Dead Ringer

by Allen Wyler

  “Well, if you think this Gerhard or DFH had anything to do with Andy, all the more reason to talk to the cops.”

  “No. I’m not saying they killed him. But, obviously, they ended up with his body. So they’d have to know something. At the very least, where it came from. The only information Gerhard gave was denial. And that makes me all the more suspicious he’s hiding something.”

  “You really need to talk to the cops.”

  “I plan to. If Andy isn’t at work tomorrow.”

  Their burgers arrived. Josh lifted the top bun and dressed the melted cheese with mustard and catsup.

  No longer hungry, Lucas nudged aside his plate, the greasy smell making his stomach churn.

  Josh started fiddling with the place mat again. “Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Something I’ve never understood. Mom hates Andy. Trish hates Andy. In fact, I can’t think of one of your friends who admire the way he screws around with women. But you and Andy have been best buds for years. What’s that all about? I mean, what is it between you two?”

  Lucas sucked another deep breath and sat back. Neither he nor Andy had ever told a soul about the incident that had silently bound them for years. “Let me tell you a story.”

  18

  TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  LUCAS SITS NEXT TO Andy on the timbers at the end of the dock, bare feet dangling an inch above the smooth water of Lake Washington. The back of his thighs feel the scratchy surface of the rough-hewn boards grayed by weather and spotted with seagull shit, the type he knows will inflict serious splinters if he’s not careful. The distinctive smell of warm shallow lake water permeates the summer air. Lucas isn’t sure what causes the odor, maybe algae or the green slime coating the submerged creosote-impregnated pilings or something entirely different.

  Shorts, T-shirts, flip-flops, and no homework. Each of them clutching an emerald-green bottle of Heineken stolen from Andy’s dad’s stash.

  It’s approaching dusk. They’re at Andy’s parents’ unpretentious home at the north end of the lake, but still within the city limits. The kind of house that costs a small fortune in property tax each year because it’s on fifty feet of waterfront. The lots were all built two generations ago, the houses crammed so close together you can hear the neighbor’s TV when the windows are open.

  Andy elbows Lucas and nods at the ski boat tied to the neighbor’s dock. Yellow and sleek, big honking Mercury outboard weighting the stern. Just bobbing next to them, begging to be run full throttle on the open lake.

  “Sweet, huh?” Andy says.

  “Sweet,” Lucas agrees. He imagines the feel of the hull skimming the water, wind whipping his hair, miles of lake passing in a flash. They’ve been skiing in that boat before.

  Andy studies the neighbor’s house. “Think the Coles are home?”

  Lucas glances over his shoulder to look. The downstairs patio sliders are shut, and the sliders to the upper deck are also closed. No lights on, either. “Doesn’t look like it. Why?”

  “Thought maybe we could borrow the yellow monster for a few minutes.”

  Lucas doesn’t like the sound of that. “You mean ask permission?”

  “No.”

  Lucas licks his lips and stares at the house again. He’s torn. What a perfect evening to be out on the water. But taking the boat without permission … he’s not so sure about that. “Oh, man, I don’t know. I mean, that’s his baby.”

  “We’ll be careful. And it’d be for only one quick spin. We’ll bring it right back. They won’t even know we used it.”

  Lucas can feel the thrill of not only being out on the lake on such a beautiful evening but the thrill of doing something entirely radical. Something they’d never do in a hundred million years. Excitement boils up inside. Part of him has to do it, yet another part doesn’t dare. It goes against every stitch of his fabric. But isn’t that some of the allure? Besides, summer was ending, meaning they’d soon be back in school, not that that made it okay, but he was feeling so restless …

  Andy says, “C’mon. Don’t be a pussy.”

  The pussy threat. Lucas has never really bought into that one. But he stands, still not sure if Andy is really honest to God serious. Aw, man, Andy is heading down the dock now. He is serious. Lucas brushes the dirt off his shorts and hurries to catch up.

  Andy and Lucas both know that during summer Dr. Cole keeps the boat key clipped to a Day-Glo pink float in a footlocker by the lower sliders. Along with three or four orange life jackets. How many times have they seen him reach in there for the key?

  Next thing he knows, they’re flying along the shoreline, Lucas driving, the overpowered Merc screaming. Andy taps Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas looks over at him, sees his mouth moving but can’t hear a word over the noise. He leans closer. “What?”

  Andy cups his hands, yells, “Slow down!”

  Lucas imagines driving Miss Budweiser in the annual Sea-fair races, chewing up the course in first place.

  “Lucas!” Andy points past the bow.

  Lucas looks. Directly ahead, coming up fast, is a huge concrete pylon for the floating bridge. Lucas jerks the throttle back and spins the wheel, but the boat can’t turn fast enough and the port side slams into the piling.

  The impact throws both boys to the floor. For one dazed moment they stare at each other before Lucas realizes the boat is severely damaged, maybe even sinking. Luckily, they’d been smart enough to toss in two life preservers but foolish enough to not be wearing them. They’re on the floor.

  “Here.” Lucas tries to hand one to Andy but realizes his arm isn’t working right. Then the pain hits, and he notices the weird angle between his elbow and wrist. “Oh, shit! My arm’s broken.”

  Andy is clipping on a life preserver and glancing around. “Jesus, man, we have to get out of here. The boat’s sinking.”

  “I can’t go in the water. I can’t swim with it like this.” He hears his own voice tight with panic. Lucas frantically glances around. Shit! Fuck! The boat is definitely taking on water now. So much so, bailing isn’t even worth the effort.

  “Shit, shit, shit. Look!” Kneeling in the cockpit, Andy points off to his right.

  Lucas looks. A Seattle Police boat is bearing down on them, blue light atop the cabin flashing.

  Andy screams, “Lucas, hold on, this is going to hurt.”

  Andy scrambles over to him with the other life preserver, slips Luca’s good arm through, then grabs Lucas’s broken one and a second later the preserver is on him.

  Lucas wants to vomit from the pain. Not only are they in deep shit for stealing a boat and undoubtedly totaling it, but two months earlier, after passing their MCATs, he and Andy applied to the UW medical school. Dr. Cole, the owner of the now sinking boat, is not just an assistant dean there; he heads the admissions committee. They are totally screwed, blued, and tattooed.

  “Lucas, c’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  Lucas looks around although he knows the area well. To the north, across the ship canal is the UW campus and looming Husky stadium. To the south, on their left, condos and apartments line the shore. With the police arriving from the east, his only escape is to head for the condos. Being a strong swimmer, he could usually make the bank easily. But with his arm broken. “But—”

  Andy gives him a reassuring smile and a shove toward the shore. “Go. Get out of the damn boat.”

  Then they’re in the cold lake water, Andy pulling Lucas as he tries to swim with one arm. Andy says, “Just breathe and let me pull you. Let the life preserver keep you up.” Andy pulls him to safety.

  PRESENT DAY APPLEBEE’S, WALLA WALLA, WASHINGTON

  JOSH WAS LEANING FORWARD, slack-jawed, a half-eaten burger in both hands. That was unusual for him. Usually he scarfed down burgers almost as fast as his father.

  Finally, Josh laughed. “I can’t believe it. You and Andy actually did that?”

  “Believe it. We did.”

 
; “So, like, what happened?”

  Lucas’s face burned with embarrassment. The story was bad enough, but to be telling it to his son … well, shit.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? We got caught. I’m still not sure how I ever got accepted to med school after that.”

  “But what about Andy? I never knew he applied to med school. This is news to me.”

  “Med school was what his parents wanted Andy to do. Not him. Never was into it. He applied simply to make them happy. He figured if he ended up having to go, he’d never do a residency. Instead, he’d go on to get an MBS and become an administrator, maybe a medical director for a hospital or a biotech company. Business was really his calling.”

  Josh sat silently for a moment. “Wow, so Andy saved your life?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “You ever tell this story to Mom?”

  “Yeah, once, but it didn’t make any difference. She can’t see the good things in him.

  19

  2200 BLOCK, SECOND AVENUE, SEATTLE

  WENDY PARKED THE UNMARKED Caprice in a passenger loading zone, flipped down the visor with the police sign rubber-banded to its underside, and killed the engine.

  So far, the majority of her day had been spent digging up information on Robert J. Ditto and the Medical Education and Research Company of Seattle. To her disappointment, Ditto had no police record other than two speeding tickets. He was divorced, held an honorable discharge from the army, owned a legitimate business, paid taxes, and was a licensed mortician in Washington State. Personally, he owned no vehicles. DFH Inc., on the other hand, owned three. The black Suburban seen in the alley around the time Lupita disappeared, a black Chrysler, and a BMW. She assumed the first two were for business and the last one for Ditto’s personal use.

  DFH Inc. employed ten, including Ditto, the CEO. He owned 100 percent of the business. She ran every employee’s name through the law enforcement databases and was again disappointed to strike out. She thought about the disappointment and wondered if she’d lost her objectivity on this case. Was she trying to build a case that simply didn’t exist? But, she reminded herself, if there was no case, why had Ditto lied about the Suburban? Besides, what about Boynton’s accusations that he was shipping more material than was reasonably possible? That was the thing really driving her.

  She’d called around to ask sources about the body parts business in general and their opinion of DFH Inc. specifically. Professor Boynton apparently had several things correct. A huge, lucrative market for bodies and body parts did exist, and Ditto seemed to be doing a good business with it.

  By all accounts, Ditto’s company was successful, if not envied, by his competitors. Ditto had developed a reputation as a smart businessman who paid attention to details and nurtured his company. Everyone emphasized Ditto’s canniness in creating a budget cremation company. Apparently, it was a niche no one had previously exploited because the profit margins were too big to consider discounting. As for the body part business, Boynton had that right too: no one understood how Ditto was able to meet demand. But no one echoed Boynton’s suspicions, and she wasn’t about to ask. No telling how fast that might work its way back to Ditto, tipping him off to her “inquiries.”

  Wendy found it difficult to understand how a person might want to be a mortician and spend a career with dead bodies. Sure, everyone needed a job, but embalming, burying, and cremating the deceased? You had to be a little fucked up, right? And if that wasn’t creepy enough, what about shipping arms or legs or other body parts all over the world? You have to have a freaky, kinky mind to be into that shit, no matter how well it paid.

  But the biggest question of all, the one Boynton raised, was how did Ditto get his hands on enough product to keep growing and sustaining the business?

  The obvious answer nauseated her.

  Until learning about Ditto, she’d worried the missing girls might be victims of another I-5 or Green River Killer. The problem with that theory was that none of their bodies ever turned up. Now, with Ditto in the picture, the answer to that was easy; he could be harvesting their body parts, then cremating them.

  She climbed out and locked the car. Ahead, on the corner of Second and Blanchard, was the remodeled Crocodile Café. The original Croc was an icon from Seattle’s contribution to the grunge music scene. After it closed, the property was bought and reopened.

  Wendy used the Second Avenue entrance. Just inside the door, she stopped to look around. About halfway down the room three Hispanic males occupied a table, two on one side, the other with his back to her, all wearing the baggy banger clothes that made it easy to hide weapons. Like it was some kind of regulation uniform.

  She made eye contact with one. He muttered something, and his two homies pushed back their chairs and drifted off to another table nearby.

  He was Luis Ruiz, Lupita’s brother. If not for the ragged scar on his left cheek, the misalignment of a poorly set broken nose, and a couple amateurish gang tats, he might be handsome. Instead, at the age of twenty-three, he was a poster child for the wear and tear of gang life. Since his sister’s disappearance, he looked even worse. Dark circles rimmed both eyes, and his face sagged from fatigue. Not knowing where Lupita was or if something had happened to her was destroying him. Wendy knew he held himself responsible for her disappearance. Then again, they both knew the risks of the sex trade.

  Years ago, Lupita and Luis’s parents died in a warehouse fire at work, leaving the two teenagers without family or money. Having been born in the United States, they were citizens in spite of their parents having been illegal immigrants. This left the kids limited choices: either return to Mexico to track down relatives they’d never even met or find a source of income. Luis had been hanging with a gang, but there wasn’t much money in that unless you were dealing drugs, which he didn’t want to do. Lupita knew a couple older girls who turned tricks. Without other skills, prostitution became the quickest way to earn enough money for the two of them to survive. She hated the work and was saving money to pay for school. Luis didn’t like his sister being a prostitute but had little choice. So in return, he and the other gang members made sure some pimp didn’t try to corral her or that she didn’t get started on heavy drugs. They took care of each other.

  Wendy took the chair opposite him and leaned forward, forearms on the Formica tabletop. “How you doing?”

  He answered, “Find out anything?”

  Her drive over had been one internal debate on how much to disclose. She’d settled on divulging pretty much all, reasoning that with his street connections he might be able to dig up additional information on Ditto. Granted, it was a long shot, until you considered that Luis knew she was tracking other missing prostitutes. It was a small world on the streets, so you never knew what kind of information his network might yield.

  “Maybe. But you need to understand it’s not much,” she said, knowing he wanted any scrap of information she could give. She filled him in on the black Suburban seen in the alley a block from the video store where Lupita solicited. She purposely didn’t mention the business DFH handled and her nagging suspicions about Ditto.

  Luis asked, “Who owns it?”

  “Guy by the name of Bobby Ditto. Word has it he’s sometimes called Bobby Bobby. Any reason you should know him?” Maybe Ditto or one of his employees frequented the girls in the area or the store, meaning there could be an explanation for the vehicle being in the area.

  “Uh-uh. But believe me, I’ll nose around, see what I can learn.”

  “Do that. But don’t discuss details with anyone. Don’t let on why you’re asking.” She paused. “That’s it for me. How about you?”

  “Nada.”

  Wendy reached over and squeezed his hand. “Keep at it. Sooner or later we’ll get a lead.”

  “Lead? We both know she’s dead by now. Shit, I just want the motherfucker who took her. If this Ditto’s involved, he’s a dead man.”

  20

  LUCAS SLID OUT OF his
car, stretched both arms over his head, and arched his back. For several seconds he stayed like this, allowing muscles to unknot after long hours of driving. It was a long trip to Walla Walla and back. But it had been worth it to see Josh. Also, he felt vaguely vindicated, having always sensed that Josh frowned on his unwavering friendship with Andy. At least his son now seemed to understand. And this made him feel better. Too bad Laura didn’t see it.

  When Laura had first expressed her hatred for Andy, Lucas explained how Andy saved his life in hopes of justifying their deep-seated friendship. But, unlike Josh, Laura chalked up the incident as only one bright moment of an otherwise degenerate life. Andy’s addiction blinded her from appreciating his good points.

  Lucas and Andy are riding their bikes along a neighborhood street when a loud bang causes all of Lucas’s muscles to jerk. He hears laughter. Kids’ laughter. They stop to see what’s going on. Three older boys—maybe 15 years old—stand on freshly mown lawn, their backs to the street. There is a stake driven in the ground with a large tabby cat tethered to it with a ten-foot black nylon cord. The cat yowls and claws at the air. The boys are just out of the cat’s reach. One boy, wearing heavy gloves, grabs the cat, presses it hard against the ground while a second boy binds a large firecracker to the tip of its tail with electrical tape.

  “Hey, stop that!” yells Andy.

  The three boys stop, turn to Andy and Lucas, surprise on their faces. It only takes a second before the biggest one, the one with the heavy gloves, scowls, says, “Says who?”

  The air suddenly goes eerily still. Lucas glances at Andy, wondering if he’s nuts, if he realizes those older guys are bigger and stronger and can beat the shit out of them. All three of the other boys are looking at Andy, daring him to mouth off at them.

  “That’s cruel,” Andy says, with a nod toward the cat.

  The leader says, “So what? What are you going to do about it, dickwad?”