Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  Sikes pulled back into traffic.

  37

  GAS WORKS PARK

  A CALL TO BE on the lookout for a red Honda Civic with Sarah’s license plate came over the police radio for the second time just as SPD patrol car NW3 approached Gas Works Park from the west. The first request aired while the lone officer was inside a Starbucks paying for an espresso. The car make and model was not particularly notable; hundreds of them were registered within the Seattle-Tacoma-Everett area. Even the routine-issue Washington license plate was not something that would attract attention. So it was probably the recentness of the report coupled with pure luck that drew the patrolman’s eyes to the body style and color.

  The officer slowed the cruiser to recheck the color in the deceiving mercury-vapor light. Definitely red. But he was past it by now, so he turned into a side street, backed up, and swung onto the shoulder of the road, washing the back of the car with his headlights. He checked the license plate on the computer and, bingo, got a match.

  He picked up the radio microphone and pressed transmit. “Northwest Three.”

  “Go ahead, Northwest Three.”

  “I have a match on the BOLO.”

  “Location, Northwest Three?”

  The patrolman radioed in the information.

  DAVIDSON YAWNED. “I don’t know; I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t make the connection back to Wyse without concrete evidence.”

  McCarthy’s frustration just about maxed. Mostly because nothing more than circumstance supported him. On top of that, he was exhausted from lack of sleep and the stress of the day. He knew he needed rest but believed he couldn’t until he’d made some headway on freeing himself from this mess.

  Davidson continued. “The Valium prescription is a good example.” Turning to Sarah, he said, “I know your patient says Wyse gave it to her, but why? Besides, the fact she’s in ICU recovering from the overdose could be used to invalidate anything she says. Sure, maybe after her docs give her a clean bill of health, but not now.”

  McCarthy could see where Davidson was going with this. They’d gone over it twice already and each time it hit a dead end.

  McCarthy said, “Baker must know something Wyse doesn’t want anyone else to know.”

  Davidson whistled softly. “Well, that’s real specific,” and let a couple beats pass before adding, “Hey look, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. We’re all getting tired and time’s running out. Sooner or later I need to make a statement to the authorities. I’ve already informed SPD that you’re willing to surrender to the appropriate authorities, meaning them, not Sikes. In return, they’ve instructed me to hand you over to them. I claimed I didn’t know where you are. At the time that was true. Now, if they find I’ve been harboring you, we’re in a worse situation.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Hey, I’m not saying I have to hand you over this minute. But I am saying we need to wrap this particular conversation up so I can make a statement. And frankly I agree with your hesitation. Right now, even if Cunningham capitulated and agreed to allow you to surrender to the local police, we both know that the moment you do, he’ll claim jurisdiction because of national security as justification to assume custody. More than anything, I need something to support your side of the story.”

  McCarthy thought he knew a way to get it, but he needed time. He asked, “How long can you stall?”

  “Hard to say.” Davidson audibly exhaled. “Twenty-four, thirty-six hours, maybe. After that, they’re coming after me for sure. They know you’re out of the building. They also suspect I’m the first person you’d contact.”

  At that moment the two boys from the picnic table came running past. One said to McCarthy. “Cops!”

  Davidson gave McCarthy a slight shove in the direction the kids ran. “Go. I’ll run interference.”

  McCarthy tugged Sarah’s hand. “C’mon.”

  They started running west, along the shore of Lake Union. They reached a large building, cut around it into an asphalt parking lot, and ducked behind a dumpster to check if they were being pursued. That didn’t appear to be the case, but he caught the flashing blue lights of a cop car going east along Northlake Way toward the parking lot.

  Time to move. He motioned to Sarah and without a word she fell in behind him. Walking quickly, they snaked their way along the shadowy edge of the parking spaces in front of the buildings, followed the shore to Stone Way, turned north to Thirty-Fourth Street, then west to the Freemont Dock Restaurant where McCarthy saw a taxi about to pull out of the parking lot. He whistled, caught the driver’s attention, and jogged over, Sarah almost matching him stride for stride. McCarthy opened the back door for her.

  The driver asked, “Where to?”

  “Sea-Tac Airport.”

  Sarah leaned close to him and whispered, “What about my car?”

  Good question. He wasn’t sure if the cops were called to the park because of it or if they were there because of something entirely unrelated to their presence. But until he could find out for sure, they wouldn’t go near it.

  MCCARTHY AND SARAH entered the airport through the passenger drop off level, took the escalator down to baggage claim, and walked straight out the door to the taxi area. There was no line and they got the first available one. McCarthy slid into the backseat after Sarah and asked the driver to take them to the Budget Rent a Car lot while handing him a twenty dollar bill.

  At the rental lot across Highway 99, Sarah used her driver’s license and credit card to rent a silver Ford Taurus, a model they both agreed would draw little attention.

  Sarah handed him the key. “Want to drive?”

  He waved it away. “Go ahead.”

  They walked around to the appropriate sides and got in. Sarah keyed the ignition, asked, “Where we going?”

  “My place. I still have some things to pick up.”

  She turned in the seat to face him. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “No. Let’s go.”

  38

  QUEEN ANNE HILL

  SARAH CURBED THE rental car on the street immediately below the one McCarthy’s townhouse faced, the hill rolling off steeply to the south, providing a view of downtown Seattle and the Space Needle. She killed the engine and let the car settle into eerie silence. Single-family homes and small duplexes lined both sides of the street, crammed into lots barely large enough for slits of garden and walkways along their borders. He scanned the dimly lit residential neighborhood for anyone in a car or loitering on the sidewalk, which would be unusual this time of night. Nothing caught his attention. Then again, all he really saw was dark shadows.

  He studied the house directly below his, their lots separated by only an unmarked property line traversing the hill. It was a two story ultracontemporary structure with a flat roof that served double duty as a deck. The windows were dark without even the faint glow of a nightlight from the depths of the house. Maybe the owners were out of town for the Labor Day weekend, or maybe they were in bed for the night.

  The rental’s engine began to tick as it cooled.

  McCarthy said, “Take a drive. Give me fifteen minutes before you come back to pick me up.”

  “No way. I’ll stay here.”

  “Look, I think—”

  She folded her arms defiantly. “I drove here. I’m waiting. Live with it.”

  McCarthy shot a quick nervous glance at the shadows along the house, his stomach churning, his fingers tingling. “In that case, keep the doors locked. “Here.” He handed her Washington’s gun. “Know how to use this?”

  “No.”

  “Just point and pull the trigger.”

  “Got it.” She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful.”

  He studied her eyes a moment, then opened the car door and climbed out onto the sidewalk. One hand on the roof of the car, he leaned back in, whispered, “See you in fifteen minutes.”

  “Be careful. You know chances are someone’s up there waiting
for you. Either Sikes or the police.”

  “I know.”

  The crisp air raised goose bumps along his arms as he darted into a shadowy walkway paralleling the side of the house. He hoped the owners didn’t have motion detectors or a dog. To his left a six-foot-high Asian-style cedar fence separated the lot from the neighbor to the west. In dim light, he moved to the rear of the house where a narrow courtyard of aggregate pavers and teak patio chairs abutted a ten-foot-high cement retaining wall. To reach his backyard he’d have to scale the wall. He glanced around for something to climb on and ended up dragging one of the heavy chairs against the fence. Standing on the chair, he stretched but still couldn’t reach the top of the wall, so with one hand against the wall for balance, he stepped onto the arm of the chair. With both feet on the arm of the chair and both hands against the wall, he was able climb up and stand on the top of the fence, making his shoulders reach the top of the cement retaining wall.

  From there he grabbed the trunks of a boxwood hedge and pulled, lightly at first, to test how much weight the shrubs would support. They held, allowing him to pull his body up.

  SIKES’S CELL VIBRATED against thigh. He dug it out of his pocket. “What?”

  “The Hamilton woman’s car was found abandoned.”

  “Where.”

  “Gas Works Park.”

  “Where the fuck’s that?” It irritated Sikes when people who knew an area assumed everyone else did too.

  The caller explained the location.

  Sikes wasn’t sure what to make of the information. “Keep me informed.”

  “Before you hang up, there’s another thing you need to know. McCarthy’s lawyer slipped out of his office.”

  “Fuck!”

  MCCARTHY SWUNG HIs left knee onto the cement ledge, worked his right leg up, the rough surface scraping skin through the thin scrubs. Now on the top of the retaining wall, he rolled onto his side and took a breath. So far, so good. He worked up into a kneeling position, squeezed between the shrubs, and crawled onto the small lawn.

  He remained kneeling and watched the back of his townhouse for several seconds, waiting for any sign that he’d been noticed. Nothing happened. The windows remained dark, the few lights on timers having cycled off hours ago. If someone were waiting inside would they have lights on or off? Probably off. So, on second thought, the lights being off didn’t mean much.

  He crept to the basement door, tried to peer in window, and got a face full of spider web. Swearing silently, he swiped at the sticky threads and felt legs crawl along up his cheek toward his ear. He batted the spider off, then wiped his hands on his scrubs. More cautiously this time he peered through the dirty pane but the basement was too dark to see anything.

  He crept to the corner of the foundation where a five-foot rock retaining wall separated the back and front yards and climbed up to a rhododendron bed of beauty bark. Wedged between the plant and the house, he inched forward enough to see the street.

  As usual, cars lined both sides of the street. Nothing appeared out of place. Still, he couldn’t believe his home wasn’t under surveillance. For thirty seconds, he watched, unwilling to accept he was alone. It dawned on him that he was taking longer than estimated. But hurrying at this point might cause a mistake.

  He just about to climb back down to the backyard when a pinpoint glow from across the street caught his attention. He looked closer. The cigarette ember brightened, revealing a face in a darkened car. He watched smoke ghost out the top of the open window and vanish.

  Was he cop or one of Sikes’s men? Did it matter? Tom’s gut tightened.

  Heart pounding, McCarthy started climbing back down the rock wall, slipped, and slammed his knee into a boulder. The impact sent a bolt of pain up his leg. He choked back a gasp and started moving again. Then he was back in the yard, limping to the basement door, wondering if Sikes had someone inside also.

  He knelt on his good knee and groped the ground blindly, found the edge of the cement walk, and followed it to where it met the basement foundation. Just to the left was the fake rock. By feel, he slid open the bottom and dropped the house key into his hand.

  He slid the key into the lock, turned it slowly until the deadbolt disengaged, then pushed the door open far enough to listen to the interior. He heard only heavy stillness.

  The warm basement air smelled of laundry soap and dryer lint and felt wonderful on his bare skin, driving home just how chilled he’d become in the thin sweat-dampened scrubs. He left the door open just in case.

  Jesus, why hadn’t he brought Washington’s gun? If Sikes was upstairs waiting, he was screwed. On top of the circuit breaker panel was a small Maglite. He found it, turned it on, and scanned the area for a weapon. In the corner, next to the stairs, was his Wilson outfielder’s mitt and Louisville Slugger. He picked up the bat.

  Shivering, he limped to the top stair, put his ear to the door, and listened but heard only silence.

  He cracked the door, listened some more, but heard only the faint hum of the refrigerator. Aw Jesus, this is taking way too long.

  Bat held ready, he tiptoed upstairs to the darkened second floor and quickly went room to room without finding a sign of another person. He returned to his bedroom, set the bat on his bed, slipped into the bathroom, grabbed his terry cloth robe from the back of the door, and snuggled into it. For a moment he just stood there rubbing his arms and ribs in an attempt to warm up.

  Back in the bedroom he eased the bathroom door shut then closed the Venetian blinds. The room had two closets, a large walk-in for clothes and a standard size for storage. The smaller of the two was the one he was interested in. But it would be a problem because opening the louvered doors automatically turned on a ceiling light. He thought about that. Well, the blinds were shut and the light was weak enough that it probably wouldn’t be noticed from outside. He quickly stripped off the damp scrubs and dried off with a towel. He selected a pair black jeans and a black cotton turtleneck to wear.

  Now warmer, he opened the small closet, pulled down a shoebox from the top shelf, and removed a passport, driver’s license, and a credit card, all in the name Timothy Rush. At the time he had developed the false identity, he had viewed it as a necessary, but that need had passed. Yet for reasons not totally clear to him, he’d kept it over the years and had even worked to give the phony identity “depth” by obtaining an AAA membership and library card. Every year he renewed the AAA membership and occasionally made purchases on the credit card to keep the account active. He replaced Tom McCarthy’s cards in his billfold with those for Tim Rush, then slipped Rush’s passport into his back pocket. Finally, he replaced the shoebox with his real identity on the shelf and closed the closet door.

  ERNEST WOMACK’S THOUGHTS drifted back to earlier in the week, the two-day stopover in San Francisco. Not the city, but Jeff, the little Asian cutie he’d picked up. Or had it really been the other way—Jeff picked him up? Didn’t really matter. The point was the great time they’d enjoyed. Not just the sex, but the restaurant they’d dined in, the conversation, the whole evening. It made him seriously consider going back through Frisco on the return to Denver, his usual duty station. Sure would try. And, far as he was concerned, completing this mission couldn’t come soon enough. What a homophobic bigot that bastard Sikes was. Jesus, if he only knew …

  A flicker of light or movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned to look. At first, nothing appeared out of place. No car, no person, no light that hadn’t been there a moment ago. But something had caught his attention. He looked closer, trying to remember exactly how things had been. Something seemed different, slightly out of place, but nothing obvious. He studied McCarthy’s house more carefully, his eye drawn to the second floor. Something was different. What? Wait a minute. There. The angle of the Venetian blinds. They were tightly closed.

  Someone was inside the house!

  It had to be McCarthy. He grabbed his cell phone/walkietalkie. “Hen, Chick Two.”
/>   “Go, Chick.”

  “Be advised we have movement in the McCarthy house. I’m going in.”

  Sikes answered, “Roger that. I’m downtown. Will redeploy immediately.”

  Womack was out of the car, running across the street, and inside McCarthy’s front door in less than sixty seconds.

  MCCARTHY GLANCED AROUND the bedroom, mentally running the checklist he’d made earlier. Was he forgetting anything? He checked his watch again and saw it’d been twenty minutes since he left Sarah. He’d told her fifteen. Well, it couldn’t be helped. But he’d have to move more quickly now.

  Just then a soft click came downstairs.

  He froze.

  What was it? Suddenly, the sound registered: the front door. Someone just came in.

  He slipped past the bed, picked up the baseball bat, positioned himself to the right of the hall door, and listened.

  Silence.

  Then came a muted creak from the stairs.

  He wound up the bat and fixed his eyes on the darkened doorway. Enough city light was coming in from the hall windows to see someone enter the bedroom.

  He waited.

  A moment later a hand holding a gun poked past the jamb and swept the room from right to left. Tom brought the bat down with all his weight, connecting solidly against the wrist with a sickening crack. A man cried out in pain as the gun fell from his hand.

  McCarthy stepped forward, wound up again, and swung, catching Womack squarely in the solar plexus, doubling him over, crumpling him to the ground, gasping. McCarthy picked up the gun, stepped out of reach, and flicked on the bedside light. Womack didn’t look too interested in carrying on the fight, so McCarthy did a quick inspection of the weapon. Exactly the same as Washington’s, complete with sound suppressor.