing in that vehicle you don’t want there. Do I need to explain further?”

L
UCAS WATCHED THE GARAGE
door roll down, choking off daylight, bathing everything in only weak fluorescent light from the underside of the whining ceiling motor. He dumped the car key in his pocket and put his hand on the door to the kitchen but hesitated, dreading another confrontation with Laura. Was there any way to preempt it? Something he might say? Seeing no way to dodge it, he opened the door and entered the kitchen.

Laura sat in the small nook, sections of the
Seattle Times
scattered haphazardly on the table. She tossed him her unmistakable look of irritation.

“Hello,” he said, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet. A drink would help get through this.

“Where have you been?”

A sarcastic reply flashed through his mind. Which he swallowed, figuring there was no point in fanning the flames. But it served as just another symptom of the escalating friction between them. “I’m having a scotch. Want one?”

“I asked you a simple question.”

There was that tone again, making it sound as if he committed an egregious sin by not answering. He squelched another sarcastic response and opened the cabinet, pulled down the bottle of Green Label purchased at the duty-free shop in
the Hong Kong airport. “Was that a yes or no on the offer of a drink? I couldn’t tell.”

Laura slammed her palm on the table. “Goddamn it. Are you purposely trying to provoke me? Because if so, you’re spot-on.”

He turned to face her. “I was at the office catching up on paperwork. Before that, I was at the police department filling out a missing persons report on Andy. Now about that drink. Yes or no?”

She slumped back against the cushion, staring at him with undisguised hostility.

He returned his attention to the counter, filled a glass with ice, added scotch, figured what the hell, and added an extra splash. Finished, he turned to her, raised his glass. “Cheers.”

Laura was still holding the same expression, eyes boring into him into him. As if he didn’t get the message the first time.

“What?” Lucas asked innocently. Which was uncalled for. He knew damn well what the issue was. Or at least what the issue
du jour
was. The real, more comprehensive issue was complex, having compounded layer upon layer over years of marriage.
Baggage
was the term some of the telepsychologists termed it. He immediately felt lousy for provoking her and was about to apologize.

But she unloaded on him. “You spent one of our vacation days—one of the few days we have together—catching up on office work? And you wonder why this marriage isn’t working.”

He set down his drink and held up both hands in surrender. “I spent only a couple hours before coming home. The rest of the time was working on the Andy thing. Want to hear
what I found out?” he offered, trying to defuse the situation with a distraction.

“No, I don’t want to talk about Andy.” Laura shook her head. “Andy’s been a thorn in the side of this marriage since the first day I realized what a slimeball he is. In spite of knowing how I feel, you’ve continued to have him over to the house and flaunt your friendship in front of my face. And don’t give me that bullshit about how he saved your life. That doesn’t make up for the fact he’s a misogynist.”

“He’s not a misogynist. Far from it. And you know it.”

“All I know is how badly he mistreated Trish. It’s unconscionable.”

Even though he suspected she threw that statement out just to press his buttons, it had the desired effect. “That’s enough. I think Andy’s dead.”

“Why? Because you
think
you saw his head in Hong Kong? Give me a break.”

Lucas splashed more scotch over a fistful of ice cubes, grabbed the rest of the three-day leftover fried chicken from the fridge, and headed for the guest bedroom. He found himself thinking of Wendy.

B
OTTLE IN HAND, GERHARD
staggered in the dim light along a debris-strewn alley. He stopped at a recessed back door of a furniture store and with an audible sigh wearily sat down, wedged his back against the door and shoulder against the jamb. He hugged the half empty bottle of cheap wine with both arms as if it were grand Bordeaux. Breathing deeply, he let his chin slowly drop to his chest. He knew the moves well from watching his father slowly commit suicide with progressively shittier and shittier booze in greater and greater quantities until his liver called it quits.

He sat like this, pretending to be almost asleep, while waiting for what he knew would happen in a few minutes. To pass the time and distract himself from the cold concrete against him, he let his mind wander. He wondered how his mom was doing since checking in with her by phone last week. And made a mental note to call first thing in the morning. She now lived with her eighty-two-year-old sister in Flint fucking Michigan, the only place he could think of that ranked worse than Detroit as one of the world’s most unlivable shit holes.

Gerhard picked up the obnoxious odor of layered stale sweat and dried urine before he heard the scrape and crunch of someone stepping on broken glass. His own three layers of shirts were equally rank, just a different body odor. Perfect for
these missions. And he kept the lot well ripened by carefully storing them in a black garbage bag the moment he returned to DFH. His routine was to disrobe, store the clothes, then shower to wash off this fucking smell. What made matters worse was their itchy, dirty feeling against his skin.

There was a gentle tug on the bottle.

He hugged it tighter, slurring, “Hey, hey …” Then slowly raised his head, pretending it required great effort to focus on the shit bag now sitting next to him.

“Just a little taste?” the man asked while offering Gerhard the butt of an unlit filtered cigarette. “Trade.”

At least give the guy an ounce of credit, offering a trade like that, even if it was only a fucking worthless one like this. Most of the time these useless parasites just wanted, wanted, wanted, wanted, not even thinking of quid pro quo.

Gerhard grabbed the butt and in the weak light inspected the stained filter, as if it’d been hours since his last nicotine hit. The piece of shit butt had been pulled into some semblance of straight but had only a few puffs remaining. Hardly worth it. Assuming it would even light. Which was highly debatable.

And another thing. What had this dirt ball done for it? Nothing more than bend over to pick it out of a gutter. Big fucking deal.

This was the thought that sealed the deal for Gerhard, the thing that made this dirtbag the right one for the right reasons. He always needed a good reason to despise his victims, otherwise the job was meaningless.

Gerhard grunted, carefully set the cigarette butt in his lap, handed over the bottle, and busied himself searching his own pockets for a light.

The man unscrewed the top and guzzled the liquid.

Greedy bastard too. They all were. Just another validation of his choice. Gerhard asked, “Got a light?”

“Nope.” The asshole sucked down another long drink.

“Hey, hey, lighten up. A taste is what I said, not the whole thing.”