Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  “Maybe they should.”

  “Dick, listen—”

  “No, you listen. Are you going to tell me that an FBI profile has never been wrong?”

  Andie was silent.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said. “I thank you for your call. If I need anything more from you, I’ll be in touch.”

  The line clicked before she could respond. She slammed down the receiver and fell back in her chair. Idiot.

  Gus was encouraged when he left the staff meeting. The show of support was heartening. At least he wasn’t totally alone.

  Before he made it through the lobby, however, he was called to an emergency meeting of the executive committee. He assumed they wanted to ask how much time he would take off and what the firm could do to help. It was a nice gesture, prompted no doubt by the outpouring of support from the staff. His high-ranking partners were never to be outdone, even if it meant having to extend an act of kindness.

  He headed to the north conference room to meet the committee. It was an interesting choice of venue, the only conference room with a round table. No one could sit at the head, Gus’s usual position.

  “Hope I haven’t kept you all waiting,” said Gus as he entered.

  In unison they mumbled something to the effect of “no problem.” Martha was seated on the far side of the table, her back to the window. Beside her was the chairman of the litigation department, and next to him was the chairman of the corporate department. Buster Ullman was standing at the window, taking in the view. He was the firm’s administrative partner, the whip cracker and keeper of the purse. He tracked each lawyer’s “productivity,” making sure they billed the requisite hours, sent out their invoices on time, and collected the hours they billed. A phone call from Ullman was like an audit letter from the IRS.

  Upon Gus’s arrival, the entire five-member executive committee was present.

  “Have a seat,” said Ullman. The tone was serious. Gus pulled up one of the empty chairs opposite Martha.

  Ullman remained standing. “I assume you know why we called this meeting.”

  “You want to help find my wife?”

  He coughed. “Well, we do hope the police are making progress on that. But the immediate focus of this committee has to be those things that are within our power and control.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we have to deal with the potential public and client relations problems caused by that newscast last night.”

  Anger churned inside—though he wasn’t totally shocked. “My wife is missing, and you want to talk public relations?”

  “Please don’t put it that way.”

  “What way?”

  Ullman stepped closer. “This is a personal tragedy for you. We’re all very sorry. But somebody has to make sure this personal tragedy doesn’t turn into a firm crisis.”

  Gus glanced at the others at the table, fixing last on Martha. “Is that the way you all feel? My personal life is a liability to the law firm?”

  They were silent. Ullman said, “This can’t come as a total surprise to you, Gus. We went through this same discussion five years ago. An allegation of spouse abuse against the managing partner of this law firm can have serious ramifications. Clients could fire us. Female recruits could fall off. Bad press follows. And so forth.”

  “None of those things happened the last time.”

  “No. But until last night no one knew that Beth had actually filed a formal complaint.”

  Gus felt like lashing out, but he thought before he spoke, measuring his words. “After all this time, don’t you find it peculiar that Action News somehow got wind of that complaint?”

  “Peculiar? I don’t follow you.”

  “When this whole thing started five years ago, I was up-front about it. None of it was true, but for some reason Beth had accused me of abuse. I brought it to the attention of this committee just in case it became public.”

  “You said she had told a girlfriend that you had hit her. You didn’t tell us she had filed a formal complaint.”

  “She withdrew the complaint the day after she filed it. Because it simply wasn’t true. We put it behind us, never really talked about it again. Very few people knew it had ever been filed. In fact, I could probably name those people on one hand. Maybe even one finger.” He was looking right at Martha.

  She glared in return. “You’re out of line, Gus.”

  “Am I?”

  Ullman intervened. “Well, let’s not make this personal. All we’re saying is that we are truly sorry about your personal situation. But this law firm can’t stop operating because of it.”

  “It hasn’t stopped. I’ve been away for three days.”

  “And you will undoubtedly be away longer.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “Good. I’d hoped you would be reasonable about this.”

  “Reasonable about what?”

  “About the appointment of an interim managing partner. Someone to take over in your absence.”

  Gus smelled a political coup, with his own blood on the rug. He knew that under the partnership agreement it would take four votes to replace him. He needed his own vote and one other. He glanced at Martha. She looked away. After that “soul mate” fiasco yesterday morning it was clear he didn’t have her vote.

  Ullman said, “I nominate Martha Goldstein to serve as interim managing partner.”

  Gus did a double-take. Boy, did he not have her vote.

  “Second,” said another.

  “All in favor?” said Ullman.

  It was unanimous. Gus stewed in silence.

  Ullman said, “Try to be objective, Gus. Surely you can see the wisdom of putting a woman at the helm when the existing managing partner is getting bad press about wife-beating allegations.”

  He rose slowly and quietly. “This firm can have whoever it wants at the helm.” He glared at each of his partners around the table, then finally at Martha. “And in this case, you deserve what you’re getting.”

  He turned and left the room, slamming the door on the way out.

  Sixteen

  Andie allowed herself a mid-morning refill. She needed the caffeine, but it was definitely a trade-off. Coffee never used to bother her stomach, but the one-two punch of a serial killer investigation on the heels of her own death at the altar had apparently changed her constitution.

  The phone rang as she settled into her desk chair. She started, spilling a full hot cup across the papers on her desk. She was just about to phone Gus, and she had the strangest feeling it was him beating her to the punch. Not too jittery this morning, are we?

  The phone kept ringing. She frantically soaked up the hot coffee with a too small napkin and grabbed the phone with the other hand. “Henning,” she answered.

  “Is this Agent Henning of the FBI?”

  It was a woman’s voice. Andie lifted a coffee-soaked memo by the corner, pitching it in the trash like a dead animal. “Yes, it is.”

  “You don’t know me, but I’d like to talk to you about the disappearance of Beth Wheatley.”

  She snapped to attention. “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t know how important this will be to your investigation, but it’s important for me to get a few things out in the open.”

  “What kind of things?”

  The line crackled with her sigh. “Let’s not do this on the phone. If I’m going to put my trust in someone, I prefer to do it in person.”

  “That’s fine. We can use my office. Or I can meet you somewhere.”

  “How about Waterfront Park? Say around twelve-thirty?”

  “Sure.” She made a note in her coffee-soaked appointment calendar. “You know, I assumed from your tone that you were calling anonymously, so I didn’t ask who you were. But since we’re meeting face to face, you want to give me your name?”

  “Only if you’ll agree not to tell anyone we talked.”

  “Why is that of concern to you?”

  “You’ll u
nderstand when we meet.”

  “All right. I’ll do my best to accommodate you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that if all goes well, I won’t reveal your name unless a court orders me to.”

  “I guess that’s good enough.”

  “So what is your name?”

  She paused. “I’ll tell you when we meet. Wouldn’t want you doing any homework on me beforehand. It doesn’t do anyone any good to come into a meeting like this with preconceived notions.”

  This was a strange one. “Okay. How will I recognize you?”

  “Just wait by the entrance to Pier 57. I know what you look like.”

  It was a little creepy, the way she had said that. “Okay. See you at half-past.”

  “See ya.”

  Andie disconnected with her finger, then quickly dialed Isaac Underwood. She got his voice mail. “Isaac, it’s Henning. Got a source on the Wheatley case that wants to meet around lunchtime. Just the two of us. I need backup to watch us.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the Jane Doe autopsy photo atop the files on her credenza.

  “Just in case,” she added.

  Gus went through a thousand flyers in a single morning. He tacked them up on walls and billboards at bus stops, gas stations, grocery stores—anywhere someone might see them. Momentum and a blank mind kept him going. When he finished, one thought crept up on him: What if she had just walked out on him? That didn’t seem likely. Not after last night’s newscast. It was only logical that she would have called and at least put Morgan’s mind to rest that her mommy was safe, no need to worry. Which meant the converse was true: there was reason to worry.

  It was precisely that kind of worry that had driven him to the gun shop. Gus was no stranger to firearms. One of his clients was an avid skeet shooter, and Gus had discovered he was a natural on their first of many weekend outings. He had owned a pistol for home protection some years ago, until Morgan proved to be an overly curious toddler. Now seemed like a good time to replace the old 9mm Smith & Wesson. Hopefully, Beth would be home before the waiting period for handgun purchases elapsed. If not—if she was the victim of foul play—Gus and his daughter weren’t going to be next. At least not without a fight.

  As to Morgan, he had other worries as well. In the late morning he called Carla to see if they had talked all about him on the way to school. Despite her denials, Gus suspected that if the well hadn’t already been poisoned, it was now bubbling over with toxins.

  His flyer-posting campaign had started downtown and worked north, so he stopped for lunch in north Seattle near the University of Washington. An eclectic mix of bookstores, newsstands, pubs, shops, and inexpensive eateries lined University Way Northeast, the “Ave” as it was called locally. Gus stopped at Shultzy’s Sausage, THE BEST OF THE WURST, according to the sign outside.

  He ate his steamed bratwurst in silence, unfazed by the noisy students and business people at nearby tables. He hardly noticed the vagrant at the counter finishing off the last few bites of a hotdog some overstuffed patron had left behind. His worries were getting the better of him, making him irrational. He was kidding himself about the gun. If Agent Henning was right—if Beth was the victim of a serial killer—Gus would be no match for a psychopath who killed for sheer enjoyment. He had no specific reason to think he would come after him or Morgan, but there was no assurance that he wouldn’t. If he was serious about protection, it was time to act serious.

  He pulled his directory from his briefcase and scrolled through his client list. Gus could have called a dozen corporate executives who knew everything there was to know about private security. He settled on Marcus Mueller, a bona fide corporate mogul who hadn’t gone anywhere without a bodyguard since fellow Seattle gazillionaire Bill Gates got hit in the face with a cream pie in Belgium. According to his secretary, Marcus was lunching with his wife at the Seattle Yacht Club. Yachting season didn’t start until the first Saturday in May, but the salmon steaks in the clubhouse were flavorful year round.

  If it had been anyone else but Marcus, Gus might not have interrupted a husband-wife lunch date. But it was likely a business lunch. Mrs. Mueller called the shots in that family. It was her father who had started the company that her husband now ran. And he ran it well. That was the reason Gus wasn’t terribly worried about the firm’s appointment of Martha Goldstein as “interim” managing partner. As long as he had Mueller—whose company accounted for nearly twenty percent of the firm’s billings—Gus could wrestle back his control. It was just a matter of forging new alliances with all those partners he kept busy.

  Gus reached him on his cell phone. His timing was good. Leslie was in the restroom, so he had Marcus all to himself.

  “Marcus, I need a favor.”

  “Oh?”

  It was a cautious “oh,” a little surprising from a man who had promised never to forget the lawyer who had saved his corporate ass from a criminal antitrust indictment. Gus said, “It’s a safety matter. I’m a little concerned about my daughter, Morgan.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s just…” Gus hesitated on the details. It wasn’t good for business to let a major client know how screwed up your personal life was. “You heard about Beth, I imagine?”

  “Yes. I, uh, saw the newscast.”

  Gus wondered which one he’d seen—with or without the abuse allegations. He didn’t probe. “With all that’s going on, I think it might be smart to have someone looking after Morgan. A bodyguard, I mean.”

  “I understand. I’m very concerned for Beth.”

  “We all are. If anything were to happen to Morgan—well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “If you’re that scared, can’t you send her out of town to stay with relatives?”

  “I don’t think sending her away is the best thing. It’s good for her to be around her friends at school. I’d like to keep things as normal as possible.”

  “Putting a bodyguard on her is hardly going to make her feel normal.”

  “We don’t have to tell her he’s a bodyguard. We can call him a driver or male nanny, whatever.”

  He chuckled. “Most of the guys I’d recommend are built more like the rock of Gibraltar than Fran Drescher.”

  “I’m not looking for the bouncer type. I’m thinking more along the lines of a private investigator.”

  “You’re a wealthy man, but I hate to see anyone spend more than he has to. A good P.I. will cost more than just a bodyguard, and he probably won’t give Morgan any better protection.”

  “I need more than just protection.”

  “What kind of skills you looking for?”

  “I want to take some initiative here. I need someone who can help me find Beth.”

  “Hold on a second, Gus.”

  Gus had shared enough meals with the Muellers to know what was going on. Leslie was returning to the table, an event as auspicious as the Queen of Heart’s return to that garden in Wonderland: “Off with your head” if you didn’t drop everything, bow, and pay homage.

  “Who’s that on the phone?” Gus heard Leslie ask.

  “Gus.”

  “Gus Wheatley?” she asked pointedly.

  The shushing came as crackling over the line. Marcus was clearly sensitive to his wife’s tone. “He wants help.”

  “You are not going to do that wife beater any favors. Tell him what we’ve decided.”

  “I can’t tell him now. He sounds terrible.”

  “Tell him.”

  Gus could hear the embarrassment in Marcus’s voice. “Gus, can I call you back?”

  “I heard what Leslie said. What is it you need to tell me?”

  “It’s purely business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I really don’t want to do this on the phone.”

  “What,” Gus scoffed, “are you firing me?”

  His voice dropped, deadly serious. “For the time being, I think it’s best if we sev
ered our relationship.”

  Gus gripped the phone. “Over a stupid newscast? Come on.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Then you must know something I don’t know.”

  “Apparently I must.”

  “What are you saying?”

  The hesitation in his voice was palpable. Leslie was undoubtedly tightening the screws with one of her deadly glares. “Gus, I really can’t discuss it.”

  “Does this have to do with the management change at the firm?”

  “Let’s not get into law firm politics.”

  “It’s just an interim appointment. Until this passes. It’s not permanent.”

  “Yes. And that’s exactly the way you should view our separation. A temporary thing.”

  Gus went cold. His client’s hollow tone made it painfully clear that neither change was temporary.

  “Gus, I truly wish you the best of luck.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for nothing.”

  He switched off his cell phone. A flash of anger made him want to call Martha Goldstein, yell at her, ask her what the hell was going on. He caught himself fidgeting with his wedding ring, however, and the impulse instantly evaporated. It was a nervous habit of his. Whenever he got stressed, he would pull the platinum band on and off. It was off now. He checked the inscription inside, though he had it memorized.

  It made him smile. Beth’s sense of humor used to make him smile all the time. Back then. Now, however, it was a sad smile. Sadder than ever. PUT ME BACK ON, it read.

  He slid the ring back on, grabbed his briefcase full of flyers, and headed for his car.

  Seventeen

  Waterfront Park was on the eastern edge of downtown, hugging Elliott Bay. It was Seattle’s version of a soothing boardwalk, with elevated walkways that offered grand vistas of Puget Sound. On sunny summer weekends it was a prime spot for watching the water show put on by the city’s fireboats, as geysers of sea water shot into the air at the rate of 22,000 gallons a minute. Grassy areas attracted picnickers and shirtless Frisbee fanatics. On a cloudy winter day, however, it was just another shade of gray, its concrete walkways blending with the fog that shrouded land and sea.