Authors: Nancy Radke
Ryan dialed up the isolated MXOIL computer and used the “worm” to enter Vince’s computer. He went right to Vince’s files, found his Swiss bank account numbers, then ran through Vince’s saved passwords until he found the one that opened the account. He worked frantically, setting up the transfer back to MXOIL.
Vince logged off just as Ryan hit the enter key. He didn’t know if he had made it or not.
Now to catch him.
Ryan drove to the phone company, taking along a prepared subpoena. They found the address and he called Detective Hayes.
“Eric. We’ve got him. He’s in Bellevue.” He gave the address.
“I’ll notify the Bellevue police and meet you there.”
“You’ve got a search warrant?”
“Yep. All I have to do is fill in the date and the address.”
Ryan pulled out his city map. A house on the lake. Of course. Vince had been using a speedboat.
Driving back to his houseboat, Ryan put on a warmer coat. He had been carrying his automatic and now grabbed a small hammerless .38 and put it in an ankle holster. He parked Tag at Grandma Miller’s and gave her a quick run-down on Angie’s situation. “Watch for her.”
“I will. Be careful.”
“I will.” He left her house and took the cover off his boat. The engine fired at first touch and he roared off, moving across the lake and into the ship canal.
As he passed under the Montlake Bridge, he re-dialed Eric Hayes to let him know his location. “He might not try to run if all his routes are blocked.”
“Good thinking. You’ll probably get there at about the same time we do. We’ll wait for your call.”
Ryan sped under the floating bridge high rise and across Lake Washington to Bellevue. He looked at his map, then at the dark shoreline, dotted with house lights.
Was he close? He needed a GPS for this type of work.
He called Eric, asked if the policeman could see him.
“I see a boat on the lake, about 500 yards out. That you?”
“I think so. Can you blink your lights?”
“Yes, I... there he goes! He’s spotted us. Taking his boat.”
The phone went blank and Ryan pulled closer to the shore. He couldn’t see any action. He looked north, then south.
Just south of him another boat moved slowly along the shoreline. Lights shone from flashlights and he could hear men shouting. Revving the motor, he headed for the area of activity.
As he drew closer, a speedboat accelerated away, a man hunched over its wheel— the white face staring at him as they neared each other. Patti’s killer. Vince.
At the last moment, Ryan swung his boat sharply, ramming the other as it tried to pass. The impact knocked Ryan off his seat. He jumped up as the boats bounced apart and grabbed the wheel again. Vince got his foot on the pedal first and roared off, now in the lead.
“Not that easy, you don’t,” Ryan muttered as he stomped on the gas.
Vince fired, shattering his windshield. Ryan ducked, pulled his gun and shot back, several times. Vince’s speedboat was larger than his, but if he could hit the gas line, he could slow him down.
The two boats skipped the waves like miniature hydroplanes, but Vince’s boat proved to be faster, pulling away from him. So Ryan slowed down to try to get more accuracy before Vince went out of range. He sent a volley of shots to where the gas tank should be. No results. Ryan sped up again, hanging on doggedly, but Vince slowly gained on him and swung around Mercer Island.
Ryan rounded the tip of the island and looked about. Vince must’ve pulled in somewhere, for Ryan couldn’t see him at all. His own boat was acting sluggish and he finally gave up and returned to the dock.
“We’ll get him,” Eric said, as he caught the rope Ryan threw. “I’ve called in a patrol boat.”
“I lost him on the west side of Mercer Island.”
“That’s where I sent them. Come on inside. See if there’s anything incriminating we can pick up. By the way, you’ve a bad hole in your boat.”
“Where?”
“On the bow. Just above the water line.”
Ryan stepped out onto the dock to look. Sure enough, a hole the size of a basketball gaped in his bow. Only his speed had kept water from entering.
“I rammed him. Vince might have one, too. Tell the police to look for a boat with a marred or holed bow.”
“Will do.”
“When you’re done here, I’d like a ride home. I’m not taking this back across the lake tonight.”
“Come have a look.” Eric pulled out his phone and relayed Ryan’s message as he walked into the house. Ryan followed.
Vince’s place was filled with scrap paper— most of it fast-food wrappers that had hit the overflowing garbage cans and bounced to the floor. His computer sat on a desk, surrounded by notebooks.
“Okay if I check this out?” Ryan asked, and Eric nodded.
Ryan sat down and searched the files. He had been successful in stripping Vince of all his money. That would make it harder for the murderer to get away. He mentioned this to Eric.
“You did
what
?”
“I emptied his bank account. Sent all the money back to MXOIL. They can decide how much he owes them and help themselves.”
Eric laughed and shouted the information to the evidence-gathering team, who had begun their work.
“Way to go, man,” one said.
“Wish we could do that to all our felons. They couldn’t use their stolen money to hire a fancy lawyer.”
“This is Ryan Duvall. He’s a computer security specialist,” Eric said.
“Keep him away from my account,” one replied.
Ryan nodded to them and they got back to work. A list of phone numbers lay beside the computer and Ryan pointed them out to Eric. “Bet this matches the ones the phone company has.”
“Yep. We’ll take that.”
Ryan found his stolen CDs and erased just enough of the MXOIL information on them so that they could be entered as evidence but never used against MXOIL or himself. Then he moved out of the way as the computer area was photographed and the CDs and phone list were placed in evidence bags.
“Put the computer in the van, along with his other papers,” Eric said. He walked with Ryan out the door. “Any idea what this guy’ll do next?”
“No. But put a warning on your APB. He’ll shoot anyone who threatens him. He’s got nothing to lose by adding another dead person to his tally.”
“You be careful, too. When he finds out his money is gone, he’s not going to be too friendly.”
“I think he already knows.”
Eric dropped Ryan off at the end of his lane and he ran down the dock, eager to see if Angie had made it back. When Grandma Miller said she hadn’t, he began to worry. Where could she’ve gone?
Tag whined and he grabbed her leash. “We’re going to go look for her,” he told Grandma. “Call me if she comes.”
He took Tag to Scott’s office. Nose to the ground, the pup went to the bus stop, sat down, and whined.
“Like that, huh?” He looked at the routes listed at the stop. It wouldn’t be hard to find out who drove those routes this afternoon, and ask if he or she remembered Angie.
It was growing dark. Maybe she had gone to a shelter. He put Tag in the car and drove there. When he found where she had gone— and that she hadn’t stayed, he called Eric and had him ask his fellow officers to watch for her. Starting to really worry, Ryan drove to the Y, then to every spot he could think of where she might spend the night. He checked all the hospitals, even the morgue.
No Angie. Why had he thought she’d come back to him? Why hadn’t he started looking for her instead of going after Vince? He’d lost them both.
* * *
Angie decided to use her bus transfers to go to the airport. The terminal would be jammed with holiday travelers. Once there, she’d be hard to find.
The streets were growing dark, the night people taking over. A hand on her arm patted her possessively and plucked at her clothing— "Going my way, sweetie? I've fifty dollars." The smell of alcohol accompanied his offer.
"No."
"Seventy? I'll give you a good time." Releasing her he pulled out his wallet.
"No!" She would never be that hard up. "Try someone else."
He swore at her as she moved closer to the bus stop. "Don't get all high on me, girl. I can pay as well as the next guy."
Here came a bus. "Go spend it on someone willing." She stepped aboard, not even looking at the number. It proved to be the wrong one, but she rode it to a transfer point and switched.
A heavy fog had backed up the airlines, leaving a crowd of travelers. Many waited the extra hours with their families rather than on the other side of the checkpoints.
Angie entered one of the rest rooms to clean up. Her face looked a mess— no wonder the man thought she was a streetwalker.
Cold water helped somewhat and a sympathetic woman gave her a comb. "You can have it. I've got another. And here's some lipstick." She wiped it off and handed it to Angie. "It's almost empty. You can keep it."
She appeared to be a motherly sort of woman, who hovered anxiously over Angie. "Are you meeting someone, dear?"
"I'm okay. This looks worse than it is."
The lipstick helped. Her swollen face needed the color to draw attention away from the bruises. "Thanks for your help. You've been most kind."
"I'd like to do more. They called my plane a few minutes ago. They're going to bus us up to Paine field in Everett and we'll fly from there. I wish I could do more." She seemed to be making up her mind as she talked. "Could you use some money? I've got fifty dollars— "
"Thanks. I shouldn’t."
The woman pressed the money into Angie’s hand. "If you were my daughter, I wouldn't want you out here, but I guess you're safe in the terminal."
After thanking the woman profusely, Angie went to a crowded area and joined the people sitting in chairs, waiting for flights.
She picked up a magazine, leaned back and placed it over her face, achieving partial darkness as well as hiding the bruises. She would be okay as long as security didn't notice her.
The Seattle stores were hiring seasonal help and Angie managed to get a job in a shoe store the next afternoon. She explained away her bruised face as the result of an angry boyfriend and offered to work in the stock room. The job would last six weeks as they were willing to keep her into inventory. The problem was, she wouldn't get paid until the end of the first two weeks. The fifty dollars would pay for food and bus only.
She returned to the airport that night and joined the throng, making sure the magazine stayed protectively in its place. And thought all night long about Ryan.
During the next two weeks Angie retreated into herself, drawing on her inner strength to help separate herself from her emotions. The rest of the world enjoyed their holiday time, but the cheerful music playing in the extravagantly decorated store windows only emphasized her situation.
She moved in a state of shock, focusing all her attention on survival and wresting her mind away from the emptiness of what might’ve been. Because of her recent inclusion in Ryan's loving family, the contrast between the two worlds was harder to take, intensified by despair.
She had found the one man with whom she wanted to share her life. Found and then lost him.
Such a loss. Her disappointment when she couldn’t go to the Olympics amounted to nothing. To have lost her job was secondary to the greater loss of separation from Ryan. A rare find— refined gold— a man with the soul of a poet.
Perhaps even greater was the uncertainty. Was her sacrifice noble or foolish or even necessary? Would Ryan believe Scott?
How could she find out?
In her heart she could feel his pain. Surely he felt the same anguish as she. But she had no way of knowing. The first two weeks of December passed in sheer misery.
She stood inside the shoe department, head bowed in thought, her paycheck in her hand. She could now find a place to stay. A decent job and a place to live— it was all she had ever asked for. Yet without Ryan, even the effort to live seemed a burden.
She had to make a start. She needed an address, then she could start replacing the cards she had lost in her wallet. She hadn’t realized how important those cards were until she lost them.
“Hello. I know you, don’t I?”
Angie looked up. The redheaded woman from Warren’s house stood in front of her, shopping bag in one hand, a leather purse slung over her shoulder.
“Oh, yes. You were at Warren’s place... and at the funeral.”
“Right. I’m Barbara McLarren.”
“Angie Reid.”
“You were with Ryan Duvall— the man who spoke so eloquently about Warren. I really appreciated it. Do you work here?”
“Temporarily. I worked for Ryan, but— “
“Did something happen?”
“Yes. You could say that.”
“But you still love him.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’ve been there. And I saw your face at the funeral, when he walked up to take you with him.” She peered closer at Angie. “You’re unhappy.”
“Well, I’m trying to decide— ”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes, but— ”
“Then, don’t wait.”
“What?”
“Don’t wait to get engaged. Don’t wait to tell the world. Warren and I....” She shook her head sadly, spreading her hands apart in a gesture of futility.
“Were you engaged?” Angie asked.
“Almost. We waited. We could’ve had so much more time together.”
Angie looked at the paycheck in her hand. With it she could start a new life in some other town. Away from Ryan. But she didn’t want that.
She had to know if he loved her and if he believed in her innocence. Nothing else mattered. She had to go back to him.
Barbara said, “Good bye,” and walked away. Angie went behind the counter and picked up the phone.
It rang at Ryan’s home. He didn't answer. But now that she had decided to contact him, she couldn't do it fast enough.
She dialed the office.
"Duvall and Associates, Security Systems," the voice announced, the tones low and well modulated. A new secretary.
"I'm trying to contact Ryan Duvall. Do you know where he is?"
"May I ask who’s speaking, please?"
"Uh... um... Angie Reid."