Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  He resumed walking, and saw a cash machine a half block ahead. Almost certainly law enforcement agencies had an alert on his bank card, but so what? Sidney Immigration had already notified every law enforcement agency in the Pacific Northwest that he’d been seen on the island. Besides, he’d already used his Visa. He withdrew two hundred dollars for immediate expenses and would hit a different machine in the morning, depending on how he fleshed out the plan.

  A few minutes later he came across the James Bay Inn just off the harbor on Government Street, a quaint, four-story historic hotel. He entered the lobby and went to the small reception counter. A female voice from the room behind the counter, called, “Be right there.”

  A small TV on the counter desk was on and broadcasting the local weather. That segment ended and the camera changed to a news anchor behind a desk. She said, “Authorities are looking for . . .” and his passport picture appeared on the screen.

  Jon turned around and walked out.

  He sat on a park bench across from the harbor, cap pulled low on his head, and put the final touches on his plan. What were the potential flaws? He didn’t see any. Which meant he was probably making a huge mistake. There were always things that could, and would, go wrong, even with the best-conceived plans. Yet sooner or later you had to go with what you had. He powered up the new cell and called Fisher.

  Fisher said, “Don’t recognize the number. Where are you?”

  “I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.” The connection had a watery distant echo quality.

  “If the RCMP catch me, they ship me back to Seoul. Right?”

  “Right. Unless they can be persuaded to ignore the extradition. And since you brought up the subject, did you attempt to use your passport to board the Sidney-Anacortes ferry?”

  Trust him? Jon decided if his plan stood any chance of working, he needed Fisher’s help. Or, at least, his cooperation. “Yes.”

  “This mean you’re still on Canadian soil somewhere on the island?”

  He was grateful Fisher hadn’t asked exactly where. “Yes.”

  “Okay, then this changes things in your favor. Slightly. But it’s better than if they’d caught you at the airport. Now, if the RCMP find you, there has to be an extradition order from Korea for them to even think of sending you back. I’ll check to be sure, but I don’t think South Korea and Canada have an extradition agreement. But even if they do have one, the Canadians are notoriously hesitant to act on extraditions. My best guess is they’d incarcerate you until things get sorted out legally.”

  Good news. In a way. He’d rather be in jail in Canada than in Korea. “If I make it across the border what’ll you do about it?”

  Fisher laughed. “Me personally or the FBI?”

  “The feds. Immigration, customs, whoever handles this kind of situation.”

  “Same principle. If the Koreans want you back, they’d have to submit an extradition request to the State Department. Then, if State was inclined to honor it, they’d send the marshals out to pick you up. Personally, I say do whatever you can to get back on US soil. Once that’s done, we can start working on straightening this mess out. Based on what I know, I seriously doubt the feds would have any inclination to send you back.”

  The situation sounded better than before. Now to start setting up his plan. “You checked Stillman’s phone records yet?”

  “Still working it. You were right, by the way. Calls were exchanged between his office and Nolan’s on the days in question. Even more interesting is that during last week he had numerous calls between his office, home, and another cell. The thing that makes these calls so interesting is that particular cell was on international roam in Seoul.”

  “Got to be Feist. Which leads into my next question: Have any idea where he is now?”

  “Funny you should ask. He came through Sea-Tac a couple hours ago.”

  Well, that answered one thing. “Back up. That cell, it has to be Feist’s, right?”

  “We think so, but we don’t know for sure. We’re having a problem IDing who it belongs to because the provider refuses to give us that information.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “They cite privacy issues.”

  Jon felt his blood pressure go up. He took a deep breath. “When you say, ‘calls were exchanged’ what does that mean? You sounded hesitant.”

  “Simply stating the facts as they’d be argued by any good defense attorney. Even if we can prove it is Feist’s, there’s no way to prove he was talking to Stillman when the calls occurred.”

  Frustrating. “Give me more than that.”

  “I know where you’re going with this. You want me to say there’s enough to connect Feist to the murder of the two patients in Seoul. We can’t say that. We don’t have one piece of evidence to support that conclusion. We both suspect it, but as for direct evidence, there’s nothing. With what we have now, a magistrate would laugh me out of their office if I asked for anything but a cup of coffee.”

  “But aren’t cases built on circumstantial evidence?” His head felt ready to explode, both temples throbbing.

  “Sure. But not enough to prove a damn thing.” Fisher let that settle before adding, “And before you ask, I have someone checking the manifest for flights to Seoul around the time you flew over, looking to see if Feist flew over.”

  Good. He hadn’t thought about checking that angle. “Find anything?”

  “Not yet. We had to file the proper paperwork with United before they’d release it.”

  At least Fisher was still working the case. He changed subjects by asking, “It should be obvious Stillman monitored the calls I made while over there. Especially the ones to Wayne. Is there any way you can find out if there’s a tap on Wayne’s cell or landline?”

  “I might. But tell me this, why? What are you thinking?”

  Jon explained his plan.

  55

  A CAR DOOR SLAM awoke Jon as he lay in a clump of bushes in Cridge Park. He opened his eyes but didn’t move. He could hear the soft chatter of a police radio and an idling engine. A gruff voice said, “Get up.”

  Jon looked in the direction of the voice. Not more then fifty feet away a scruffy male sat on the grass, his back against a tree, a bottle in hand. An RMCP patrolman stood in front of him, hands on his hips, a patrol car at the curb with the back passenger door open. It was the middle of the night, Jon figured without looking at his watch. Probably close to 1:00 a.m.

  “Why you gotta pick on me?” the man asked with the rasp of a smoker’s voice. “Why not him?” The man pointed toward Jon.

  “Because I’m talking to you,” the officer replied without taking his eyes off the drunk.

  Slowly Jon turned onto his belly and started to push up into a crouch.

  “Aw man, give a guy a break.”

  “I said, get up.”

  Still watching the officer, Jon moved back behind another tree, waited a second to make sure he hadn’t been noticed, then turned in the opposite direction and started down the sidewalk.

  AT 11:32 THE next morning brilliant sun felt soft and warm on Jon’s face as he stood next to the iconic stone seawall that rims the city harbor. A welcome contrast to the long night of moving along deserted streets while mentally reviewing his plan. By 5:00 a.m. the city began to slowly awaken and the tension of hiding began to lessen.

  Around 6:00 he found a café, used the restroom to freshen up, downed a breakfast of bacon and eggs with several cups of black coffee, and then headed back into the streets. He decided it was probably safer to go back to Sidney, which would be the last place the RCMP would expect him. But he wanted to wait until traffic picked up so he’d be less conspicuous.

  Satisfyingly stuffed, he headed back to Fort Street, turned north onto Blanshard, the city extension of highway 17, hung out his thumb at the passing cars and trudged north, away from the city. One mile later a black Toyota Land Cruiser braked at the curb. Jon tossed his rucksack on the seat and climb
ed into an interior of stale nicotine and sweat, and scattered fast food wrappers. The driver, an obese man, maybe mid-thirties, said, “I’m heading north, up past Sidney. That work for you?”

  “Sidney’s perfect. I need to catch the ferry. Appreciate it.”

  The man checked his watch, “Lucky. Got yourself a ton of time, son,” and pulled away from the curb.

  The interior fell silent except for a soft rock station that dubbed itself “The Ocean.” Jon preferred to listen rather than delve into any small talk that might draw attention to him or leave the driver with information helpful to the authorities. Five minutes later the road transitioned into a highway and the driver kicked it up to 100 kilometers per hour. On the radio a Phil Collins tune ended and the female DJ announced, “Turning to local news, an alert is still in effect throughout Vancouver Island for Jon Ritter, the Seattle neurosurgeon wanted by the RMCP for questioning. He’s male, thirty-five years of age, medium height and weight, graying blond hair, and was last seen wearing a gray University of British Columbia sweatshirt and tan pants. Police officials consider Ritter armed and potentially dangerous. Citizens are warned not to attempt to apprehend Ritter, but—”

  “I certainly appreciate this lift,” Jon said loud enough to mask the remaining description.

  “Wonder what a neurosurgeon would do to get the police looking for him? Kill his wife?” The driver laughed. Jon forced a laugh. The man shot Jon a quick sideways glance. “That description could fit hundreds of people. Even you.”

  “Yep, a lot of people,” Jon agreed.

  To the west the sun hovered just above the jagged tips of Douglas firs as Jon scouted out the Van Isle Marina—a maze of slips, rust-stained corrugated-metal sheds, hull repair shops, parking spaces, and retail shops along Sidney’s north shore. Most importantly, the development contained an excellent restaurant. On his walk over, he stopped at a tired, two-story, nineteen-fifties style motel a half block to the south, and paid cash for a room for one night.

  Now, he approached the restaurant and stopped by the door to study the menu in the front window. Could be pushing his luck, being out in public like this, but on the other hand, acting confident might go a long way to deter suspicion. He was hungry again.

  A wiry bearded maître d’ in denims and white shirt met him just inside the door with, “May I help you?”

  Jon quickly scanned the tables, saw what he was looking for, said, “Dinner for one,” and pointed at the table.

  The maître d’ glanced at the obvious choice, nodded, “Certainly.”

  Before removing the second place setting, the waiter handed him a menu and asked if he wanted a drink. Jon ordered a scotch rocks.

  “Very good,” and floated away.

  Jon opened the menu as a ruse for a closer look at the older couple enjoying lively conversation over dinner. Both wore upscale casual clothes that radiated the affluent “boater look.” Perfect. Jon shifted in the chair, crossed his legs, in a move that naturally turned toward them. He took a moment to eye their entrées before asking the man, “Excuse me, but what’s that you’re having?”

  The man glanced back with a friendly smile and laughing gray eyes that matched the color of a closely-cropped beard. “The veal. They do an absolutely amazing job with it.”

  “Really! You eat here often?” And wondered if he was mistaken, that instead of boaters these were locals enjoying a dinner out.

  “Whenever possible,” he beamed. “This is our third day here,” with a nod at the window and the marina beyond. After a chuckle, “We’ve eaten every one of our meals here.”

  Jon followed the glance to a view of sailboat masts in evening sky. “You guys sail?”

  “Naw, we’re power boaters. A forty-five footer. Over in another site.”

  “Forty-five! Nice size for the two of you,” offering his hand. “Wayne Dobbs.”

  The man set down his napkin to shake. “Andrew Klein. My wife, Susan.”

  Susan simply nodded, dabbed at her lips with the corner of the white napkin, eyebrows in a suspicious furrow.

  Alarm bells rang in the back of Jon’s mind. That look . . . did she recognize him from the broadcast descriptions? Stay calm. Be cool. Jon raised his scotch in a toast. “Where you from?” If pressed, his guess would be California. They looked the type to afford to moor such an expensive toy in a northwest marina year-round and jet up to enjoy a breathtaking cruise whenever their mood and busy schedules permitted.

  Klein jutted his chin toward the other window. “Lopez. Our excuse for coming over here is to use this marina for maintenance. I tell you, their work is top drawer. Turns out to be an amazing deal. But to tell the truth, the real reason we come over is to eat.” With a laugh, he patted his flat stomach. “Got to watch the calories though.” He glanced at Jon’s empty place setting. “What’d you order?”

  “Salmon.”

  With an approving nod and conspiratorial tone, “They do an amazing job on that too. One of my favorites, matter of fact. This is truly an amazing restaurant. Met the chef yet?”

  “No. It’s my first time here.” He sipped scotch and cautioned himself to not push too hard.

  “Just a kid. In his twenties, I think. But absolutely amazing. The owner hired him right out from under some big-time Vancouver restaurant. A real coup. Expect to see him on Iron Chef one of these days.”

  “When you heading back? To Lopez, I mean.” One of the major islands in the American San Juan chain, an archipelago sandwiched between Washington State and Vancouver Island.

  “In the morning, looks like. Planned to head out tonight but turns out they couldn’t get her prop on in time. So, of course, that gave us an excuse for one more dinner here.” He smiled at his wife, who declined the obvious segue into the conversation.

  Jon leaned closer to Klein. “Mind if I ask a favor?”

  His smile faded. “Depends. What?”

  “Any possibility I could hitch a ride to Lopez with you?”

  Klein’s expression lost the edge of friendliness. Susan Klein leaned over, whispered something in her husband’s ear. Surprise flickered through his eyes.

  Shit, she knew. Probably heard about him on the news, maybe had even seen a picture. Having anticipated this possibility, Jon said, “Look, I’m in a bit of a jam and need help. Just hear me out. Okay?”

  Andrew nodded. Susan folded the napkin over one leg with an I-knew-it expression.

  To defend himself, Jon briefly summarized what happened from beginning to end, including being held by police in Seoul, and then handed Andrew his cell phone along with Fisher’s card. “Here. Call him. Tell him you’re with me, and ask if it’s okay for you to take me to Lopez.”

  Andrew eyed Jon suspiciously while Susan continued chewing slowly, her body language leaving no doubt where she stood on the issue. Klein glanced at her, weighed the offer a moment before picking up the phone and business card. “Okay, but outside. Not in here where others can hear.”

  56

  JON FOLLOWED KLEIN out the door and along the sidewalk. Klein stopped, scanned the area to make certain they were alone before punching in Fisher’s number. He stood with the phone to his ear glancing just about everywhere but Jon’s eyes. Seconds later, he glanced directly at Jon, raised his eyebrows briefly, and said into the phone, “Mr. Fisher? . . . “My name’s Andrew Klein. I’m with a man who claims to be Jon Ritter and that he knows you.” . . . “Yeah, sure . . .” Klein studied Jon a moment. “Around thirty-five, I’d say about five ten, slender, graying blond hair” . . . “Yeah, he has the scar.” . . . “We’re in Sidney, BC. He wants me to ferry him to Lopez on our boat.” . . . “Okay.” He handed Jon the phone.

  Jon asked Fisher, “We all set?”

  “We are.”

  “I’ll call you when, and if, I make it to Lopez.”

  Fisher said, “Excellent, but we never had this conversation. Understand?”

  Jon nodded. “Understood.”

  “You have a way lined up to get from the i
sland to the city?”

  Jon wasn’t about to tell him. Right now, landing safely on US soil was the most important thing in his life, so he didn’t want to risk any problem. “All taken care of.”

  As they turned toward the restaurant door, Klein put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, stopping him. “Tell you how we do this. Meet us here, say, eight in the morning. You buy breakfast, we run you to Lopez. How’s that for a deal?”

  For the first time since Detective Park detained him in Seoul, Jon believed he stood a chance of making it home. He seemed so close now. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  Jon’s salad was waiting when he retuned to the table. As he settled in the waiter appeared alongside the table. “Another scotch, or would you like wine with dinner?”

  Jon glanced at the salad, then back to his empty glass, a soft, warm buzz carrying him to another place, numbing the accumulated fatigue and lifting the stress still weighing heavily on his shoulders. “Better not. I still have work to do tonight.”

  THE DOOR TO HIS motel room closed behind him with an anemic hollow thunk of cheap construction, the room air stale and warm with a faintly familiar residual of disinfectant and mildew. He pushed the button on the decrepit AC window unit and it coughed to life, clattering away, in a feeble attempt to exchange air. Next stop, the bathroom, to rinse his face. Returned to the bedroom, dropped down heavily onto the foot of the bed and, using his original Droid, called Wayne at home. “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Jesus Christ! Where are you?”

  “Victoria,” he lied, figuring Stillman might still have a way of monitoring Wayne’s phone.