Dead Ringer

by Allen Wyler

  Wendy turned to Lucas. “Let’s get out of here. We have a few more things to do.”

  TRAVIS WAS WAITING AT the fountain by the time Wendy could ditch Lucas, drive over, park, and hike into the center. She sat next to him, glanced around to make sure no one was within listening range, then turned to face him so she could keep her voice down.

  “The mortician I was telling you about—Ditto?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need a wire on his lines. Both cell and land, private and business. Here,” she handed him the warrant she’d composed two days ago.

  “I assume you’re going through Internal Affairs because you don’t want anyone on your team knowing about it?”

  She smiled. “Once we have it in place, I’ll submit the same paperwork to Redwing.”

  He nodded. “Gotcha. Might let us find the snitch, is what you’re saying.”

  She patted his knee as she stood. “I need it ASAP.”

  50

  HEADLIGHTS OFF, LEO GERHARD crept the black Chrysler along the street toward McRae’s home. No pedestrians or traffic in this quiet residential neighborhood at this time of night. He suspected the occasional car was a lawyer or a doctor heading home after a long day at work. How else could anyone afford fancy places like these? Even if he had the money, he wouldn’t live like this. Expensive homes cost a fucking fortune. They also meant huge responsibilities, like cutting the lawn, painting the siding, washing the windows. An endless list of jobs that sucked all the pleasure right out of life. Those chumps could have it. His present arrangement of living rent free at the mortuary was just fine for him.

  He eased to the curb across from McRae’s house and shifted the transmission into neutral, allowing the engine to idle. Only the upstairs master bedroom window remained lit. McRae’s Volvo was parked at the curb; a large Dumpster overflowing with debris blocked the driveway. The neighboring homes were dark too, making the area feel almost deserted. A westerly wind whipped leaves on the trees and warned of an approaching rainstorm blowing in from the Pacific.

  Gerhard eased off the brake and back onto the accelerator. After a block he curbed the car again but this time killed the engine. He sat in darkness listening for unusual sounds and watching to make sure a late-night dog walker wasn’t heading his way. Satisfied, he stuffed a ski mask in his windbreaker pocket before slipping on latex exam gloves. He patted his left front pocket to make certain the small Bersa pistol was there. A beautiful weapon. Blue nickel, compact size, manufactured in Argentina. He’d found it in the purse of a strung out black hooker a couple months ago. Just one more example of the contamination they’d removed from society.

  He planned to simply put a round through McRae’s mouth and out his head. No note. Just another depressed person electing to end his life without telling the world why. Not leaving a note was more common than people thought. And in McRae’s case, who could question the timing? Here was a man either racked with guilt over killing his wife or consumed with sorrow over her death, depending on whether or not you believed he set the car bomb. Either way, suicide would seem logical.

  Black jeans, black T-shirt, and black windbreaker concealed Gerhard easily in shadows as he moved soundlessly toward McRae’s house. Reaching the Dumpster in the driveway, he found a place to settle in and watch the house yet still be hidden from anyone on the street. Sitting on cement, he nestled his back against cold metal and waited, hoping the rain wouldn’t start before it was time to enter the house. This time he wouldn’t fail.

  WENDY ELLIOTT EASED THE car to the curb three houses down from McRae’s, killed the engine, and sat back in the seat.

  Earlier in the day she’d approached Redwing with a request for a forensics team to examine the motel room. In building her case, she explained the details of how Lupita mined the adult video store for johns to take to the neighboring motel. But she also included several misleading pieces to the puzzle, and in a couple instances, purposely gave him false information.

  Before talking with Redwing, Wendy phoned Travis and told him the entire story. After a verbal pat on the head and a thanks, he told her to keep at it and that they needed more.

  Needed more? Christ, the connection between Redwing and Ditto was now rock solid. What more did Travis need? Say Bobby Ditto offs a hooker and someone reports her missing. With Redwing in charge of the Missing Persons unit, he could make sure that the report on one of Ditto’s victims never surfaced. And if a relative made noise about the case, Redwing could take charge of the investigation himself. There are a hundred ways to make an investigation yield nothing. Besides, a good number of missing persons turn out to be runaways who want to be missing. Where the hell do they go? A few—usually women—end up as skeletons, murder victims. Another sizeable number just vanish. What if some of those ended up at DFH? Who would know? No one. It was a perfect system. Unless they killed the wrong person.

  Why couldn’t Travis see how logical her deductions were?

  She yawned. Stupid to not have picked up some coffee. And yawned again—they always seemed to come in threes with her. She adjusted the seat to give her a bit more leg room and a better incline to make sitting more comfortable. Glanced around at the quiet darkened residential street with nice yards and homes. Not particularly affluent, but well maintained. She yawned the final time and let her heavy lids close. Nothing going on right at the moment, so would it hurt to close her eyes for a few seconds?

  LUCAS COULDN’T RELAX, COULDN’T stop thinking about this mess his life was in, much less sleep. He clicked on the lamp and picked up a novel. By the end of the page, he realized nothing was making sense. He started again at the top of the page but got the same result. He put the book back and started pacing.

  Maybe a drink would relax him. Go downstairs and mix a martini? A scotch? Yeah, that sounded good. Only a small one, just enough to take the edge off his anxiety. Then come back up and check the email again to see if Wong’s shipping information was there, He stood, eyed the gun on the table next to him. Until now, the idea of aiming a loaded weapon at someone with the intent of pulling the trigger wasn’t in him. Things change. Now he believed beyond any doubt that if he came face-to-face with the bastard who killed Laura, he could do it. But there was no need to take the gun for a simple trip downstairs to pour a glass of scotch. Leaving the pistol next to the computer, he walked out the bedroom door.

  THE KITCHEN LIGHTS FLASHED on. Gerhard immediately tensed, afraid of being caught in the light from the window. But then realized McRae would be looking from light to dark, making it impossible to see him. Especially since the Dumpster shielded him from the streetlights. The charred door between the garage and kitchen had been hastily replaced with one large sheet of plywood, so McRae couldn’t come out that way and surprise him.

  More relaxed now, he settled in again to wait.

  SMILING, LUCAS SAT AT the desk reading Wong’s email that came in while he was downstairs. Wong had shipped the DVDs via DHL to his home address with a scheduled delivery time between eleven and noon the next day. Maybe knowing they would be here in less than sixteen hours would help lessen the anxiety eating away at him. He upended the scotch and shut down the laptop, picked up the gun and moved to the easy chair next to the window.

  GERHARD SAW THE UPSTAIRS window go dark and checked his watch. On average, a person took twenty minutes to fall asleep. In this case he’d be conservative and allow McRae at least thirty minutes before entering the house.

  51

  GERHARD SLID THE KEY into the front door lock and rotated it until it caught and clicked. He paused to listen for any response inside. Every second out here on the porch risked notice by a neighbor, in spite of it being so late. On the other hand, he needed to be cautious and avoid making any noise that might wake McRae. He couldn’t afford to leave signs of a struggle.

  He heard no sounds from inside.

  Then he was through the door, leaving it ajar an inch in case he needed to escape in a hurry. He didn’t expect that, but y
ou never knew. Better to be prepared than not.

  At the bottom of the stairs to the second floor, he again listened for any movement but heard only the hum of a fan. He placed his right foot on the first stair and slowly applied weight.

  THE SCOTCH DIDN’T DO much more than round off the edges of Lucas’s anxiety. He considered going downstairs for another, but he didn’t want his senses blunted, just in case. Again he looked at the gun in his hand. Never before had he kept a firearm in the house. He didn’t like it. The sight of it fueled more anxiety in his gut. He feared pistols, having seen too many fatal accidents roll through the ER year after year. He made sure the barrel pointed away from him toward the wall.

  Something creaked.

  Jesus, what was that?

  Sitting up, head cocked, he concentrated on the stillness in the house. Had he imagined it? He started to reach for the lamp but thought better of it. Slowly he stood up, not wanting to cause a sound.

  Heart hammering his chest, he gripped the gun tighter and listened hard.

  Another creak.

  Someone was coming up the stairs. It was a sound so familiar it wasn’t easily mistaken.

  With the gun in his right hand, Lucas reached the door in five strides. He took hold of the doorknob with his left hand, thumbed off the safety, slowly turned the knob.

  WENDY AWOKE, REALIZED SHE’D nodded off. How long? Couldn’t say for sure because she hadn’t noted the time earlier. She glanced around, but things looked exactly like they had before she nodded off.

  Go home and get a good night’s sleep? Hmmm … might be a worthwhile idea.

  Or perhaps go search for a coffee shop that was open and come back with a supply of caffeine.

  AS GERHARD PUT WEIGHT on the second step it creaked.

  Fuck! Sounded like a megaton nuclear blast.

  One hand on the railing, he stared intently up the darkened stairwell, waiting for any sign of movement. From somewhere above came a muffled click, like a door latch opening. He aimed the gun at the top of the stairs where someone might stand, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire in case McRae turned on the light and blinded him. If so, the gun would already be aimed at where he’d be standing.

  LUCAS PEERED THROUGH THE crack between the door and jamb, into the dim outlines in the hall. There wasn’t much detail to be seen in what little streetlight filtered through the windows. It was more like he knew where borders and spaces should be and was scanning for something out of place.

  Everything appeared normal. No shadows moved.

  More confident now, he widened the opening enough to squeeze his body into the hall while keeping his back against the wall. He stopped, listening for any faint sound but heard only the hammering of his heart, his mouth bone dry. He squeezed the pistol grip tighter and moved his finger from the guard to the trigger.

  Creak. This time Lucas was certain the sound was the stairs.

  One more long step and he was positioned to where, if he leaned forward, he could see down the stairs to the front hall. A second later he recognized a shadow that shouldn’t be there. Another second, and he knew a person was crouching on the stairs.

  GERHARD SHIFTED WEIGHT, RAISED his left foot and planted it on the next stair. The closer he was, the less likely to miss was that really someone up there, or was his mind fucking with him? Aiming at the same spot as a moment ago, he moved up one more step, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  SOMETHING WAS REALLY THERE. Not just his imagination. Lucas aimed the gun and started to squeeze the trigger. Or was it?

  The form at the bottom of the stairs spun around and started down.

  Lucas squeezed off a round, the explosion deafening him. The form vanished.

  SUDDENLY WENDY WAS WIDE awake, aware a shot was just fired, and rolled out the door, moving fast, Glock in hand. Up ahead, the McRae house. She saw the door open and a figure run out.

  “Freeze, police!”

  The figure—a man?—turned and raised an arm. She saw a muzzle flash, heard the detonation, dropped flat on the parking strip, rolled to her left, went prone, and raised the Glock, the front sight dot glowing in the darkness. No figure now, no sounds other than her rapid breathing. She squinted at the shadows along the hedge forming the south border of McRae’s property. Nothing but shadows.

  “Wendy?”

  She glanced at McRae’s house, saw a figure in the doorway. Felt a rush of relief. He hadn’t been shot.

  She yelled, “Stay inside.”

  GERHARD FLEW OUT THE door, partially blinded by the muzzle flash. Fucking bastard, opening fire like that. He heard, “Freeze, police!” and squeezed off a shot in the general direction of the sound. The voice came from his left, so he cut right, into a tightly spaced row of cypress trees. Stopped, dropped into a crouch facing toward where the voice had come. No movement, no further shouted orders. Good, the dancing sun in the center of his eyes was quickly dissolving.

  Thankfully, he knew the neighborhood from prior recon. Silently, gun at ready, he took one step backward, then turned and bolted for the alley.

  SENSING MOVEMENT ALONG THE hedge, Wendy pushed up and started moving, yelling to Lucas, “Go inside, call 911.” Reached the side of the house and stopped to peek around the edge in time to see a large form silhouetted in the alley streetlight vault a low fence, running left. She went full out toward the fence, used a recycle bin to propel herself over, and dropped into a crouch, both hands aiming the Glock at the empty and silent asphalt with two puddles reflecting the weak fluorescent light of the street lamps.

  She heard only silence.

  Staying as much in the shadows as possible, she moved from one garbage can to the other, leapfrogging, afraid of walking into an ambush. Up ahead, at the end of an alley, she spotted an open garage, totally black inside. No way she could get past it without setting herself up to be blown away. If she were Gerhard, that’s where she’d make a stand.

  GERHARD CLEARED THE FENCE, hit the alley, flamed the afterburners, running flat out, not bothering to glance back on account of what had slowed him. Besides, anyone firing on the run would have to be fucking lucky to hit him. Best thing was to put as much fucking distance between them as possible. Reached the end, cut right, continued flat out for a block, then cut left, circling back to where he’d parked the car. Lucky to not have parked on McRae’s street.

  Four blocks later he reached the unlocked car, jumped in, and was turning out into the sleepy residential street when he made out the first faint siren in the distance. Slowly, he drove back toward the city.

  BY THE TIME TRAVIS walked out McRae’s front door, it was after 4 a.m.

  Travis hadn’t asked where Lucas got the gun or even if he had a permit. Instead, he just gave Wendy a funny look like he knew.

  WITH THE HOUSE CLEARED of everyone but Wendy, Lucas wanted to try to sleep, if only for a few hours. After double-checking to make sure the front dead bolt was securely engaged—for all the good that did—he told Wendy he was heading back upstairs. She said she’d spend the rest of the night on the couch. She doubted whoever that was would be back but didn’t want to take the risk.

  Lucas told her about Wong’s email and said, “I checked the confirmation number a couple hours ago. Delivery is scheduled sometime between ten and noon. That’s less than eight hours away at the max.”

  She nodded. “Well, that’ll settle one thing. It’s either Andy or not. Either way, it’ll be a relief to finally sort that out.”

  52

  THE VIDEO OF LUCAS’S and the three groups of four surgeon dissections—from all three cameras over each of the tables—filled six DVDs. Wong intended to edit them to about one hour of key segments but hadn’t started yet. Wong sent copies of the initial hour from each camera with each DVD clearly labeled by a black Sharpie: overhead camera 1, right side 1, etc. The number indicated which of the tables the cameras were covering.

  Lucas chose the disc from the overhead camera. “This would be the closest approximation of my view w
hen I first uncovered the head.” A fresh wave of anxiety swept through his chest.

  “Well?” Wendy asked.

  Shit, he’d been just sitting there holding the disc like an idiot.

  He decided to watch it in the family room instead of on his computer. The TV screen was larger, and the high-definition should give good detail.

  “Let’s go in here.” He motioned toward the other room.

  He placed the DVD in the tray and watched the machine swallow it. For several seconds the player spun, figuring out the proper format, before the screen lit up. Instead of the image he expected, a menu appeared below the title: Transoral Approach to the Clivus. They waited, watching the DVD counter increment. Finally, the actual video started, showing the surgical towel exactly as he remembered. From the TV speakers he heard his voice say, “The first demonstration will be the anterior approach to the Clivus.”

  The knot in his stomach tightened.

  His voice on the disc continued with, “We start the incision here.”

  He looked down, unwilling to watch the towel slide away from masking the head beneath it, realized what he was doing and forced his gaze to the screen.

  His hand entered the picture and took hold of the towel and pulled it away.

  And there was the head, on his left side, hair clipped to the scalp, the skin color distorted from the lack of oxygenated blood.

  He gasped.

  Then froze the image.

  For a moment he and Wendy sat side by side staring at the image on the screen, neither one speaking.

  Finally, Wendy asked, “What are you thinking?”