Dead Ringer (28 page)

She handed a picture of Lupita Ruiz to him. “Then you must know this woman, right?”

He squinted at it too long. He tried for a poker face but wasn’t good enough. She saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He handed it back. “Nope, never seen her.”

“Real name’s Lupita Ruiz. She probably used the street name Charmane when working this area. She’s missing. We’re
trying to find out where she was before she went missing.” She tried to give the photo back to him.

“Can’t help you, lady.”

“Can’t or won’t?” She paused a beat. “I do Missing Persons, not Vice. I’m definitely not here to cause you any problems, but you force me to, I will.”

He didn’t blink.

Wendy said, “Here’s the deal. You and I both know that she was soliciting in here. You guys working the register got a cut of the action for not interfering. Hey, no skin off my nose.”

The guy shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you other than I don’t know her.”

With a sigh, Wendy pushed off the counter and slid the picture back in her purse. “Well, then, guess you won’t be all broken up if we keep a patrol car and a couple motorcycles in the parking lot for the next month or so. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s been a lot of speeding along this stretch. Chief wants to crack down on them. Thanks for your help.” She turned toward the door.

The guy scanned the empty store. “Wait.”

She stopped and turned to him. “Yeah?”

“Okay, so I know her.”

Wendy’s pulse quickened. “When did you see her last?” she asked.

“Fuck, I don’t know. I sell porn and toys. I didn’t make her fucking appointments.”

“Chill, dude. Already said this isn’t about you. Tell me this, she must’ve used a place close by. Have any idea where it might be?”

“I don’t know, but you might want to check out that motel next door.”

Wendy held up the head shots of Andy Baer from when he was booked. “Know this guy?”

The guy stared at the pictures. “Yeah, shit, seen him around once or twice.”

“His name’s Andy Baer. You keep a file of rentals, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Assuming he used his real name. What I mean is, it shouldn’t come as a big shock that a shitload of people use a false name renting videos. I couldn’t care less. Unless, of course, they, like, don’t return ’em.”

“Take a look, see if he’s on file.”

The clerk shuffled to a counter on his right. “How’s that spelled, his last name?”

She told him; he typed.

“Well, what do you know? He’s here, and he’s even got a late charge on a DVD.”

Wendy’s pulse quickened more. “When was it rented?”

He recited the date.

Christ!
The same date Lupita disappeared, and the day before Andy’s car was impounded from the parking lot out front.

T
HE MOTEL WAS A
two-story L-shaped structure indistinguishable from a thousand others along highways from Seattle to Miami. Hick-brick exterior, flat tar roof, rusting wrought-iron rails, noisy air conditioners hanging out of walls, a cracked asphalt parking lot, a sign boasting cable TV. It’d seen better days.

So had the dishwater blonde who sauntered from the back room thirty seconds after Wendy punched the call bell.

The small overheated office contained a scarred laminate counter, two vending machines, and an ice maker creating suspicious rumbles. A plasticized sign taped on the wall listed adult film rental rates. Lucas smelled disinfectant, maybe Lysol, and stale nicotine.

Handing the clerk the picture of Lupita, Wendy said, “Ever see her before?”

“Yeah. She’s been around a couple times.”

Wendy asked, “She ever stay here?”

“Yup. Couple times.”

“She rent the room?”

“Nope. The guys do that.” As if it was protocol.

“Same guy?” Wendy asked, unable to mask a note of hope in her voice.

For a moment the woman stared at Wendy with a you-gotta-be-kidding look, then shook her head.

“I want you to check, see if a man by the name Andy Baer ever rented a room.” Wendy told her the specific date and spelled the last name.

The woman opened a small file box and flipped through registration cards. “I’ll look, but even if he used his name, he most likely paid in cash.” She made it sound like Wendy didn’t have a clue about how the sex business worked.

Lucas turned to Wendy offered, “I’ll bet he’d charge it if he stayed here. He was a nut about using his credit card to rack up airline mileage.”

The woman gave a snort, then stopped, pulled out a card. “Lookee here. You’re right.”

Wendy leaned over the counter to see the card. “Which room?”

The clerk handed it over to her.

Wendy asked, “Is 201 occupied now? I need to look at it.”

After checking, the clerk announced it was empty.

Before stepping into the room, Wendy warned Lucas, “Don’t touch a thing.”

The room interior was even more depressing than the exterior. A queen-size bed with a queen-size sag in the center. An empty closet with two bare wire hangers dangling from an unpainted dowel. No ironing board, no safe. A small bathroom with rust-stained drains and cracked porcelain. At the foot of the bed, an ancient TV and DVD chained to a cheap laminate stand. The room smelled of mold and dust.

Wendy checked the DVD player, but Andy’s delinquent movie wasn’t there. She stood, mulling something over.

It’d been more than three weeks since Andy used the room. God knew what traffic had passed through here by now. Of course, Wendy could find out that information if she wanted, but the question wasn’t if Andy had been here. She knew he had. He’d rented the DVD at 2:17 and checked into this motel at 2:31. His BMW was impounded from the rental store parking lot the next morning.

Wendy knew how Lupita had worked—scanning the patrons in the porn shop, then approaching them to go next door and watch what they rented, together. Because it was so convenient, most customers left their cars, as Andy must have done. When the car hadn’t been moved by morning, the clerk had it towed.

Wendy turned to Lucas. “Let’s get out of here. We have a few more things to do.”

T
RAVIS WAS WAITING AT
the fountain by the time Wendy could ditch Lucas, drive over, park, and hike into the center. She sat next to him, glanced around to make sure no one was within listening range, then turned to face him so she could keep her voice down.

“The mortician I was telling you about—Ditto?”

“Yeah.”

“I need a wire on his lines. Both cell and land, private and business. Here,” she handed him the warrant she’d composed two days ago.

“I assume you’re going through Internal Affairs because you don’t want anyone on your team knowing about it?”

She smiled. “Once we have it in place, I’ll submit the same paperwork to Redwing.”

He nodded. “Gotcha. Might let us find the snitch, is what you’re saying.”

She patted his knee as she stood. “I need it ASAP.”

H
EADLIGHTS OFF, LEO GERHARD
crept the black Chrysler along the street toward McRae’s home. No pedestrians or traffic in this quiet residential neighborhood at this time of night. He suspected the occasional car was a lawyer or a doctor heading home after a long day at work. How else could anyone afford fancy places like these? Even if he had the money, he wouldn’t live like this. Expensive homes cost a fucking fortune. They also meant huge responsibilities, like cutting the lawn, painting the siding, washing the windows. An endless list of jobs that sucked all the pleasure right out of life. Those chumps could have it. His present arrangement of living rent free at the mortuary was just fine for him.

He eased to the curb across from McRae’s house and shifted the transmission into neutral, allowing the engine to idle. Only the upstairs master bedroom window remained lit. McRae’s Volvo was parked at the curb; a large Dumpster overflowing with debris blocked the driveway. The neighboring homes were dark too, making the area feel almost deserted. A westerly wind whipped leaves on the trees and warned of an approaching rainstorm blowing in from the Pacific.

Gerhard eased off the brake and back onto the accelerator. After a block he curbed the car again but this time killed the engine. He sat in darkness listening for unusual sounds and watching to make sure a late-night dog walker wasn’t heading
his way. Satisfied, he stuffed a ski mask in his windbreaker pocket before slipping on latex exam gloves. He patted his left front pocket to make certain the small Bersa pistol was there. A beautiful weapon. Blue nickel, compact size, manufactured in Argentina. He’d found it in the purse of a strung out black hooker a couple months ago. Just one more example of the contamination they’d removed from society.

He planned to simply put a round through McRae’s mouth and out his head. No note. Just another depressed person electing to end his life without telling the world why. Not leaving a note was more common than people thought. And in McRae’s case, who could question the timing? Here was a man either racked with guilt over killing his wife or consumed with sorrow over her death, depending on whether or not you believed he set the car bomb. Either way, suicide would seem logical.

Black jeans, black T-shirt, and black windbreaker concealed Gerhard easily in shadows as he moved soundlessly toward McRae’s house. Reaching the Dumpster in the driveway, he found a place to settle in and watch the house yet still be hidden from anyone on the street. Sitting on cement, he nestled his back against cold metal and waited, hoping the rain wouldn’t start before it was time to enter the house. This time he wouldn’t fail.

W
ENDY ELLIOTT EASED THE
car to the curb three houses down from McRae’s, killed the engine, and sat back in the seat.

Earlier in the day she’d approached Redwing with a request for a forensics team to examine the motel room. In building her case, she explained the details of how Lupita mined the adult video store for johns to take to the neighboring motel. But she
also included several misleading pieces to the puzzle, and in a couple instances, purposely gave him false information.

Before talking with Redwing, Wendy phoned Travis and told him the entire story. After a verbal pat on the head and a thanks, he told her to keep at it and that they needed more.

Needed more? Christ, the connection between Redwing and Ditto was now rock solid. What more did Travis need? Say Bobby Ditto offs a hooker and someone reports her missing. With Redwing in charge of the Missing Persons unit, he could make sure that the report on one of Ditto’s victims never surfaced. And if a relative made noise about the case, Redwing could take charge of the investigation himself. There are a hundred ways to make an investigation yield nothing. Besides, a good number of missing persons turn out to be runaways who
want
to be missing. Where the hell do they go? A few—usually women—end up as skeletons, murder victims. Another sizeable number just vanish. What if some of those ended up at DFH? Who would know? No one. It was a perfect system. Unless they killed the wrong person.

Why couldn’t Travis see how logical her deductions were?

She yawned. Stupid to not have picked up some coffee. And yawned again—they always seemed to come in threes with her. She adjusted the seat to give her a bit more leg room and a better incline to make sitting more comfortable. Glanced around at the quiet darkened residential street with nice yards and homes. Not particularly affluent, but well maintained. She yawned the final time and let her heavy lids close. Nothing going on right at the moment, so would it hurt to close her eyes for a few seconds?

L
UCAS COULDN
’
T RELAX, COULDN
’
T
stop thinking about this mess his life was in, much less sleep. He clicked on the lamp and picked up a novel. By the end of the page, he realized nothing was making sense. He started again at the top of the page but got the same result. He put the book back and started pacing.

Maybe a drink would relax him. Go downstairs and mix a martini? A scotch? Yeah, that sounded good. Only a small one, just enough to take the edge off his anxiety. Then come back up and check the email again to see if Wong’s shipping information was there, He stood, eyed the gun on the table next to him. Until now, the idea of aiming a loaded weapon at someone with the intent of pulling the trigger wasn’t in him. Things change. Now he believed beyond any doubt that if he came face-to-face with the bastard who killed Laura, he could do it. But there was no need to take the gun for a simple trip downstairs to pour a glass of scotch. Leaving the pistol next to the computer, he walked out the bedroom door.