Dead Ringer (23 page)

“There’s no similarity between law and justice,” Wendy continued. “That was one of the reasons I hated working Vice. The way the laws are written, the girls are forced to take unacceptable risks. I get sad and angry just thinking about it. My ex—he’s a cop too—and I used to argue about it all the time. He believes the girls are just lazy. But even if you look at the ones who aren’t into drugs—which is a minority, I know—most of them really don’t have other options. At least none they know about. Christ, I get worked up talking about it. Anyway, getting back to the story, I went into the academy straight out of the army.”

Lucas felt comfortable sitting here listening to her. Happy for the break from the arctic tension that seemed to radiate from Laura all the time now. In contrast, Wendy was warm and interesting.

“What about you? How does someone decide to be a brain surgeon?”

Ah, the perfect opportunity to focus on Andy. He said, “Being a doctor was what I always wanted. Sort of like you. Andy almost became one but only because that’s what his parents wanted. I mentioned we’ve been friends forever, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we went through grade school together right on through Stanford premed. Going to med school was just another thing we have in common.”

“But he never went, did he?”

“No. His parents died in a car accident when he was twenty-two. After that, Andy went to business school.” He shrugged. That part was true, his parents had been killed. “He probably would’ve done well in medicine. He has a huge heart and a great sense of humor. He’s fun to be around.”
Usually. When he isn’t drinking too much
.

She tore a piece of bread from a small loaf, dipped it in seasoned olive oil, held it up while making a point. “Yeah, but the sex thing got him in trouble. At least with the law.”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

She put a finger to her mouth while chewing. “I told you, didn’t I? I busted him twice.”

Maybe it was the wine, but man, Wendy looked good. No, it wasn’t just the wine. She must’ve been a killer decoy. He could appreciate why Andy zeroed in on her. She probably racked up the squad’s all-time arrest record.

D
INNER FINISHED, LUCAS AND
Wendy headed for the front door, the place maybe only a quarter full of customers now with the early birds long gone. Then they were outside the front door looking at each other. The night was cooler than normal for August, and a chill in the air was slowly replacing the sun’s earlier warmth.

She asked, “You up for another drink?”

His pulse quickened. Was she coming on to him or was he reading too much into the suggestion? “Sure.” He glanced around the mall for a likely place but saw only retail shops. “Where?”

“I live a couple minutes from here. You can follow me,” she said with a smile.

W
ENDY
’
S UNIT WAS ONE
of ten contiguous cookie-cutter two-level townhouses crammed into one block. Wood siding in various shades of brown paint to distinguish one unit from another. White trim around every window. She had only one designated parking spot directly in front of her door, which she took.

She came over to his idling car. “Go find a spot while I turn on the lights.”

By the time Lucas got back, her front door stood open and she was in the small kitchen area pouring wine. The interior was sparsely furnished. Not much more than a black leather couch, a laptop with external speakers, and a huge flat-screen TV already on to the Mariners game with the audio muted. Three large cardboard U-Haul boxes stacked in one corner.

He asked, “Just move in?”

“Those?” Wendy said with a dismissive wave. “Nah, been here a couple years. Never seem to have enough time to unpack them. Stuff from when I was married.” She held out a glass for him and nodded at the TV. “I splurged on that.”

Lucas looked more closely. A Sony, maybe fifty-four inches. Black with silver trim, high-definition, vibrant colors.
It was the top of the eighth, the A’s up by two. It figured. As usual, the M’s pitching sucked.

“Have a seat.”

He settled into the couch, and she nestled down next to him, right leg tucked up under her, knee barely brushing his thigh. The touch sent a tingle up his leg directly into his groin.

Lucas tried to concentrate on the game. Two on, two out, and the M’s pitcher struggling. Then he was studying her profile, the angle of her jaw and a spot just below, the place on the neck where he loved to kiss Laura. A kind of erogenous zone for her.

Wendy turned slightly, caught him staring, and smiled faintly, the simple act of seduction. Was it intentional?

“Let me take care of these,” she said, moving both wine glasses to the floor next to the couch, then leaned in, brushing her lips against his.

Then his lips were touching that spot on her neck, kissing softly.

She tilted her head and put a hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer.

His chest filled with tightness. The sounds of the game drowned out by the pounding in his ears. It had been too long since he kissed a woman who eagerly exchanged a long, slow kiss. He had her in his arms, alternating his lips between her lips and neck as her hand ran back and forth over his head, encouraging him.

Lucas awkwardly tugged at her tank top—she gently stopped him. To his surprise, she slowly peeled the tight fitting garment over her head …

L
UCAS AWOKE UNCERTAIN WHERE
he was, turned, recognized her queen-size bed. Wendy was curled on her side, back to him, breathing softly. The soft blue glow of the clock radio showed: 12:31.

Jesus Christ, what have I done?
Laura’s image floated in his mind. He felt guilty as hell. And rightly so. But he had to admit the sex had been terrific. Mostly, the lack of conflict that was so constant with Laura seemed refreshing. But, he reminded himself, that can quickly change with increasing intimacy. Somehow the more you got to know someone, the more license there was for conflict.

Shit, what do I do now?

Get dressed and sneak out the door without waking her?

No. He didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye, yet … didn’t want to wake her to say it. Too late to go home now anyway, so he might as well roll over and try to go back to sleep.

“… will be the high today.” bubbled the perky AM radio announcer.

Lucas opened his eyes.

Wendy, already showered and dressed in a blue pantsuit, came over from the mirror, hairbrush in hand, and killed the radio. “I put out a bath towel for you and a razor.” The words held no embarrassment, regret, or judgment, just a statement of fact.

Then she added, “All I have is coffee. I usually grab a muffin at the 7-Eleven down the street.”

Lucas was out the door heading for his car, guilt weighing down both shoulders like huge sandbags. He kept thinking,
How could I have done that to Laura?

Key in hand, he stopped at the car door, stunned with the realization he’d just gained a bit more insight into Andy.

L
UCAS’S VOLVO JUMPED ON
Aurora Avenue, old US Highway 99, instead of I-5 southbound. A slower route this way, but it gave him more time to think and sort out the many emotions zinging around in his brain.

Sitting back against the leather, he tried to calm the ten thousand volts that were coursing through his nerves—had to keep from looking as guilty as he felt.
Get my shit together. I’m closing in on home
. Just a couple more blocks.

Another right turn and Lucas hit the brakes. Ahead of him, the residential street was choked with cop cars, two fire trucks, vans from at least two local TV stations, and clots of looky-loos.

Shit. They appeared clustered around his house.

A lightning bolt of dread struck.
Something’s happened to Laura
.

No, can’t be. It’s a neighbor’s house. Has to be.

A uniformed cop stuck out a hand for him to go no farther.

Lucas became aware of smells of burnt rubber and wood. A deep dread exploded inside, filling him with panic. He slammed the transmission into park, jerked up the parking brake, and was out of the car running toward his house, shoving people aside, noticing for the first time debris and charred wood in place of the garage.

A strong hand grabbed his arm from behind. “Hold it! You can’t go there.”

He spun around, tried to swat it away, yelled, “Goddamn it, I live here. I have to find my wife.”

“I
T
’
S A CRIME SCENE
,” Detective Jim Lange said to Lucas.

They sat in an unmarked cop car, Lucas in the back, on the side opposite Lange. Two communication radios, one bolted to the console and a handheld lying haphazardly on the front seat, intermittently broke squelch with various calls. The interior smelled of copy machine toner and stale coffee. Lucas wanted to vomit.

“But my wife’s in there,” Lucas pleaded for the hundredth time.

“We’ve been over that several times now. No one’s in the house. Believe me, we checked. Soon as the garage cools down, we’ll check that too. But it looks like there was an explosion followed by a fire. You say your car was parked inside?”

“Yes.”

Lange looked the same height and weight as Lucas. About five ten, one hundred and sixty pounds. Maybe a few years older judging by the crow’s-feet behind slightly tinted lenses. Dressed casually in a navy polo and tan Dockers with his ID dangling from a neck lanyard.

“She wouldn’t leave without putting out a note. I need to know where she is.”

“Are you tracking anything I just said?”

Lucas wanted to vomit.

Laing said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Did you have anything explosive in the garage? Flammable liquids, gasoline, paint thinner, things like that?”

Lucas realized for the first time what Lange was getting at. He looked around, saw the news trucks from the local network affiliates. What if Josh saw this on TV? Would he recognize the house?

A crab was clawing its way through Lucas’s gut. “Excuse me.” He pulled on the door handle, but it was locked.

“We’re not done yet.”

“Okay, but I have to call my son.”