Dead Ringer (30 page)

G
ERHARD 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.

S
ENSING 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.

G
ERHARD 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.

B
Y 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
.

W
ITH 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.”

T
HE 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 when 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?”

The moments in Hong Kong came flooding back: the initial shock, the stunned moment of recognition, the turning away to vomit uncontrollably.

“Lucas?”

He realized he was looking away, his mind racing back through the good times he and Andy shared. He turned to her. “It’s him.”

“You sure?”

He didn’t want to look again at the head, but between this initial glance and the one in Hong Kong, he was sure. Well, pretty sure. The color was … “Yes.”

“How can you be sure? The other day you said that no blood distorted it when you saw it in Hong Kong.”

“It does, but it’s him.” He thought about what he just said and added, “We can have Trish look at this too and give her opinion.”

Looking at the picture of the detached, lifeless head, Wendy said, “I’d rather not have to resort to that.” Wendy seemed to mull things over a moment. “You said something about a scar?”

Of course!

I should’ve thought of it before
.

“Yeah, there is. Andy had chronic middle ear infections as a kid that resulted in mastoiditis. He had to have his mastoid sinus cleaned out. There’s a scar behind his right ear. The first thing I had them do was disarticulate the jaw, so we should be able to see it.” He glanced at the pile of DVDs and picked one at random. “Wong exchanged Andy with another table. The one I ended up was a female. We need to find the one disc with a female, and that will be the one that ended up with Andy.”

He slid the new disc into the player and set the old one by itself to keep them straight. They watched the beginning, saw another, unfamiliar male and popped out the disc. He inserted the next one, hit play.

Suddenly, Wendy gripped his arm painfully tight.

“Hey, ease up,” Lucas said and reached over to move her hand, but Wendy was staring at the TV, all color drained from her face. He looked from Wendy to the screen and realized the view was panned in on the female head. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s Lupita.”

“N
OW YOU HAVE IT,”
Lucas said to Wendy. “Proof Andy was in Hong Kong. Along was Lupita. It also proves Ditto’s organization supplied both heads. Doesn’t that give you enough to bring Ditto down?”

“Not yet, it doesn’t.”

Lucas’s chest tightened as both fists clenched. His suspicions were right. He’d been right all along, but what good had it done? “Why not?”

“For starters, I don’t really have solid proof. In any legal confrontation he can simply deny it’s them. Then what? It’s our word against his. Say we get Trish and Luis to identify them too. That would raise issues with the chain of evidence.”

“What do you mean?”

Wendy said, “Can you prove the DVDs haven’t been altered? Or where they’ve been and who’s had them since they were recorded?”

Lucas didn’t answer even though it was ridiculous to think Wong had altered them in some way. But he saw the problem she was pointing out. Any defense attorney would be all over that argument. He muttered, “Shit.”

Wendy said, “We need something better.” She sounded like she had the answer to that.

“Like?”

Wendy stood, started putting on her coat. “Ditto’s records. I’ll work on getting a warrant.”

Lucas gave a sarcastic snort. “You really think that if he’s dealing in supplying murder victims, that he’s really going to have accurate records?”

She gave him weird smile. “Something like that.”

Then she was gone.

Wendy was waiting at the Seattle Center Fountain when Travis ambled over and sat down beside her. He asked, “What you got?”

She explained that the DVDs from Hong Kong provided visual identification of Andy Baer and Lupita Ruiz’s head. “Those DVDs should give me probable cause for a search warrant specifically for Ditto’s records—the death certificates and where they were obtained—for the specimens used in the Hong Kong demonstration.”

Travis nodded. “That may help you in the missing persons cases—although that remains to be seen—but how does it help in your primary case?”

“I’m thinking we can make this become a two-for. That’s the whole point of this discussion. I want Internal Affairs involved but totally suppressed until we have enough to bring both Ditto
and
Redwing down. That means only you, I, and the judge know what’s really going on.”

Travis thought about that a moment. “We need to be damn careful how we go about it. How soon do you need the warrant?”

“Soon as possible.”

“Give me a moment to call Judge Walker, see if she’s available to see us. She’s the one who signed the warrant on Ditto’s wire. You have the affidavit written out?”

“I do.”

Travis pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON WENDY
sat down across the desk from Redwing, said, “Got a break in the Ruiz case.”

A hint of surprise flashed across his face but only momentarily. “What? I thought you were supposed to be working some other cases.”