Dead Ringer

by Allen Wyler

  Targeting hookers: plus one point.

  His reason for targeting hookers: minus one point.

  Discarding the bodies: minus ten points.

  Bottom line: guy was a fucking loser.

  “So?” Gerhard asked.

  “The thing working against her is nobody’s found a body yet.”

  Gerhard grinned. “And they never will.”

  Fucking Gerhard, always completing thoughts. “That’s not the point. If McRae suddenly disappears, well …” Let Gerhard finish that one too.

  Gerhard sucked a tooth a moment. “I’ll think on it too. Between the two of us, there’s got to be a way to eliminate McRae.”

  Excellent. Ditto relaxed a bit. Gerhard was good. Until the bad luck with the Suburban, he’d never made a mistake. He’d come up with a good way to take care of the problem without pointing a finger at DFH Inc.

  “There’s one more thing.” Ditto told him about the order for five fresh heads.

  Gerhard curled his fingers, inspecting his perfectly manicured nails again. “Shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll start working on it tonight.”

  Ditto figured on building up an inventory of fresh heads by flash freezing each one immediately. Like any other tissue, it wouldn’t keep indefinitely but would last long enough to be in excellent condition when thawed before the meeting in thirty days. Flash freezing was a trick he’d learned from Alaskan fishermen.

  “Know I don’t need to say this, but until this blows over, we need to be extremely careful. No working girls. Understand?”

  Gerhard had a special vengeance for hookers ever since ending up with a very bad case of an STD at sixteen. Ditto didn’t quite recall the details other than the infection required extensive treatment. Dumb shit didn’t use a rubber, and the stupid hooker didn’t have sense enough to demand one. She was probably too strung out to care. That’s what you get when you go around dipping your wick in a cesspool.

  “No problem.”

  Already Ditto felt better. He had faith Gerhard would get the heads and take care of McRae. Everything might just work out.

  26

  WEST PRECINCT, SEATTLE POLICE DEPARTMENT

  LUCAS APPROACHED THE NORTHEAST corner of Eighth and Virginia and stopped, realizing he hadn’t organized his story well enough. He thought through it once more, refining a few parts for clarity. Satisfied, he started up the shallow concrete steps to the West Precinct, a low steel and concrete building of a utilitarian design that made it difficult to estimate how many floors were aboveground. Maybe three. It was a model of urban defensive construction at its best, probably able to withstand pretty much anything short of a direct nuclear blast. And maybe even that. He opened one of the heavy glass doors into a sparsely furnished granite lobby, crossed about ten feet of polished floor to a stainless steel counter and greenish-tinged bulletproof glass. There was no one else in the lobby.

  The glass partition slid open, and a uniformed cop behind the counter asked, “May I help you?”

  “How do I go about filing a missing persons …” Complaint? Report? What?

  “Adult or child?”

  “Uh, adult.”

  “Just a moment.” The cop shut the window before walking away.

  A moment later the cop returned and opened the window, handing Lucas a sheet of paper with printing on both sides. “Fill this out. Give it back to me when you’re done.” Then he said almost as an afterthought, “Anything suspicious about the disappearance?”

  Yeah, just about everything, including his head showing up in Hong Kong. “That’s the thing. I’m not sure.”

  The cop seemed more interested. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Realizing how bizarre the story might sound, he stuck to his plan of starting with an explanation of possibly seeing Andy’s head at a medical meeting, how it was supplied by DFH Inc., how Andy was now missing, and how Bobby Ditto refused to reveal the true identity of the person who the head belonged to.

  When he finished, the cop gave him a dead-eyed look. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  WENDY WAS REMOVING HER purse from the bottom desk drawer, getting ready to leave the office, when an officer appeared at her cubicle saying, “Sergeant, you still interested in seeing all missing persons reports, or just females?”

  “Why? Got something?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not female.”

  She set the black leather bag on her desk. “I’m listening.”

  As the officer told the story, she realized he was officially punting the case. If she blew it off and the missing Joe Public turned out murdered or living in Mexico with a cool twenty-five million of embezzled funds, fingers would point at her instead of him. In the next breath, the officer mentioned DFH Inc., and her interest went off the charts. Or was this some ploy dreamed up by Ditto to force her to do something stupid? This seemed almost too coincidental to be coincidence.

  Standing behind the protective glass a few seconds, Wendy studied the man filling out the report in the lobby. He looked like your average clean-cut, middle-class citizen. At least that would be her professional assessment. Her personal assessment was: Lord have mercy. He’s hot.

  “SIR?”

  LUCAS LOOKED IN THE direction of the voice and saw a woman holding open a door-sized section of wall. Until now he hadn’t recognized it as a door, which was obviously the intent of the architect.

  She motioned him over and held out her hand. “Sergeant Wendy Elliott.”

  She was stunning and sexy but every bit the professional. Lucas caught himself staring. She wore black slacks and a black blouse, blonde hair banded into a ponytail. On second appraisal, she might be a bit too tall. Her face that perhaps was too hard. Still, he was totally taken by her.

  “Lucas McRae.”

  She said, “Follow me, please.”

  As she walked away, his gaze dropped to her ass. Had to admit, nice.

  Elliott proceeded along a hall through another door, stopped at a cubicle, swiped a metal chair from her neighbor for him, and took the swivel chair behind the desk. Legs crossed, she leaned back and folded her arms. “Tell me about your missing friend.”

  No wedding ring, he noticed.

  He walked her through the story point by point. By the time he finished, she was frowning, forcing him to stop in mid-sentence. “Something wrong?” he asked.

  WENDY’S MIND FLOODED WITH various thoughts, all fighting for dominance. But the one bugging her most was: Why do I know the name Andy Baer? It had a ring of familiarity. It was important. “Your friend’s name, it’s Andrew Baer?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just a sec.” She turned to her computer, brought up a database, entered the name. Two hits immediately popped up, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her. She blew a low, slow involuntary whistle, her mind zinging but on an entirely different tangent now.

  “What?” McRae leaned forward, angling for a shot at the screen.

  “And you say the heads you used were supplied by DFH? The same company that’s over by Lake Union?”

  He studied her. “Exactly.”

  Electricity crackled through her limbs. She wanted to jump up and run into Redwing’s office, throw this new information in his face, and demand a search warrant for Ditto’s Suburban. She started to brush a strand of hair from her face but realized it was in a ponytail today.

  “Want a cup of coffee?” she asked, figuring it was a good excuse to take a few minutes to organize her thoughts.

  After stuffing a dollar in the coffee fund can, Wendy carried two Styrofoam cups back to the interrogation room where she’d parked McRae instead of leaving him alone at her desk. The break had allowed her to put her thoughts together.

  Two people had disappeared around the same time. Coincidence? Maybe. But Baer frequented prostitutes and Ruiz was one. And her gut couldn’t ignore the possibility.

  As a Vice decoy she’d busted Baer, an admitted sex addict, twice. Odds were, unless he received serious professional hel
p, the arrest wouldn’t stop him from going right back to picking up the ladies. Taken alone, that link between Andy and Lupita was pretty weak. Until you factored in the DFH angle. And the logic for that went like this: Baer’s head turned up in Hong Kong via DFH. In addition, a black Suburban registered to DFH was identified in the immediate area where Ruiz was last seen. You’d have to be an idiot not to see the connection.

  The problem, of course, was not having a single piece of tangible evidence. And it was a stretch. As it stood, even a first-year public defender would blow holes in her argument. Then again, Wendy might be able to sell it as sufficient probable cause for a look at Ditto’s vehicle. That would be worth something. That would be a start.

  She offered McRae a cup and asked, “Mind if I record this?”

  Recorder turned on, she walked him back through his story, stopping to clarify a point or probe a little deeper. He appeared to be an excellent witness. Had a solid story, didn’t waver, didn’t allow inconsistencies, came across as persuasive, and most of all, had no reason to fabricate the story. It really didn’t get any better than this.

  By the time she’d exhausted her questions, she was even more convinced this had something to do with Lupita’s disappearance. How to prove it? Redwing would say everything was circumstantial.

  Wendy said, “I’ll look into this further.”

  “There anything I can do to help?”

  Now there was an appealing offer. She smiled. “Now that you mention it, where does Mr. Baer live?”

  He pushed out of his chair. “Why don’t I take you there?”

  27

  ANDY LIVED IN A high-end twenty-seven-floor steel and glass building in the center of downtown. A prime location, providing easy access to Pike Place Market, movie theaters, assorted retailers.

  Lucas opened the street door for Elliott and stole another head-to-toe glance. He followed her into the small but elegantly appointed lobby. Marble floors, designer furniture, tastefully displayed Asian art, muted thick carpet, windows that masked most street noise. It was a cocoon of serenity and good taste that immediately told anyone who didn’t belong here to have the good grace to turn around and leave.

  A doorman in a navy blazer and gray slacks watched them enter from behind an L-shaped mahogany desk. Lucas recognized him as Larry.

  Wendy flashed her police ID. “Sergeant Elliott, Seattle Police. We’re here to see Mr. Baer.”

  Larry picked up a cordless phone, checked a list under a glass desk protector, and dialed. After listening several seconds he clicked off. “Sorry, but Mr. Baer doesn’t answer.”

  “Does that mean he’s out?”

  Larry’s expression remained neutral. “It means he’s not answering.”

  Wendy pressed on. “That’s the point. He’s been reported missing. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Can’t really say, a week, maybe more. Residents can come and go directly from the parking garage without coming through the lobby.”

  “In that case, we’d like to have a look at his condo.”

  He frowned. “Sorry, ma’am. That’s against policy.”

  Wendy’s tone hardened. “Let me make this clear. This is a police investigation. Please do not try to impede it.”

  “Makes no difference. I can’t let you in.”

  Wendy asked, “What if he’s there dead on the floor?”

  Unfazed, Larry shook his head. “Sorry. Those are the rules.”

  Lucas stepped in. “Larry, you recognize me, don’t you?”

  “Dr. McRae, isn’t it?”

  “Right. You know I’m a close friend of Andy’s, don’t you?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I know your job is to protect the homeowner’s privacy, and I appreciate that. But this is a little out of the ordinary. He’s missing. Understand?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll go up and check his apartment while the two of you wait here.”

  Wendy said, “We’ll go with you.”

  “No. One step from this lobby to the interior of the building, I’ll file a complaint. Are we clear?”

  Lucas resented it but wondered what level of security he’d expect if he lived here. Larry did have a point.

  Larry returned in less than five minutes, said, “He’s not at home.”

  Elliott asked, “Did everything look okay?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Did you actually set foot in the unit and check every room?”

  “Yes.”

  “See any evidence of a disturbance? A fight? Something like that?”

  “Everything seems in order. He isn’t there.”

  Lucas thought of another angle. “What about his car? Is it in the garage?”

  “Don’t know but I’ll check. The garage is a common area, so you can come with me.”

  Larry pointed to the empty stall. “His car’s not there.”

  Another thought popped into Lucas’s mind. “When you checked his apartment, you didn’t happen to look in the closet or bathroom to see if it looked like he went on a trip?”

  “No, I didn’t, but he would’ve notified us if he intended to be gone more than a couple days.”

  “You have an extra mailbox key?” Lucas asked, remembering that when Andy intentionally left for more than a few days, the staff stacked his mail on his foyer table. Checking his mail might give some idea how long he’d been gone.

  “I see where you’re going with this, but no, we don’t. If the resident wants us to, they leave their key with us. Otherwise, we don’t keep a copy. Too much risk in that.”

  “Thanks.” Wendy turned toward the door, gave Lucas’s sleeve a tug.

  Out on the sidewalk Wendy pulled a cell phone from her purse, dialed, and after a few words was apparently put on hold.

  “What’re you doing?” Lucas asked while trying not to stare.

  “Running a check on Baer’s car. Never know. Might’ve turned up somewhere. Maybe an accident.”

  A minute ticked by, the two of them standing on the sidewalk, street traffic and pedestrians flying past in both directions, neither one saying a word. Lucas wondered what her story was, how she became a cop, did she like it, what her favorite food was, if she’d been married. If so, was she divorced or widowed with three kids? A million little things all suddenly important to know.

  And it made him stop and wonder why he wanted to know. Sure, he was attracted to her, but so what? No harm in admiring a woman, was there? Yeah, but there was a difference between admiring and becoming interested in her personal life. A big difference.

  Wendy started talking again, thanked the person, folded the phone, and walked away, apparently lost in thought.

  He caught up with her. “Where we going?”

  “Back to your car. Then you’re going to drive us over to the impound lot.”

  “His car’s there?” Lucas didn’t want to believe it. Or rather, the implication.

  “That’s right. It was impounded a little more than ten days ago. Towed from the parking lot of a porn shop on Aurora.”

  Wendy picked up her pace, her pulse pounding at her temples. Just one more coincidence, one more piece to shore up her suspicions. What she didn’t tell McRae was that Ruiz cruised for johns at the same store, and it was only one block from where Ditto’s Suburban had been noticed. Finally, she had enough for a search warrant. And once she had it, she’d wipe that smug expression off Ditto’s face. Intuition told her the black Suburban was the key to busting this case wide open.

  28

  THE IMPOUND LOT WAS two blocks from the south end of Lake Union. An area under development by Vulcan, one of Paul Allen’s business ventures. It surprised Lucas that the lot still existed, considering how much money the lot would sell for. A high cyclone fence topped with razor wire protected not much more than an oil-stained patch of dirt and gravel and a small clapboard shack of flaking gray paint and cars. He figured the only change the place endured during the past fifty years was more oil on the ground, which wa
s probably the reason Paul Allen hadn’t snapped it up. Too expensive to detoxify the land to EPA standards.

  Andy’s BMW 5 Series baked in the sun, a thick coating of dust over midnight-black paint. The sight saddened Lucas. Andy had always kept the car spotlessly detailed. It served as just another bit of evidence that something had happened to his friend.

  Wendy grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t touch it. No one’s putting a finger on it until it’s been completely gone over.”

  He watched Elliott walk around it, first inspecting the exterior, then looking through the windows. Satisfied, she slipped on latex gloves and tried the driver’s door.

  “Unlocked,” she muttered, opening the door. She leaned in, examined the interior, then did the same with the other three doors. Finally, she popped the trunk.

  Finished, Wendy spoke to the lot attendant, then motioned for Lucas to join her as she started for the front gate.

  Lucas caught up with her. “What now?”

  “How about a lift to the precinct?”

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean? That’s it.”

  “But—” But what? He had no argument for her. He fastened his seat belt but didn’t fire the ignition. “You’re holding something back.”

  Wendy wedged her back between the door and seat to study him. “You’ve known Baer how long?”

  “We grew up together. Why?”

  “Then you know he frequents prostitutes?”

  Lucas gave a sarcastic laugh but immediately realized how that might sound. “I know. It cost him his marriage.”

  “Yeah? Well, just so happens I met him a couple times. I worked the streets as a decoy. You know, get some john to proposition me, settle on a price, call in the troops. I busted him. Twice.”

  “Oh.” He couldn’t see where this was going.

  “What I’m going to tell you is off the record. Okay?”