Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  Sikes shook his head. Lewis was dead. He’d already been there to identify the body. Going back now would only waste more time. It sure as hell wouldn’t bring Lewis back. Besides, the security video clearly showed a banger, not McCarthy, shot Lewis point blank. So right now, his foremost priority was to hunt that traitorous dog down and exact a pound of justice from him.

  “Later.” Straightening up, he slipped on his suit coat. “I’ll be out of the building for a while. Not sure yet how long, but I’ll be back. I still have to go through McCarthy’s office.”

  WYSE WAS PACING again when the cell rang. This time he recognized Sikes’s number. “Yes?”

  “You were right, sir. We identified the woman as Sarah Hamilton. We also have evidence that they may be working as a team.”

  “Excellent. Have someone e-mail me her picture immediately.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll have Hansen do that.”

  Wyse asked, “I assume you know where she lives?”

  “I’m heading there now.”

  Finally! But that might not locate McCarthy.

  Wyse disconnected and continued pacing. He had to do something. Couldn’t just stay here getting more and more dyspepsia. The longer McCarthy remained alive and on the loose, the greater the risk. The way things were turning out, he wished he’d never set this damn Chinese fire drill in motion. What should’ve been a simple interrogation and arrest had rapidly morphed into a complete disaster. If that idiot Sikes couldn’t find McCarthy, he’d damn well do it himself.

  Think! Where would McCarthy go? Yeah, okay, to his lawyer’s office. But the police had that one covered. Hamilton’s house? Sikes was heading there now.

  Think! What did he know about McCarthy?

  Didn’t McCarthy mention a boat? Like, maybe he owned one. That might be a good place to start. But how would he ever find where it was? He thought about that. Well, boats had to be licensed, just like cars. And he knew about the state database of all licenses, because he renewed his professional license online. That should be easy enough to find. Once he found McCarthy’s license, he could work back and find the marina. Sitting down at his computer, Wyse grabbed the mouse and went to work.

  THE FIRST THING Davidson said when McCarthy reconnected with him was, “This is a fresh, unlisted cell line. No way Sikes can monitor it. So tell me, where shall we meet?”

  “Gas Works Park.” It was an old gasification plant that powered much of Seattle from 1907 until being mothballed decades later. Years ago it had been resurrected into its present status of a city park. Most of the old storage tanks and rust-covered towers still stood, making it an iconic landmark.

  “Not bad,” Davidson said with a note of approval. “Where should I look for you?”

  “On the water side of the big open building. A friend will be with me. Any problem with that?”

  “Who, the psychiatrist?”

  Tom said yes, but also quickly explained about contacting the investigative reporter Tony Cassera. He wondered if he should come along as well.

  Davidson considered this new twist a moment. “I can see why you brought him in on this, but for the time being let’s keep this particular meeting small. The larger the group, the more attention we’ll draw, especially since the cops routinely patrol that park after dark. If we catch their attention, they might just ask to see our ID.”

  McCarthy appreciated Davidson for not admonishing him for calling Cassera. He also liked his reasoning. “Good point. See you in, say, thirty minutes. Does that give you enough time?”

  “This time of night I can probably make it in fifteen, easy. But better say thirty. If the guy in the lobby tries to follow me, I’ll need a few minutes to ditch him.”

  SIKES REACHED DELEON Franklin on his cell, said, “Got a lead on our man.”

  “Shoot.”

  “He’s in the company of a female accomplice, name of Sarah Hamilton. I suggest you put a BOLO out for her vehicle.”

  “Consider it done.”

  36

  ONCE DOWNTOWN, SARAH jumped onto Westlake Avenue and followed it around Lake Union to the Fremont Bridge, the traffic sparse for a Friday evening. At the north end of the bridge, she swung a right onto Northlake Way then slowed when the lights of Capitol Hill silhouetted the towering smokestacks and storage tanks of the rusting gas works.

  McCarthy said, “Keep going. I want to go past the entire site first, see who’s around.”

  She continued on, the road curving gently to the northeast around the park. McCarthy scanned the street and parking areas for police cruisers or obvious unmarked cars and was relieved to see none. He wondered if he was being too paranoid.

  A block past the park, he said, “Okay, this is good. Turn around and go back the way we came.”

  Without a word, she pulled another U-turn and started back.

  He noticed a good parking spot—a wedge of gravel on the shore side of the street—and pointed. “How about over there?” Perfect. Inconspicuous. Sarah’s old beater fit right in with the surroundings.

  Except for Gas Works Park, the entire shore of Lake Union was chockablock with marinas, restaurants, dry docks, marine supply shops, and houseboats. Including the one featured in Sleepless in Seattle. The tires crunched gravel as Sarah nosed the Civic into a narrow space between a rusted flatbed truck and an equally oxidized school bus with every window busted out. Both wrecks parked at right angles to an eight-foot razor-wire-topped cyclone fence enclosing an equally dilapidated Quonset hut, a machine shop of some sort, McCarthy suspected.

  For a moment he and Sarah stood at their respective car doors listening to waves against the bulkhead as traffic hummed across the Aurora bridge to the west and the I-5 bridge to the east. The cool night air carried the pungencies of creosote, diesel, and stale lake water. A Yellow cab blew past doing forty in a twenty-five. The serenity struck McCarthy as surrealistically normal in an unbelievably fucked up day.

  For some unknown reason he remembered the park closed at 11:30. His watch showed 9:37. He wasn’t sure how long Davidson would want to talk, but it’d be just his luck for a cop to roust him for being here after hours, so he made a mental note to keep track of the time.

  “What’re you thinking?” Sarah asked.

  He explained about the curfew while leading her across a patch of weed-infested grass into the park, the path snaking between the shore and the imposing iron structures. Up ahead, two teenagers sat chatting on a picnic table only to fall into sullen silence as McCarthy and Sarah approached. Mc-Carthy recognized the smell of marijuana as they passed the snickering kids.

  About a hundred feet toward the water, McCarthy made out the shape of a man standing to the side of the path facing downtown Seattle. He was tall, angular, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, no tie. He stood out in the open and obvious with the black water of Lake Union spread out behind him. Beyond that glowed the lights of downtown Seattle. Queen Anne Hill off to Tom’s right, Capitol Hill to his left. With binoculars he would be able to see his neighborhood but not his house.

  The man must have sensed their approach because he turned in their direction.

  McCarthy asked, “Davidson?”

  The man nodded. “McCarthy?”

  Having his name spoken sent a ripple of paranoia through him. How could he be sure this was Davidson and not one of Sikes’s crew? So he answered, “No. I’m a friend of his. He asked me to take you to him.”

  Davidson scanned the immediate area. “If this wasn’t so serious, I’d laugh, but I recognize your voice. Check me for weapons, if it makes you more comfortable.” He held up his arms, inviting Tom to pat him down. “As you can see, I’m alone.”

  Instead, Tom shook Davidson’s hand and introduced Sarah.

  Davidson said, “So much for pleasantries. Let’s get started. First thing you need to know is the situation’s deteriorating. Quite fast, in fact. You’re no longer accused of just homicide. Cunningham claims this is a matter of national security and that you’re a terrorist
.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “That might be, but I’m not done yet. He also claims you have links to a terrorist organization.”

  “What? Jesus, that’s ridiculous. Based on what?” McCarthy realized both his hands were balled into tight fists. He wiggled his fingers to loosen them up.

  “Hey, keep it down.” Davidson glanced around them again. “I didn’t say I believe the allegations, I’m just updating our situation.”

  Our situation. McCarthy liked that. He blew a breath of frustration between pursed lips. “Yeah, okay. Go on.”

  “I need to hear your side of this. We can start with Colonel Clyde Cunningham. Ever heard of him before today?”

  “No.”

  “Well he knows you. He claims you spied for the State Department while you were a resident. There any truth to that?”

  “I wouldn’t say spy. I gave them trivial information when I worked in a lab in Israel. Nothing vital or military.”

  Davidson cleared his throat. “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, now that we have that out of the way, here’s Cunningham’s spin. You developed contacts within in the intelligence community. In particular, you developed strong ties with the Israelis. One of their people turned you and now you’re working for them. See where this is headed?”

  McCarthy kept clenching and unclenching his fists, barely able to control his anger. “What’s Cunningham’s job?”

  “He’s with the DIA—that’s the Defense Intelligence Agency—but his specific job description is classified. Or so he claims.”

  “Classified? Interesting term. I’ve heard it so many times but don’t really know what it means. How does something become classified,” Tom asked, using finger quotes.

  Davidson gave a dismissive laugh. “I wasn’t sure either, so I checked. The answer is amazingly simple: Any head of a government department or agency can be authorized as a ‘classifying authority.’ What that means is they can designate any bit of information—important or not—as classified. Impossible, you say? Not really. There aren’t any standards as to what’s in and what’s out. It’s a judgment call, pure and simple. But, as you can imagine, with so much information crossing their desks every day, that responsibility quickly becomes a headache. Those guys don’t want to spend their entire day weighing those decisions, so they delegate the classifying authority to their subordinates. End result is some paper pusher can declare a roll of toilet paper classified if the mood strikes.” The lawyer shook his head. “Most the time no one cares or even looks at it. One problem is that hell usually freezes over before a document ever becomes declassified. My point is that it’s virtually impossible to argue with a Pentagon brass who claims you have a classified document. The burden of proof lands on your shoulders to show you didn’t.”

  “Anyone happen to mention what it is they think I took?”

  “Yes. But only in general terms, nothing specific. It’s the old catch-twenty-two: can’t tell you because it’s classified. They claim you took DARPA files.” Davidson zeroed in on McCarthy’s eyes. “Is there any possible truth to this, something I need to know about?”

  “What kind of DARPA information?”

  Davidson waved away the question. “That’s exactly the point. They wouldn’t say. I didn’t press, either, because I know what they’ll say. Verbatim. It’s a mantra: You can’t release classified material if it’s classified. Not even to your attorney. Granted, it’s a circular argument, but the fact of the matter is, I can argue with Cunningham all day long and never get anywhere, so I dropped it. Sure, eventually, if we end up in trial they’ll be forced to release more, but right now, tonight, we get nothing.”

  The trail back to Bertram Wyse became clearer. “Let me guess. I took these documents from a small private Seattle company?” He watched Sarah’s reaction to see if she was tracking the same path. She nodded agreement.

  Davidson reached down, picked up a pebble from the path. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Keep going. I’ll wait till you finish.”

  Davidson lobbed the pebble out into the lake. “Did you take them?”

  “No.”

  Davidson brushed off his hands. “You sure about that? If I’m going to deal with this, I need to know everything, even the bad parts. Let me phrase it differently. Did you take any information from anyone that might be considered, even remotely, classified?”

  “No. I can’t think of anything. But this classified information … does it have to do with RegenBiologic?”

  Davidson studied the view of the city a moment, as if considering something. “Yes. Why?”

  “Until we first talked today, I didn’t have a clue what this was about. I’m still not a hundred percent sure, but a few things have fallen into place, all of which involve Bertram Wyse.” McCarthy checked his watch. Still plenty of time before the park closed.

  He explained how Wyse treated both Russell and Baker for serious head injuries, and that both patients subsequently started experiencing vivid memories for events that family members swore never happened. Finally, that his request for their Lakeview records was never honored. And that Bertram Wyse was the final common denominator in the equation.

  Davidson said, “Now, I need to hear the exact chain of event from the moment Sikes and Washington showed up this morning in your office.”

  McCarthy started through the story in detail.

  DOWNTOWN SEATTLE

  WARREN SIKES SLOWED the rental car and began scanning the street for a parking spot. The address for Hamilton’s building was the 2300 block, so he was close. A space appeared just up the street but the car immediately ahead of him braked and the reverse lights flashed. Sikes nosed the rental into the spot before the other car could back in. The other driver pulled parallel to Sikes and rolled down his passenger window. Sikes set the parking brake and stepped out.

  The other driver yelled, “Hey, asshole, that’s my spot!”

  Sikes adjusted his coat sleeves and locked the door.

  “Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you!”

  Sikes considered ignoring him but then thought better of it. It’d be just his luck for the guy to start a scene, so he might as well deal with him. Sikes approached the open window with his ID out. “Police business, bud. I suggest you find another spot.”

  The irate driver flipped him off. “Asshole.”

  Sikes hiked a block to Hamilton’s building, nine stories of concrete and steel with a bland urban façade that melded unobtrusively into the surrounding downtown neighborhood. Sandwiched between a Starbuck’s and a shop peddling Persian rugs was an entrance of thick glass doors to the condominium lobby. Sikes tried the door, but as suspected, found it locked. From his angle the lobby appeared deserted with no sign of a doorman. Embedded in the wall to his right was a stainless steel faceplate for an intercom. Behind that was probably the lens to a CCTV system.

  He scrolled through the names until HAMILTON appeared, and pressed the call button. The intercom emitted dial tone, then the ringing of a phone. No one answered.

  Sikes scrolled back through the list to MANAGER. This time a male voice answered.

  “Mr. Beeson, Special Agent Warren Sikes. Can you see me on your monitor?”

  “What?” The manager sounded irritated at being disturbed this time of night.

  “Your security system allows you to see who’s on the intercom, doesn’t it?”

  “So what?” He sounded more peeved.

  “So turn it on so I can show you my credentials. I’m a federal agent and I need to check on Doctor Hamilton in unit four-oh-five. She doesn’t answer her buzzer. You need to come down here and let me in. Understand?”

  “Hold your water; I’ll buzz you in.”

  SIKES AND BEESON stood outside Hamilton’s door waiting for an answer to their knock. Sikes knocked again, louder. Still no answer.

  Sikes asked, “Got a key?”

  “Hey, I don’t know about that, man. Let
ting you in the building’s one thing. Letting you in a unit when the homeowner is out, well, that’s another thing altogether.”

  Sikes turned a cold eye on him. “What makes you say she’s not home? That’s the point, I was supposed to meet with her, and she’s not there. I’m concerned something’s happened to her.”

  “Like?”

  “She’s a critical witness in a very high-level federal case. People might wish her harm.”

  The manager didn’t look convinced. “Hamilton? We talking about the same person?”

  Sikes was losing patience. “I will go in there one way or the other. You can either help me or watch me. Which is it going to be?”

  Beeson reached in his pocket. “I’ll come with you, make sure everything’s on the up and up.”

  “I bet you will.”

  The air inside the apartment seemed dead, as if no one had been here in the past twenty-four hours or more. Certainly there was no sign of Hamilton. Just to be sure, Sikes inspected each room, checked each closet, even under the bed. The rooms appeared lived in, with a newspaper dropped beside a TV chair in the bedroom, an unmade bed, cosmetics strewn across the bathroom counter. The closet seemed intact, so it didn’t appear she’d gone on a trip. Earlier, Hansen had checked with the hospital and determined she was not on call. Nor did she answer overhead pages, her beeper, or two calls to her cell. All of which added up to her being with McCarthy. But where?

  Sikes said, “Thanks. That’s all I wanted. You can lock up now,” and started for the door.

  As Beeson was locking Hamilton’s front door, Sikes thought of something else he should check for completeness. “She have a parking space?” Hansen had given him the license number and description of her Civic.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  The space was empty.

  BACK IN HIS car, watching traffic shoot by on First Avenue, Sikes considered his options. McCarthy was out of the hospital and on the run, so where would he likely go? Well, to meet that lawyer, Davidson, of course. The cops were watching that office and so far McCarthy hadn’t appeared. Unless there was a back entrance they didn’t know about. Far as he knew, Davidson was still there. Which meant … aw yes.