“Hey, asshole,” said Andie.
The men froze. The biggest one shot her a look. “Who you think you’re talking to?”
“An asshole, apparently. You answered.”
The attitude amused him. “Whadda we got here? Another whore muscling in on her sister’s territory? Maybe a little head-to-head competition?” He laughed at his own pun.
“Get your hands off her.”
His eyes narrowed. He pulled his hand from the girl’s shirt. “Now, exactly who’s gonna make me do that?”
Andie felt the urge to pop him. Before she could speak, the girl stepped forward and glared with contempt. Her speech was slurred from whatever she’d inhaled two minutes ago. “Get outcha here, bish. Dis is my trick.”
Andie froze, not sure what to say. There was a rumble behind the desk. The clerk had a shotgun on the counter.
“Get out,” he said, aiming at Andie. “Or you’re a stain on the wall.”
Andie glanced again at the girl. She was barely able to stand but mad enough to shout. “Beat it, slut!”
The hammer cocked on the shotgun. The clerk meant business. Andie hoisted her duffel bag, turned away, and left. The door slammed behind her.
“Get lost, bish!”
The night air chilled her face. For twenty paces down the dark sidewalk the shouting followed her. It wasn’t the men. Only the girl continued to deride her, showering her with slurred profanity.
She kept walking. The shrill voice faded, but the knot in her stomach tightened.
Kira had lost a turf war. Andie had found her demons.
Thirty-nine
The FBI had set up a trap and trace on all of the Wheatley phone lines, so Gus knew they were immediately on the call, even if it was just three tones and a hang-up. An agent he had never met, some guy named Mel Haveres, had called to tell him they were pursuing it. Haveres couldn’t say where Agent Henning was, and Gus still couldn’t get her to call him back.
For whatever reason, the FBI was being awfully cagey as to Andie’s whereabouts. Gus talked it over with Dex, who suggested they try someone outside the FBI, like Detective Kessler. Gus didn’t exactly feel like he had a rapport with Kessler, not after their rocky start. It only made sense to let Dex do the digging.
At eight-thirty Dexter Bryant came by the house to report back. A face-to-face meeting was the only reliable way to make sure the FBI wasn’t listening. They sat at the kitchen table. Carla served coffee, a polite way of trying to invite herself into the conversation. Ever since Gus had confided in her about Shirley Borge, she seemed to think she was automatically in the loop. But Gus had a feeling she was a pipeline to Morgan, telling her things she didn’t need to know. So out she went.
“What did you find out?” asked Gus.
Dex poured a generous amount of milk into his steaming cup. “He doesn’t know what’s up with Henning. Didn’t care to speculate either.”
“Does he know about Shirley Borge?”
“I don’t think so. But I had to tap dance around that subject pretty lightly. If the FBI hasn’t brought him into the loop, I didn’t want to be the one to come out and spill the beans.”
“I just wish somebody would tell me they’re following up on her tip.”
Dex sipped his coffee, then added even more milk. “Kessler can’t help you there.”
“I can’t believe they would just drop the ball.”
“I don’t think they have,” said Dex.
“What makes you say that?”
“Just the way this is playing out. Kessler’s in the dark. You’re in the dark. I think Henning is probably snooping around Yakima as we speak.”
“You mean like an undercover thing?”
“That’s the way the FBI operates. Don’t tell anybody squat. Which sucks from your perspective. But that’s why they so rarely lose an agent.”
“But that’s just your guess, right? There’s no way to verify that they’re taking Shirley’s tip seriously.”
“I can’t call FBI headquarters and get a list of everybody working undercover this week, if that’s what you mean.”
Gus rubbed his face, groaning. “So what do we do? Sit here and wait?”
“That’s one option,” said Dex. “Or I could go to Yakima.”
Gus perked up. “Or maybe I should.”
“Gus, you’re a lawyer. A corporate lawyer.”
He was suddenly pensive, not listening. “It makes sense. That’s what Shirley was telling me. She said, check it out. Check it out yourself. She was saying I need to go.”
“You’re reading too much into that.”
“Think about it. Let’s say Andie Henning is over in Yakima now. What in the world is she looking for? If there’s some clue over there about Beth, I’m the one who’s going to recognize it. Not some FBI agent who’s never met her.”
Dex didn’t argue.
“It’s settled, then,” said Gus. “Carla can watch Morgan. I’m going to Yakima.”
Andie took a room at the Thunderbird Motel, which catered more to business people than the drunk-and-falling-down crowd. It was over budget and definitely out of role for the cameo she was playing, but she didn’t care. She needed to get away from that girl and that neighborhood, at least for the night.
From her room she called her contact agent, Mel Haveres. Mel was one of the agents assigned to the Wheatley kidnapping team. As long as Andie was undercover, she was required to check in with him. It wasn’t a supervisor-subordinate relationship. She just brought him up to date and let him know she was safe. Likewise, he kept her abreast of real world developments.
“The Wheatleys got another weird call tonight.”
“How weird?”
He explained Gus’s one-sided exchange and the three long tones, then added, “We traced it back to southern Oregon. Another rest area pay phone. This one just north of the California border.”
“Dear God, not another body.”
“None yet. They’ll keep looking.”
“You think it was really Beth Wheatley on the line?”
“No way to know for sure,” he said. “There’s no fingerprints this time, and there’s no magic to punching a button three times. Anybody could have done that in response to Gus’s question.”
“I can’t believe I missed this. I need to get back.”
“Lundquist wants you to stay put. Isaac agrees.”
“With the killer on his way to California? Why stay here?”
“We think you’re in the right place.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The call was a little too cute, too convenient. Nobody talks, but the line stays open just long enough for us to trace. Then it disconnects.”
“Meaning what?”
“According to Isaac, you said it yourself in that last meeting with Victoria Santos. There’s a steady geographical pattern moving south from Seattle. Could be the killer is just diverting our attention from where we should be looking. Maybe he has an inkling we’ve targeted Yakima, and now he’s trying even harder to shift our attention all the way to California.”
“How would he know we’ve zeroed in on Yakima?”
“That inmate at WCCW could be shooting her mouth off, bragging about pulling down the reward money. Wouldn’t surprise me if our killer is plugged into the prison grapevine.”
Andie thought for a second. “That’s possible.”
“We think it’s more probable than possible. Your orders are to stay put. Play out the cameo for the full three days and see what turns up.”
“All right,” said Andie. “I’m on the inside track at the store, so if there’s anything to Shirley Borge’s tip, I should flush it out.”
“Good. Check in again tomorrow morning.”
“I will.”
“Oh, one more thing. Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just that Isaac really does think you’re in the right place, so he wanted me to be sure to pass this along.”
“What is it?”
�
��He says, be very careful.”
She smiled weakly with appreciation. “Tell Isaac he worries too much.”
Gus left Seattle at five A.M. and reached Yakima before nine. He found a parking space a half block down from the Second Chance clothing store. His investigator had warned him it wasn’t in the best part of town, but this was rougher than he’d envisioned. He stepped down from his car and paused, wondering if he’d still have tires on his Mercedes when he returned. He set the alarm and walked up the sidewalk.
The store was closed. No hours were posted, but he assumed it would open at nine. He could wait five minutes.
The day was gray and overcast, cold enough to make him consider waiting in the car. The wind kicked up, stirring some stray newspapers in the gutter. Gus cinched his coat to stay warm. He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him.
“Gus? What the hell are you doing here?”
He did a double-take. Her appearance had thrown him, but the voice he recognized. It was Andie. He answered, “I’m here to check things out.”
“That’s my job. Get out of here.”
“Why didn’t you return my calls?”
“Gus, you’re blowing my cover. Now get out of here before the owner shows up.”
“That’s exactly who I want to talk to. I brought some pictures of Beth. Just thought I’d show them and see if the owner knows anything.”
“That’s a terrible idea. For all we know, this store owner is the killer’s mother. If word gets back to the killer that you or the police are closing in, that’s bad news for Beth. He could panic, cut bait, and send your wife’s body floating down the river. Now get out of here. I mean it.”
He didn’t move, but he didn’t argue.
“Go,” she said sternly.
He turned slowly, then stopped. The display in the storefront window had caught his attention.
“What now?” asked Andie.
He stepped closer to the window, his eyes locked like radar. “That black dress.”
“What about it?”
His face was ashen. “It belongs to Beth.”
Forty
Andie was alone outside the shop when Mrs. Rankin arrived to open up. She played in role as Kira, having decided to stay undercover. It would be easier to find out about the dress as a dumb employee than an FBI agent.
“You actually showed?” the old woman said with surprise.
“Not like I have anyplace else to be.”
“Just remember, you’re working for the necklace. Don’t try hitting me up for money at the end of your three days. Because I won’t pay.”
“Fine by me.”
She gave Andie a curious look, then unlocked the door and headed inside. Andie followed. It was dark and drafty inside, nearly as cold as the outdoors. Mrs. Rankin switched on the heater and then the lights. The old fluorescent tubes hummed and flickered overhead until they finally brightened the store.
Mrs. Rankin sat on her stool behind the counter. She seemed amused to be able to bark out orders from atop her throne. “Let’s see,” she said ponderously. “What can I get you started on?”
Andie looked for something toward the front, near the dress in the window. The long shelf of sweaters looked in disarray. “How about those sweaters? I could fold them up neat for you.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Had a couple of women in here yesterday who tore through every last one of them. Didn’t buy a darn thing, but left the place a mess, they did.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Twenty minutes. That’s all it should take you. Nobody putters around in this store. I hate putterers. You’re not a putterer, are you, Kira?”
“No, ma’am.” Andie turned and rolled her eyes. Yesterday the old lady was on her own. Today she’s a union buster.
The noisy heater had not yet warmed the store, so Andie left her coat on. She folded the sweaters into neat stacks, working diligently from left to right, ever the eager new employee. She didn’t stop until she had worked halfway across the store, even with the dress in the window. She stopped and touched it, as if admiring it. Discreetly, she checked the tag. It was a Donna Karan, easily worth several hundred dollars new. She flipped the tag over. The drycleaner’s marking was written with indelible ink. Her heart skipped a beat. It read, “B. Wheatley.”
No denying it. The dress was Beth’s.
“Don’t get any ideas, girl.”
Andie started. “What—what do you mean?”
“That dress. You’d have to work here a month to pay that one off.”
That was a relief. The old woman had thought she was dreaming, not snooping. Andie stroked the fabric. “Where did you get something like this?”
“Girl named Shirley. Good kid. Used to be one of my best suppliers. Not just quantity but real quality. Storefront Shirley is what I used to call her. Everything she brought went right in the front window. My best merchandise.”
“Think Shirley can get me something in red?”
The old lady snorted. “Even if you could afford it, I wouldn’t expect anything from Shirley anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“She’s locked up. For a long time.”
Andie looked away, feigning disappointment. She checked the label again. “Who’s this B. Wheatley?”
“I don’t know. Somebody sells me a dress, I don’t ask those kind of questions. You shouldn’t either.”
That was for sure. Andie was starting to sound too much like the heat. She went back to folding sweaters, but her mind was still on the dress. Things were starting to fit together. She couldn’t waste the morning.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “I’m going over to Wendy’s. You want something?”
“You just got here.”
“I was so excited about starting this morning I couldn’t eat. And now I’m hungry.”
“Oh, all right. Ten minutes, no more. And I’m taking it out of your lunch hour. Bring me back a biscuit or something.”
“Okay.” Andie hurried out the door and across the street. The pay phone was around back near the drive-thru. She didn’t call her contact agent. She didn’t even call her supervisor. She dialed the ASAC directly.
“Isaac,” she said in a serious tone, “I think it’s time to cut a deal with Shirley Borge.”
Gus was halfway back to Seattle when his car phone rang. It was Andie.
“You were right,” she said. “The dress was Beth’s.”
Gus eased up on the accelerator without even realizing it, slowing well under the limit. Traffic started to fly past him on the interstate. “What does this mean?”
“The owner told me she bought the dress from a woman named Shirley, who is now in jail. That’s obviously why Shirley told you to check out the store.”
“But Shirley has been in jail for six months. How could she have known that Beth’s dress would still be there?”
“It’s high-end designer merchandise, not the cheap stuff that moves fast in a store like this. That’s why it was on display in the window. And Shirley might not even have had this particular dress in mind. The owner told me that Shirley brought her lots of nice clothes. If we look around, we might find dozens of things in that store that belonged to Beth.”
Big, wet snowflakes began to splatter on the windshield. Gus switched on the wipers. “The better question, I guess, is how did Shirley get her hands on Beth’s dress in the first place?”
“That’s why I called. At the moment you’re the only one Shirley is talking to.”
“She’s not going to say another word until you cut her a deal.”
“I think we can probably get her back on the prison pet program.”
“She doesn’t care about the dogs. That’s just a test. If we’re going to get any real answers, you’re going to have to come up with a lot more than that.”
Andie was careful not to speak out of turn. She still had to clear things through the bureau. “I’m working on it.”
“That’s what you want
me to tell Shirley? You’re working on it?”
“Gus, let me be honest with you. The FBI will promise to write a nice letter to the parole board on Shirley’s behalf only on two conditions. One, if her information helps us find Beth. And two, if she was totally uninvolved with Beth’s disappearance.”
“That’s fine.”
“Don’t you see? The fact that Shirley sold Beth’s dress to this used-clothing store could make it hard for me to convince my supervisors that she had nothing to do with Beth’s disappearance.”
“She was in prison. How could she be involved?”
“People have run the Mafia from inside prison walls.”
“Shirley’s practically a kid. She’s not a mobster.”
“You don’t know anything about her.”
“Well then, maybe it’s time I found out.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Just tell your supervisors to keep an open mind. I’ve closed tougher deals than this one.” He hung up and hit the accelerator, surging well above the speed limit.
Forty-one
Gus didn’t have to persuade her. Maybe she thought it would be fun or that it was a prerequisite to earning her reward. Maybe she simply thought she could beat it. Whatever the reason, Shirley expressed no reservations about sitting for a polygraph examination.
Andie’s challenge had immediately triggered the idea of a lie-detector test. Shirley wouldn’t talk unless she had a deal. The FBI wouldn’t cut a deal unless she had nothing to do with Beth’s disappearance. The polygraph was the answer.
Irving Pappas—Pappy, they called him—was the best in the business. He was a few years older than the last time Gus had seen him, but he looked the same. Warm, aged eyes. White hair and big, bushy white eyebrows. With his grandfatherly looks and a name like Pappy, he had a way of putting his subjects at ease, which only heightened the reliability of his test results. That was crucial. When dealing with the government, the reputation of the examiner was just as important as the results of the test.
Under Cover of Darkness Page 24