Dead Wrong (31 page)

M
CCARTHY AND SARAH entered the airport through the passenger drop off level, took the escalator down to baggage claim, and walked straight out the door to the taxi area. There was no line and they got the first available one. McCarthy slid into the backseat after Sarah and asked the driver to take them to the Budget Rent a Car lot while handing him a twenty dollar bill.

At the rental lot across Highway 99, Sarah used her driver’s license and credit card to rent a silver Ford Taurus, a model they both agreed would draw little attention.

Sarah handed him the key. “Want to drive?”

He waved it away. “Go ahead.”

They walked around to the appropriate sides and got in. Sarah keyed the ignition, asked, “Where we going?”

“My place. I still have some things to pick up.”

She turned in the seat to face him. “You have
got
to be kidding.”

“No. Let’s go.”

S
ARAH CURBED THE rental car on the street immediately below the one McCarthy’s townhouse faced, the hill rolling off steeply to the south, providing a view of downtown Seattle and the Space Needle. She killed the engine and let the car settle into eerie silence. Single-family homes and small duplexes lined both sides of the street, crammed into lots barely large enough for slits of garden and walkways along their borders. He scanned the dimly lit residential neighborhood for anyone in a car or loitering on the sidewalk, which would be unusual this time of night. Nothing caught his attention. Then again, all he really saw was dark shadows.

He studied the house directly below his, their lots separated by only an unmarked property line traversing the hill. It was a two story ultracontemporary structure with a flat roof that served double duty as a deck. The windows were dark without even the faint glow of a nightlight from the depths of the house. Maybe the owners were out of town for the Labor Day weekend, or maybe they were in bed for the night.

The rental’s engine began to tick as it cooled.

McCarthy said, “Take a drive. Give me fifteen minutes before you come back to pick me up.”

“No way. I’ll stay here.”

“Look, I think—”

She folded her arms defiantly. “I drove here. I’m waiting. Live with it.”

McCarthy shot a quick nervous glance at the shadows along the house, his stomach churning, his fingers tingling. “In that case, keep the doors locked. “Here.” He handed her Washington’s gun. “Know how to use this?”

“No.”

“Just point and pull the trigger.”

“Got it.” She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful.”

He studied her eyes a moment, then opened the car door and climbed out onto the sidewalk. One hand on the roof of the car, he leaned back in, whispered, “See you in fifteen minutes.”

“Be careful. You know chances are someone’s up there waiting for you. Either Sikes or the police.”

“I know.”

The crisp air raised goose bumps along his arms as he darted into a shadowy walkway paralleling the side of the house. He hoped the owners didn’t have motion detectors or a dog. To his left a six-foot-high Asian-style cedar fence separated the lot from the neighbor to the west. In dim light, he moved to the rear of the house where a narrow courtyard of aggregate pavers and teak patio chairs abutted a ten-foot-high cement retaining wall. To reach his backyard he’d have to scale the wall. He glanced around for something to climb on and ended up dragging one of the heavy chairs against the fence. Standing on the chair, he stretched but still couldn’t reach the top of the wall, so with one hand against the wall for balance, he stepped onto the arm of the chair. With both feet on the arm of the chair and both hands against the wall, he was able climb up and stand on the top of the fence, making his shoulders reach the top of the cement retaining wall.

From there he grabbed the trunks of a boxwood hedge and pulled, lightly at first, to test how much weight the shrubs would support. They held, allowing him to pull his body up.

S
IKES’S CELL VIBRATED against thigh. He dug it out of his pocket. “What?”

“The Hamilton woman’s car was found abandoned.”

“Where.”

“Gas Works Park.”

“Where the fuck’s that?” It irritated Sikes when people who knew an area assumed everyone else did too.

The caller explained the location.

Sikes wasn’t sure what to make of the information. “Keep me informed.”

“Before you hang up, there’s another thing you need to know. McCarthy’s lawyer slipped out of his office.”

“Fuck!”

M
CCARTHY SWUNG HIs left knee onto the cement ledge, worked his right leg up, the rough surface scraping skin through the thin scrubs. Now on the top of the retaining wall, he rolled onto his side and took a breath. So far, so good. He worked up into a kneeling position, squeezed between the shrubs, and crawled onto the small lawn.

He remained kneeling and watched the back of his townhouse for several seconds, waiting for any sign that he’d been noticed. Nothing happened. The windows remained dark, the few lights on timers having cycled off hours ago. If someone were waiting inside would they have lights on or off? Probably off. So, on second thought, the lights being off didn’t mean much.

He crept to the basement door, tried to peer in window, and got a face full of spider web. Swearing silently, he swiped at the sticky threads and felt legs crawl along up his cheek toward his ear. He batted the spider off, then wiped his hands on his scrubs. More cautiously this time he peered through the dirty pane but the basement was too dark to see anything.

He crept to the corner of the foundation where a five-foot rock retaining wall separated the back and front yards and climbed up to a rhododendron bed of beauty bark. Wedged between the plant and the house, he inched forward enough to see the street.

As usual, cars lined both sides of the street. Nothing appeared out of place. Still, he couldn’t believe his home wasn’t under surveillance. For thirty seconds, he watched, unwilling to accept he was alone. It dawned on him that he was taking longer than estimated. But hurrying at this point might cause a mistake.

He just about to climb back down to the backyard when a pinpoint glow from across the street caught his attention. He looked closer. The cigarette ember brightened, revealing a face in a darkened car. He watched smoke ghost out the top of the open window and vanish.

Was he cop or one of Sikes’s men? Did it matter? Tom’s gut tightened.

Heart pounding, McCarthy started climbing back down the rock wall, slipped, and slammed his knee into a boulder. The impact sent a bolt of pain up his leg. He choked back a gasp and started moving again. Then he was back in the yard, limping to the basement door, wondering if Sikes had someone inside also.

He knelt on his good knee and groped the ground blindly, found the edge of the cement walk, and followed it to where it met the basement foundation. Just to the left was the fake rock. By feel, he slid open the bottom and dropped the house key into his hand.

He slid the key into the lock, turned it slowly until the deadbolt disengaged, then pushed the door open far enough to listen to the interior. He heard only heavy stillness.

The warm basement air smelled of laundry soap and dryer lint and felt wonderful on his bare skin, driving home just how chilled he’d become in the thin sweat-dampened scrubs. He left the door open just in case.

Jesus, why hadn’t he brought Washington’s gun? If Sikes
was
upstairs waiting, he was screwed. On top of the circuit breaker panel was a small Maglite. He found it, turned it on, and scanned the area for a weapon. In the corner, next to the stairs, was his Wilson outfielder’s mitt and Louisville Slugger. He picked up the bat.

Shivering, he limped to the top stair, put his ear to the door, and listened but heard only silence.

He cracked the door, listened some more, but heard only the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Aw Jesus, this is taking way too long
.

Bat held ready, he tiptoed upstairs to the darkened second floor and quickly went room to room without finding a sign of another person. He returned to his bedroom, set the bat on his bed, slipped into the bathroom, grabbed his terry cloth robe from the back of the door, and snuggled into it. For a moment he just stood there rubbing his arms and ribs in an attempt to warm up.

Back in the bedroom he eased the bathroom door shut then closed the Venetian blinds. The room had two closets, a large walk-in for clothes and a standard size for storage. The smaller of the two was the one he was interested in. But it would be a problem because opening the louvered doors automatically turned on a ceiling light. He thought about that. Well, the blinds were shut and the light was weak enough that it probably wouldn’t be noticed from outside. He quickly stripped off the damp scrubs and dried off with a towel. He selected a pair black jeans and a black cotton turtleneck to wear.

Now warmer, he opened the small closet, pulled down a shoebox from the top shelf, and removed a passport, driver’s license, and a credit card, all in the name Timothy Rush. At the time he had developed the false identity, he had viewed it as a necessary, but that need had passed. Yet for reasons not totally clear to him, he’d kept it over the years and had even worked to give the phony identity “depth” by obtaining an AAA membership and library card. Every year he renewed the AAA membership and occasionally made purchases on the credit card to keep the account active. He replaced Tom McCarthy’s cards in his billfold with those for Tim Rush, then slipped Rush’s passport into his back pocket. Finally, he replaced the shoebox with his real identity on the shelf and closed the closet door.

E
RNEST WOMACK’S THOUGHTS drifted back to earlier in the week, the two-day stopover in San Francisco. Not the city, but Jeff, the little Asian cutie he’d picked up. Or had it really been the other way—Jeff picked him up? Didn’t really matter. The point was the great time they’d enjoyed. Not just the sex, but the restaurant they’d dined in, the conversation, the whole evening. It made him seriously consider going back through Frisco on the return to Denver, his usual duty station. Sure would try. And, far as he was concerned, completing this mission couldn’t come soon enough. What a homophobic bigot that bastard Sikes was. Jesus, if he only knew …

A flicker of light or movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned to look. At first, nothing appeared out of place. No car, no person, no light that hadn’t been there a moment ago. But something had caught his attention. He looked closer, trying to remember exactly how things had been. Something seemed different, slightly out of place, but nothing obvious. He studied McCarthy’s house more carefully, his eye drawn to the second floor. Something was different. What? Wait a minute. There. The angle of the Venetian blinds. They were tightly closed.

Someone was inside the house!

It had to be McCarthy. He grabbed his cell phone/walkietalkie. “Hen, Chick Two.”

“Go, Chick.”

“Be advised we have movement in the McCarthy house. I’m going in.”