Dead Wrong (30 page)

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.

W
ARREN 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 H
AMILTON
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 M
ANAGER
. 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.”

S
IKES 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. Letting 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.

B
ACK 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.

Sikes pulled back into traffic.

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.

D
AVIDSON 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.