by Allen Wyler
“I take that as agreement.” But it worries Wendy, the responsibility this suddenly places on her shoulders. It feels heavy. She’s now responsible for this woman she has somehow connected with. If she fucks up, Lupita will be the one to pay … “Excuse me for asking, but why are you doing this for these girls?”
Lupita seems surprised by the question. “They friends.”
“What I mean is, this can get dicey. You sure you’re up for it?”
“Hey, just ‘cause I’m in the life, doesn’t mean I like it. Some of these players are mean motherfucks. If I help a few friends while taking some of these fuckers down, I’ll be happy. None of us chose to do this. But it’s what we do.”
Wendy realized Redwing was staring at her, waiting for an answer. “Her street name was Charmane, and yes, I do think Dittos is involved. Somehow.” She realized she was frowning, which would piss him off. Not a smart thing to do when requesting his help. Especially since he was always sucking up to the brass, bragging on how happy the members of his team were.
“You think he’s a killer?” Redwing said with a trace of annoyance.
“I’m not saying he’s involved directly. What I’m saying is that particular Suburban is registered to DFH Inc. It was documented to be in the immediate area about the time she went missing. And a couple of my girls noticed it cruising her territory earlier that afternoon.”
Charmane’s territory. As if Lupita were a company sales rep or something. An adult bookstore and a couple cheap motels occupied the block she worked, so it wasn’t like Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.
“That’s pretty slim evidence to go on,” Redwing said.
“Maybe, but Ditto started acting guilty as sin as soon as I started asking him questions.”
Redwing picked at a wart on the back of his index finger. “In what way?”
“In every way. You name it.” She threw her arms up. “Eye aversion, hemming and hawing. Exactly what you’d expect from someone who’s got something to hide.”
“We both know you don’t have enough here,” he said, shaking his head. “You need way more than a gut feeling to get a court order. As long as he claims the vehicle wasn’t out of the barn that night, there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. You want to have it looked over, hand me something solid. I refuse to deal with bullshit supposition.”
Frustrated, Wendy pressed her temples and wondered if this discussion would trigger another migraine. “You telling me an officer running the license plate is nothing more than bullshit supposition?”
“No, that’s factual. What I’m saying is your impression that Ditto is lying is nothing more than an impression. Impressions aren’t solid, and they sure as hell aren’t evidence. There is nothing to say his vehicle had a damn thing to do with that girl’s disappearance. Or have I missed something? Something you didn’t tell me?”
“I’m telling you,” she said, emphasizing every word. “I know when someone’s lying. He was flat-out lying through his teeth. There has to be a reason. And I want to know what it is.”
Redwing bit at his finger and spit a speck of skin at the wastebasket. “Give me a break. The man could have ten thousand reasons he doesn’t want you knowing what he was doing at the time, none of which are likely to be remotely connected with the missing girl.”
“Like?”
“Aw, hell, use your imagination. How about he’s married and sees a hooker who works that block? Give me a minute, and I’ll come up with at least another ten bulletproof reasons.”
Wendy leaned over, hands flat on the desk, and locked eyes with his. “The man is lying. The vehicle was there. That right there makes me interested.” She didn’t bring up her suspicions about the other missing girls and Ditto’s business. “What’s not to see?”
Redwing wasn’t buying it, so she added, “Fine. If you say he’s not involved, what about the possibility someone used the van without him knowing? First he tells me that’s possible and when I pressed him, he tells me there was absolutely no pick up that night.”
“Well, then?”
What did it take to convince him? And why wasn’t he listening to her? She wanted to scream. “He’s lying. He doesn’t know for sure whether the vehicle was used or not. He based his answer on a sign-out sheet.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Yes. He looked it up on his computer. Haven’t you been listening to my report?”
“I have. But have you been listening to me? You don’t have enough for probable cause. Besides, why are you burning so much time on this particular case? If you don’t have enough work to do, let me know. We have a backlog as long as your legs.”
Wendy shot him a warning look. She didn’t get this far in the department to put up with asshole comments about her looks. Not even from her boss, a man who wasn’t exactly known for his sensitivity to women.
She knew he was right about the evidence, but she also knew in her gut Ditto had lied. The Suburban had been in the area that night. There had to be a connection. But any connection between Ditto and Ruiz’s disappearance was up for grabs. What he didn’t understand was that the girls looked out for each other. They noticed things that seemed unusual. Three of them had spotted the vehicle that night and told her about it. Sure, their sixth sense wariness wasn’t something that would stand up in court. But Wendy believed them.
Sometimes the law sucked.
And there was the bigger issue. About a year ago she noticed girls missing. Not that it was unusual. Working girls disappeared all the time, especially with it being a high-risk trade. Some simply left town. Others got busted. Others dropped out for myriad reasons. But she knew of three who vanished without any reason. Since then she’d been keeping track. Who knew how many had vanished before then?
“What up, girl?” calls Wendy as she approaches a tall black woman in the parking lot of a convenience store.
“Nothing. That’s the problem. Business been down.”
Wendy pulls a pack of Kools out of her purse, offers her one. “You seen Tanisha round?”
The girl takes a cigarette. “Not really.” She scans the lot. “Got a light too?” Her small purse is so thin it can barely hold the condoms.
Wendy holds her Bic flame up to it. “When the last time you seen her?”
The girl shrugs, checks out the occupants of a car pulling up to the front of the store. “Three weeks ago, maybe. Why you so interested in Tanisha?”
“Ain’t seen her neither,” Wendy says. “Gives me worry.”
“True that.”
That conversation took place six months ago. She suspected another Green River Killer might be working the area. She’d started nosing around, asking questions. Some of the other girls had noticed the same thing, but no one kept track or wanted to discuss it. But they silently shared the same fear of a serial killer. Every one of them knew the stories of the sickos who preyed on prostitutes. It heightened the girls’ vigilance and their communication network. Several started passing on information to Wendy. So, yes, it wasn’t her only case. But no one, including Redwing, seemed to give a shit about Ruiz.
“Because I care about her.” She resented having to explain this.
“Just as long as it doesn’t interfere with your job. Don’t forget you got other cases to work.”
She was being dismissed. “Not a problem. But, sir?”
“Yes?” He looked up from his desk, eyebrows raised, like big surprise she was still there.
“Make sure I continue to get a copy of every missing persons report that comes through.” She intended to keep an eye out for any of the other street girls she knew.
8
HARBOR VIEW INTERNATIONAL, HONG KONG
UNLIKE SOME OF THE party hearty Japanese and Korean neurosurgeons Lucas had met over the years, these guys weren’t into slamming down whiskey until the wee hours of the morning, so when dinner wound down the group disbanded. Fine with him. The sooner he could get back to his room and try to reach Andy again, the better.
&n
bsp; Wong dropped him off at the hotel with a handshake and a thank-you for being their guest speaker and doing the demonstration and wished him a safe flight home.
His room was typical for that level of hotel, a long and narrow space divided into closet, bathroom, and bedroom. Two single beds separated by a console built into a common headboard and a desk with a wall mirror that doubled as a dressing table. Two tall windowpanes angled outward to form a bay window, providing an almost 180-degree view of the harbor.
But Lucas wasn’t interested in the view. Instead, he sat in the chair by the window and dialed Andy’s cell phone. It rang ten times before flipping to voice mail. Same with the condo and office numbers.
Maybe he just didn’t hear it ring.
Lucas stripped off his coat and tie, dumped his wallet and room key on the console, splashed cold water on his face, and came out of the bathroom toweling off. He looked at the clock again. Only four minutes had passed. Back in Seattle, Andy would be leaving his downtown condo for the short walk to the brokerage where he worked. It was possible he didn’t hear his cell ring because of the traffic noise.
He balled up the towel and threw it on the other bed before dropping into the chair by the window. Damn it, Andy. Where the hell are you?
Andy … gregarious, fun loving, always cracking him up with stupid puns. He drank a little too much at times, but hey, who didn’t? It wasn’t as if it got out of hand. No, it wasn’t the drinking that caused Andy problems.
After graduating Stanford, Andy became a trainee at Merrill Lynch. He sailed through apprenticeship and became an account executive. Lucas signed on as his first client, even though Lucas was scrimping to get through medical school and didn’t have a cent to invest. Andy conned him into starting an IRA, pitching the idea of socking away a fixed amount into a mutual fund every month even if it was only a couple dollars. Dollar cost averaging, Andy called it. And guess what? It worked. Over the years Lucas contributed more as his income grew, never losing sight of the original discipline. That account was now a sizable nest egg. When Andy moved to a small firm, Lucas moved his accounts with him.
Money had always been the major difference between them. Andy’s family was well off. Lucas’s parents made enough to get by, but certainly not enough for the Sun Valley ski vacations and trips to Maui Andy enjoyed. To his credit, Andy never developed that entitlement attitude some other rich kids had. Personal wealth came so naturally to Andy that Lucas wondered if it was a genetic trait. It would’ve been easy for Lucas to envy Andy’s wealth but didn’t. Instead, he let Andy teach him as much as possible about managing money.
“You need to give back,” Andy tells him. They sit in Andy’s office reviewing Lucas’s taxes.
“What do you mean?” Lucas asks.
“You’re now making some money now. Don’t save every penny. Take some and give it to organizations you believe in, like the ASPCA. I know you like that one. You’ll help them and, in the process, feel good about it.”
Lucas checked the clock again. Okay, good. By now Andy should be in his office. He dialed the office number. “This is the office of Andy Baer. I’m either out of …”
Aw, shit. “Andy, pick up, goddamn it!”
Maybe he’s sick.
He dialed Andy’s condo, listened to dead air as the connection worked halfway around the globe, heard the phone ring ten times before, “You’ve reached Andy Baer…” Come on, man, where are you? When the greeting finished, Lucas said, “Hey, Andy, pick up. It’s Lucas.”
He waited, heard a beep and the recording click off.
Then sat in the hum of the AC staring out across the harbor at the Space Museum and Star Ferry Pier. His gut was killing him with worry.
He rummaged through the tiny refrigerator and found a scotch, chugged half. He wanted to stand and sit at the same time, just do anything to make this feeling go away. He inhaled a deep breath and glanced around the room. At the blank television, the worn bedspreads, the beige phone, his open suitcase with the change of clothes set out for the morning. The impersonal hotel room left him feeling alone and isolated and slightly afraid.
He downed the other half of the bottle and decided if there was a flight out within the next couple of hours, he’d take it instead of waiting another sixteen or whatever hours. Hurry and he could be at the airport in, say, an hour. He could sleep on the flight. If he could sleep at all.
On the desk was a leather folder with a list of numbers. He found United’s and dialed. It rang until finally went into a recorded message telling him to hold for the next available agent. This time of night it probably meant a long wait.
Finally, a voice came on the line with, “May I help you?”
Lucas learned the only other flight to the West Coast was through LA but with a long layover, so by the time he arrived in Seattle it’d save him only thirty minutes. He decided to stay put.
Shit.
He turned to the window, massaging his temples. How realistic could it be that it was Andy’s head? Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his jet lag and the fact the head was bloodless distorted his judgment.
Where are you Andy? Of all the times to not answer the phone …
He should try to sleep. Yeah, as if that’s possible. He showered, changed into scrubs, then tried to watch TV. He couldn’t concentrate. He grabbed the remaining scotch from the fridge before dialing Andy’s office number again. And got the same voice mail. Shit.
He dialed his home number. “Hi, Laura, it’s me.”
“Lucas?” Laura’s voice carried the temporary rasp of sleep. He pictured her on her stomach, stretched across his side of the king-size bed for the phone.
“Sorry. I thought you’d be up by now.”
“I should be. I turned off the alarm about three this morning when I couldn’t sleep.”
“Look, could you please do me a favor?”
“What?”
“I’m worried about Andy. I tried his condo, office, and cell but there’s no answer. Could you track him down, please? I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” Which, for her, would be afternoon.
“You know how I feel about him.”
Despise was the best word to describe her feelings.
“This is important. Can you just put that aside for a moment and do this one simple favor for me?”
“Why’s this so important?”
He explained. When he finished, she said, “Out of the billions of people in this world, you see Andy’s head in Hong Kong? That’s ridiculous.”
That was exactly what he wanted to believe, but couldn’t.
Laura’s distain for Andy had become another reason for the estrangement in their marriage. Ironically, if it hadn’t been for Andy, they never would’ve married.
A group of first year medical students meet every Friday after classes at The Blue Moon, a university district tavern. Maybe not exactly the same guys each week, but enough regulars to make it like family. Beer and pizza, argue politics, bitch about professors, that sort of thing. Tonight he, Andy, and four other guys sit in a booth. Lucas watches four co-eds slide into the next booth. Especially one. Oh yes! He can’t stop staring at her. And twice she catches him, the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
After maybe ten minutes of this Andy says, “Hey, McRae, what the hell you looking at?” and turns to look in that direction.
“No. Don’t look!” Lucas whispers only loud enough for Andy to hear.
So, all the guys are looking at him now. And of course Andy smiles and slowly turns to check out the girl, making a big deal of it. Lucas is dying, his face on fire.
After a moment Andy says to Lucas, “Go on, ask her out.”
Yeah, sure. Maybe Andy can do something like that. But walking up to a girl he’s never seen before and asking her name? Christ! Especially now with everyone aware of what’s going on. He slouches further in the booth. Either the girls at the other table haven’t noticed or have more refined social skills than these turkeys because they continue
to ignore his booth. But he thinks he hears one or two giggle.
Half an hour later the girls stand to collect coats and purses.
Theo says to the group, “Hey McRae, she’s getting ready to go. Last chance to meet the love of your life.”
Think I didn’t notice? Disappointment hits. He’ll probably never see her again. His only chance to meet her is slip-sliding away. But he’s frozen in place.
So, of course, Andy has to turn and look again. Shit!
She starts for the door.
Andy says, “Excuse me,” pushing Angelovic out of the booth so he can slide.
Aw, Jesus …
Two excruciating minutes later Andy’s back, slaps a piece of paper on the table in front of Lucas. “Name’s Laura. Call her.”
Lucas gripped the phone harder. “I don’t want to get into another argument about Andy. Could you please just do it for me?”
“You’re the one who’s arguing,” she said.
He massaged his forehead and tried to think of a way to cajole her into calling him but couldn’t. She wasn’t going to call. Period.
The reason Laura despised Andy? Because he was a womanizer. That, and the fact that she and Trish, Andy’s ex-wife, were good friends.
Regardless, he and Andy had been friends since grade school, and right now he was worried about him. “Please just do it for me?”
“Oh, all right.”
From her tone he knew she wouldn’t do it. And if he asked her tomorrow, she’d claim he never answered his phone or give some other excuse. But what could he say?
“Thanks. I’ll check with you in the morning.”
“Good-bye.” She hung up without waiting for his good-bye.
Lucas returned to the window to stare out at the harbor.
“You did what?” Lucas asks, shocked.
Andy is obviously embarrassed. “I gave Trish a case of clap.”
“Aw, Jesus, Andy …”
“I know, I know … it’s just … it wasn’t a hooker, this time.”
“That makes it okay?”
The infection caused enough fallopian tube scarring to make Trish infertile. This, in turn, sparked bitter emotions between the couple. Laura instantly sided with Trish and condemned Lucas for not cutting off his friendship with his life-long buddy. Both Trish and Laura developed an openly hostile attitude that seemed to generalize to all men. Lucas tried to reason with her, but it only mired him deeper into quicksand.