Dead Ringer Page 17

  “Table for two?” asked the hostess.

  The hostess seated them, handed out menus, and asked for drink orders.

  “Glass of chardonnay,” Wendy said.

  “Why not make that a bottle,” Lucas added.

  They started with small talk—the drive out, the weather, anything but Andy.

  A waitress returned with their bottle of Kendall-Jackson and two glasses, poured, asked if they’d decided on their orders yet.

  “I’ll take your chicken Caesar,” Wendy said without looking at the menu.

  Lucas hadn’t looked, either. “A pepperoni pizza with mushrooms,” he said, figuring odds were they had it. The air smelled of garlic bread and olive oil, and the background clatter was loud enough he had to listen carefully to hear her.

  The waitress departed, leaving them in awkward silence.

  Lucas asked, “So what made you want to become a cop?”

  Wendy took him through a bullet point life history. Growing up in Moses Lake and how, unlike her sister who attended Washington State University to major in pregnancy and now lived with three rug rats and a husband down the street from her parents, she had wanted to be elsewhere.

  “I wanted out,” she said. “I wanted to get away from the blistering summers and small-town atmosphere. Solving mysteries intrigued me ever since I read my first Nancy Drew. Sounds silly, huh?”

  He shook his head, fascinated. “No, not at all. Go on.”

  “My parents used to limit the amount of TV we could watch. Thirty minutes a day. That was it. Didn’t matter if it was the news or the Mariners. What happened was I ended up in my room reading most of the time.”

  Wendy paused, smiling, a slight blush on her face. “Know what I’d do some Saturdays? I’d ride my bike to the post office and memorize mug shots. You know, the FBI’s most wanted. Then I’d spend the afternoon lurking around the mall playing undercover agent, checking out shoppers. Never caught one of the bad guys, but that wasn’t for lack of trying.

  “A neighbor of ours was a K-9 officer.” She blushed again. “I was so conniving. It’s embarrassing now that I look back on it. I purposely made friends with his German shepherd so I could get to know him. Once I did that, I conned him into letting me ride with him on patrol. I’d ask questions about police work. I’d stay out as late as I could. He seemed to like having someone care about what he did and taught me a lot. Even now, one of my favorite TV shows is Cops.” She paused to sip wine.

  “Senior year in high school I signed up for a stint with the army. Dad never said a word, but I know he would’ve preferred me to go air force. Thing was, the army said they’d guarantee me a spot in CID and the air force didn’t. Man, you should’ve seen it the day I told everyone what I’d done. We were all sitting at dinner when I dropped the bomb. Dad was so cool. He said he didn’t mind, just as long as I was happy. Not Sis. She couldn’t believe it. Thought it was unnatural or something. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to start a legacy of babies. Legacy. That was her exact word.” She laughed.

  “Mom was totally disappointed. She came right out and asked why I didn’t want to do better. Become a nurse, or if law was really that important to me, become a lawyer. To this day she still doesn’t get the difference between solving mysteries and practicing law. Mysteries are intrigue; law is flat-out boring. I can’t imagine sitting at a desk for hours poring over all the small print. Worse yet is criminal defense work. Spending all your energy trying to find ways to squirm some two-bit guilty loser out of taking responsibility for his actions. Look at the O.J. Simpson case. How can you justify that kind of crap?

  “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.

  DINNER 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.

  WENDY’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 sp
ot 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 …

  LUCAS 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.

  38

  LUCAS’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.”

  39

  “IT’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.”

  “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  “There’s been a fire at the house …” He ran out of words, his mind simply shut down.

  “I’ll be there soon as I can.” Josh hung up.

  Lucas looked at his phone for a moment before pressing the button to disconnect his end. He realized something was completely wrong in his world but couldn’t wrap his mind around exactly what. Laura couldn’t be dead.

  Lange said, “You didn’t answer me. We need your statement recorded properly. Will you come to the precinct to give one?”

  Statement? What the hell for? He couldn’t seem to concentrate on what was being said to him.

  Suddenly the nauseous foreboding from Hong Kong was back, only this time stronger. Much stronger. It started becoming clear … a car bomb. Laura was dead. What other reason would there be for the cops to consider it a crime scene? He felt weak and dizzy.

  “Well? What’s it going to be?”

  Lucas tried to think but kept coming back to one thing: she’s dead.

  “McRae, I’m talking to you.”

  His brain started working again. He’d seen enough cop movies and TV shows to know he should ask, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Lange raised his eyebrows. “Why? You done something wrong?”

  Lange’s tone sealed it. Damn right he needed one.

  LANGE OPENED A SOLID-LOOKING door, motioned Lucas into an interrogation room no different from the ones seen in countless TV shows and movies, except it didn’t have one-way glass. This was the same building where he’d filed the missing persons report. Was Wendy down the hall? If so, did she know about this? Could she help him?

  “Want something to drink? Coffee, Coke?”

  “A Coke.”

  Soon as Lange left, he called his lawyer. The only lawyer Lucas knew was out of town, so his secretary transferred him to another attorney in the office.

  Lucas was halfway through the story when she said, “You need a criminal defense lawyer. No one in our firm does that kind of work. I’ll see who I can find. You said West Precinct, that’s where they’re holding you?”

  Lucas waited in the room for Lange to return with a Coke. He desperately needed something to settle his stomach with the crab still clawing the
hell out of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of Laura being dead.

  No, it was all a huge mistake. Laura was still alive. One of her girlfriends had picked her up, and right now they were doing yoga or aerobics or getting a massage. That could be why her cell phone was off. Sure, that was it. A cell phone might break the mood from all that new age music and incense.

  But then why would he be here in a goddamn interrogation room?

  Jesus, where was that lawyer?

  Lange finally returned but without coffee or a Coke or the previously friendly smile. In fact, he looked serious as shit. “Mind if I record this?” he asked in an offhanded way.

  Alarms rang in Lucas’s head. He glanced around for a microphone or camera but didn’t see one so figured it must be hidden in the vents to put people more at ease. “What about the garage? You find anything?”

  “I’ll repeat the question. May I record this conversation?”

  A flash of anger ignited in Lucas’s chest. “Yes! Now goddamn it, what about the garage?”

  Lange pointed to a straight-back metal chair behind a small table. Both the table and chair were bolted to the floor. “When I have definitive news, I’ll tell you. Now have a seat so we can record your statement.”

  He went through the business of stating the date, time, his own name and then asked Lucas to say his name and residence. This sudden formality did nothing but spike his anxiety. Then again, he saw no problem in answering such benign questions. What harm would it be to admit his name and address?

  Lange asked, “What cars do you own?”

  A voice inside warned to wait until the lawyer arrived, that this was now edging into problem areas. But Lange probably had his DMV files and his VIN numbers, so the question might be aimed at evaluating his truthfulness. He said, “An Audi and the Volvo.”