Dead Ringer

by Allen Wyler

  GERHARD WAS WAITING FOR a clot of pedestrians to clear the crosswalk before he could turn right when he noticed McRae’s A6 exit the parking lot onto Fourth Avenue. Fucking streets didn’t allow curb parking, so he’d been forced to circle the block and hope to hell he didn’t miss him. Luckily, he didn’t. Able to turn now, he accelerated around a Metro bus and made it through the next intersection as the light turned yellow.

  LUCAS UNFOLDED THE POST-IT and re-read the name Margo Hadler. He didn’t recognize it. Then again, Andy didn’t mention every woman he dated. For that matter, she could be an active client. Shit, he’d forgotten to ask Mary about that.

  He dialed.

  “Mr. Baer’s office.”

  “Mary, Lucas McRae again. This Hadler woman, is she one of Andy’s accounts?”

  Mary hesitated before saying, “No.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just that they exchanged a lot of calls.” He tone carried a hint of embarrassment, as if there were something more to say.

  He considered asking point-blank if she was hiding something but decided against it. “Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you.”

  Well, that settled it. And would make it easier. He sat back in the seat to rehearse his lines one final time, but decided he’d mostly have to improvise, and dialed. A woman answered after five rings.

  “Ms. Hadler?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Lucas McRae. I’m a longtime friend of Andy Baer.”

  She said nothing.

  “I haven’t been able to reach him and was wondering if you’ve been in contact with him recently.”

  “Who gave you this number?”

  It was a simple question. One he should’ve predicted but hadn’t. He didn’t want to get Mary in trouble for passing him her name. Especially if this violated a privacy policy, which he suspected it did. Sticking to some truth was the safest strategy. “I found your number on a piece of paper in his office.” Well, sort of.

  “And why were you going through his office?”

  “He hasn’t been there for ten days. No one knows where he is. I was hoping maybe you might know something to help us,” he said, making it sound as if he were officially investigating a disappearance.

  She hesitated. “I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  More hesitation. “Well, we only actually met in person twice. We usually just talk on the phone.”

  Aw, shit. It snapped into focus. “Through SAA?” he asked, without really thinking.

  Another pause told him he was correct. He knew he just hit a nerve. SAA, the sexual addict’s equivalent of Alcoholics Anonymous.

  “Yes,” Hadler admitted in a voice steeped in guilt.

  Lucas felt like shit for even calling but figured the damage was already done, so why not see if there was anything she could add?

  “I’m worried about him and simply trying to find out what’s happened to him. Is there anything I haven’t asked that you think might be important?”

  This time she didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  He got the message. “Thanks. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Lucas sat in the car wondering was there anything else to do before filing a missing persons report with the police. That step seemed so … final. What if Andy came back tomorrow from Vegas? How would it look to have gone to the police? Especially with Andy’s record of being arrested by the Vice detail.

  And what about Hong Kong? If Lucas did go to the police with his suspicion, wouldn’t it be a good idea to know something more about the supplier? What was the name? DHL? No, that was the overnight freight company … DFH.

  He pulled up Google on his Droid and entered the name.

  And was shocked to discover the company was in Seattle.

  He merged back into traffic, heading for the foot of Queen Anne Hill and DFH Inc.

  FUCK. GERHARD PICKED UP his cell, thumbed speed dial.

  Ditto answered with a simple, “Yeah?”

  “I lost him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He pulled over and stopped in a bus zone. No way could I stop without being spotted, so I had drive around a couple blocks on account of all the one way streets. By the time I got back, he was gone.”

  “He heading to the hospital?”

  “Didn’t look like it. So, what you want me to do?”

  “Let me think on it. Don’t like it, him not going to work.”

  24

  DFH INC.

  “HELLO, DR. FLEMING,” DITTO said into the phone. He swiveled the black leather executive chair toward the window and leaned back. “Bob Ditto. Just following up on that last shipment. Everything to your satisfaction?”

  DFH Inc. had supplied Steve Fleming, a neurosurgeon in charge of several microdissection courses, an order for five preserved heads a month ago. It was a point of pride with Ditto to personally make these routine follow-up calls in the belief that customer satisfaction was an important key to business growth.

  “Yup, everything was perfect.”

  “You’d let me know if anything isn’t up to your standards, wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely. I mean it when I say it was top-rate material.”

  Ditto felt pleased and relieved. “Okay, then, I won’t bother you anymore. Just making sure.”

  “Uh, it’s good timing you should call.”

  Ditto didn’t like the sound of that, like it was a prelude to bad news. He sat upright, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk. “Yeah?”

  “I know this is unreasonably short notice, but another supplier backed out of a commitment for the congress next month. Five heads. All fresh. I just hung up the phone with the course organizer. Boy, oh boy, is he steamed. Guy’s frantic too. Already the class is fully enrolled, so he can’t very well cancel it. I told him I’d look into it. You think you can handle that? I mean, fresh and all?”

  Ditto started pacing, running his hand over his head. The Congress of Neurological Surgeons. Jesus, a supplier’s wet dream. Problem, of course, was inventory. “They have to be fresh? I mean, is that negotiable?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but fixed would be better than nothing at this point.”

  “No problem. Consider the order covered.”

  “Jeez, that’s terrific. I owe you one.”

  Fucking straight you do. “No, you don’t owe me; I owe you. You’re bringing me business.”

  “You’re not upset with me, going to someone else first, are you? This is a huge order. I wasn’t sure a company your size could fill it. Understand?”

  “No problem.” You two-faced asshole. “Glad I can be of service.”

  “Thanks so much. All I can say is you’re a lifesaver.”

  Bobby hit the off button and sat staring at the phone in his hand. Their first order from the Congress of Neurological Surgeons. That was huge. He’d been working on nailing that account for years. Any other time, he’d be turning cartwheels down the hall. But Christ, five heads, fresh if possible … What a goat fuck! The timing stunk.

  Why couldn’t the damn prima donnas be satisfied with preserved heads? So what if the tissue elasticity wasn’t exactly perfect? What difference did it make? Wasn’t it the anatomy that counted?

  Well, shit, he couldn’t lose this job. If he did it right, he could sew up this account for all their future needs. But unless five people kicked the bucket at precisely the right time—which was about as likely as Hezbollah befriending Israel—he was going to have to procure them. Or rather, Gerhard would. That usually would not be a problem, but the detective’s interest in the Suburban was making him very nervous. This wasn’t the most opportune time, but he saw no alternative. The risks of procurement were always high. The last thing he wanted to do was push them even higher.

  He settled back into the chair to think. They’d have to be careful. And, of course, avoid the hookers. The detective seemed too involved with the
m.

  “Mr. Ditto.”

  Startled, he swiveled the chair around. Stella, the receptionist, stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her matronly chest.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a man out front. Dr. McRae. He insists on talking to you. I told him you were in a meeting, but he made a scene.”

  A bolt of rage zapped him. McRae was the cause of this present fucked-up situation. No, on second thought, that wasn’t entirely correct. McRae may have known the guy whose head was used, but he couldn’t prove a damn thing. The real threat came from that cop, Edwards or Elliott or whatever the hell her name was. And that would blow over sooner or later if he just hunkered down in the foxhole and hung tight.

  Smiling at Stella, he calmly replaced the phone in its charger and stood. “Did he say what it’s about?”

  “Something about a missing friend.”

  “Well, then, we can’t have someone worrying about a missing friend, can we? Send him back.”

  Funny, Ditto thought, his tendency to form a mental image of people after either listening to their telephone voice or hearing a story about them. Weirder still was how wrong those images usually turned out to be. McRae, for example. A good example, in fact. His only image was from Gerhardt’s comments. Instead of being large, the man coming through the door was maybe five ten, one hundred and sixty-five pounds. Giving the impression of someone wiry and quick. Short brown hair, with bright hazel eyes that appeared intense. Well, shit, intense is what he’d want if looking for a neurosurgeon. But it was not what he wanted from someone searching for a missing friend.

  “Dr. McRae.” Ditto offered his hand in an attempt to appear friendly and relaxed, a person with nothing to hide.

  McRae shook it.

  “Robert Ditto. Have a seat,” he said, pointing to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “What may I do for you?”

  McRae eased down into the chair. Ditto did likewise behind his desk.

  McRae said, “I was in Hong Kong last week at a surgical demonstration. One of the specimens, a head, looked exactly like someone I know. Now he’s missing. I’m trying to determine if that was him or not. You know, to sort of settle things if it was him.”

  Ditto nodded compassionately, slipping into his well-honed funeral director mode. “Yes, I’m aware of your concern. Mr. Gerhard called me about it at the time. He also was quite concerned. While he was on the phone, I personally checked our records. Your friend, his name is Baer, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes. Andy Baer.”

  “The donor of that particular body was not your friend Mr. Baer. If Mr. Gerhard didn’t pass that information on to you, I apologize. What’s more, I’ll make a point to have a word with him. That’s unacceptable.”

  McRae shook his head. “Andy and I’ve been tight since grade school. There is no mistake about this. It was Andy’s head in Hong Kong.”

  Ditto tried for a look of deep sympathetic concern. “How can you be so certain?”

  “Can you just prove to me it wasn’t?”

  Ditto thought about it a moment. McRae was upset and convinced it was Baer. What could persuade him otherwise? “Doctor, come here. Let me show you,” he said, motioning to the computer screen on his desk.

  As McRae came around to stand beside him, Ditto moved the mouse to kill the screen saver. With McRae looking on, he called up their tracking database and entered Baer in the last name field.

  No such name appeared on the screen.

  “See?” said Ditto with a nod.

  “Then whose head was in Hong Kong?”

  “I’m very sorry, but I’m not allowed to divulge that information.”

  “Why not?”

  Ditto feigned surprise. “You of all people should ask? There are myriad reasons,” he said, slipping in a word he hoped would impress the fucker, “but it all boils down to one simple principle: confidentiality.” What he wanted to do was stand up and deck the little prick.

  “Confidentiality?” McRae asked incredulously. “The man’s dead. His face was clearly recognizable. Other than releasing his name, you’re not divulging anything not already known.”

  Ditto raised both hands in surrender and dropped back into the soothing tone learned from his father. “Please calm down. I’m sure you’re required to uphold similar confidentiality standards in your practice. They’re called HIPAA rules, aren’t they?”

  “That’s correct. But those rules have limitations. They don’t obstruct practice to the point of operating on the wrong patient. If your records indicate that head was someone else’s, then your records are wrong.”

  “Let me assure you, we know the correct identity of our donors. Mr. Baer was not the man whose head you saw in Hong Kong. Are we clear on this?”

  “Hey, humor me. Check it again. Okay?”

  Ditto thought the best thing to do was just end the interview and get the prick out of his office before things turned ugly. “No. I checked our records last week when Mr. Gerhard called, and I just rechecked them now. The man you saw is not your friend, and that is final. I can see you’re upset and I’m sorry. But this is all I can do for you. Please understand.”

  McRae stood perfectly still except for clenching and unclenching both fists. After what seemed an excruciatingly long time, he pointed at Ditto. “You’re lying. I know you’re lying. This isn’t finished.” He turned and stormed.

  25

  DITTO REMAINED BEHIND HIS desk watching McRae leave the office. Go after him in an attempt to soothe his frustration? No, the way he looked, he was locked into a mind-set not easily changed by a few kind words. Especially when he believed he was right. Besides, Ditto was having enough trouble controlling his own rage.

  Instinct warned that what he needed to do right now was remain calm, assess the situation, and prepare for contingencies. In that order. He knew what he had to do.

  He opened the small built-in wet bar refrigerator and removed a chilled bottle of Starbucks Frappuccino. Mocha flavor, his favorite. Shaking it, he returned to the desk and settled in to think. A moment later, he walked out of the office looking for Gerhard.

  And found him pushing a broom in the cremation room.

  Of the many things he liked about Gerhard’s work was his obsession with keeping the place neat. Which was fine with Ditto. About the time Ditto started using street people for parts, he’d decided not to trust a janitorial service to clean the offices. Too much risk. Instead, he and Gerhard did all the cleaning. And that turned out to be good for the morale of his few employees, like Stella, the receptionist. Wasn’t every job you saw your boss waving a Swiffer over a desk or replacing toilet paper in the latrines.

  Ditto glanced around to make sure he and Gerhard were the only ones in the room, then closed the door. “We have a couple problems.” He explained about McRae’s visit.

  Gerhard listened intently, nodding occasionally but not interrupting. After Ditto finished, he said, “I warned you that bastard would be trouble. Didn’t I tell you.” It wasn’t a question.

  Ditto started to say something, thought better of it. Gerhard had an annoying habit of always reminding him when something turned out the way he’d predicted. “Yeah, yeah, you were right. Time to move on. Thing is, I want to make sure we’re overreacting. Don’t do something foolish. What do we know for sure?”

  “He knows his friend’s missing.”

  “So?”

  “So he goes to the cops, says we know what happened to him.”

  Ditto nodded. “So what? We deny it was him. Hell, we have the papers to show he’s wrong.”

  Gerhard nodded slowly, apparently mulling something over. “Got a point, I guess, but the thing is, he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t take no for an answer.” He continued to think some more. “Okay, how about this … he figures out a way to prove he’s right?”

  “See, this is where I don’t think we agree. I don’t see it.” Except Ditto knew that, in spite of his lack of formal schooling, Gerhard had an
uncanny ability to sense a threat when other people were oblivious to it. That’s what kept him out of trouble with his job. Well, except for the Suburban. What a royal fuck up that had been.

  Gerhard thought some more. “What if he has connections we don’t know about, with the FBI or something?”

  Huh. Now there was something he hadn’t considered. He knew about the Seattle Police, but the Feds? But what were the odds? Fuck the odds. This whole clusterfuck had gone against the odds.

  Ditto said, “Good point. So, what do we do about it?” His way of shifting the actual task to Gerhard.

  Gerhard nodded at the cremation oven. “Sounds like a good job for Old Smokey.”

  Ditto shook his head. “No, we can’t just have him disappear. That’s too close to his buddy, especially if he’s gone to the cops. Let me think about it.”

  Gerhard resumed examining his fingers. “Seems to me this is the sort of thing when you need to tap your source and find out what they know. That’s what good intel’s all about. Having the advantage.”

  Yeah, but Ditto suspected that if push came to shove, his connection, the cop, would cut him loose to protect himself, claim he knew nothing, and leave Ditto dangling in the goddamn wind. Allegiances went only so far, no matter how much money you ponied up. And it frustrated him to no end that the only hold he had on the guy was money.

  Ditto nodded. “I’ll call him, but it’s possible he might not know everything she’s working up.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Word is, she’s suspicious that more than one hooker disappeared. She’s worried another Gary Ridgway is working the area.”

  Several times over beers he and Gerhard had discussed Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer. Ditto believed Ridgway killed whores for some crazy weird sexual gratification thing and then discarded the bodies. Discarded them. That was what really rankled Ditto. Man, talk about a societal parasite. Too bad he and Gerhard never knew Ridgway’s identity before the cops nailed his ass. They would’ve made him pay for such waste. They would’ve taken him off the street and put him to some good use. In Ditto’s opinion, this was Gary Ridgway’s scorecard: