Gus just stared.
“I’ll wait to hear from you.” She pushed away from the table, then hit the call button. A guard outside opened the door. She shot one more look, then disappeared behind the steel door.
Gus gathered up his things and hurried out in search of a phone.
Thirty-five
Early Thursday morning Andie and her supervisor were in Isaac Underwood’s office. She had told Lundquist all about the WCCW inmate and her unusual demands. Right off the bat they were in disagreement over how to follow up on the clothing-store lead. Andie felt strongly enough about it to appeal to the ASAC. Lundquist felt strongly enough to follow right along.
Isaac was seated behind his desk, directly in front of what was known throughout the office as “the wall of teeth and honor.” Isaac had earned more award plaques and letters of commendation than any agent in the office, many of which were displayed in sprawling collage format behind his desk. In the center of it all were the teeth—the huge, gaping jaws of a tiger shark he had fished from the Indian Ocean. For such a nice guy, Isaac had become quite facile in the art of office intimidation.
Isaac was especially busy this morning. Though as ASAC he was technically second in command, he had been running the office since the special agent in charge had retired. Headquarters had yet to name a replacement. Isaac gave Andie ten minutes, not a second more. Run over the time allotted and the deadly jaws would come clamping down on your head. Andie spoke fast, summarizing for Isaac’s benefit, then framing the issues.
“Granted,” she said, “the fact that the inmate is incarcerated at a state penitentiary only complicates things. To do this by the book, we’d have to go through the U.S. attorney’s office, which would contact the state attorney general’s office, which would probably sit on it till Beth Wheatley dies of old age. Gus Wheatley’s instincts are right, I believe. The situation doesn’t give us the luxury of months, weeks, or even days to hammer out a deal with the bureaucracy.”
Isaac asked, “Has anybody considered the possibility that we’re dealing with some bored inmate who’s yanking everybody’s chain for the pure entertainment value of it?”
“Then how would she know about the bulimia? The shoplifting?”
“Valid point,” said Isaac. “What are you proposing, Andie?”
“First, I need to get you on board. If this inmate’s story starts to check out, it will take someone at least at the level of an ASAC to make some phone calls and get the bureaucracy moving.”
“We can deal with that after things check out. So get out of here and go follow your leads.”
Lundquist said, “That’s really why we’re here. There’s some disagreement as to how we should check out that used-clothing store.”
“You got three special agents on the Wheatley kidnapping team. Rock, paper, scissors. The loser drives to Yakima and pokes around. Any more executive decisions you’d like me to make for you?”
“That’s where we disagree,” said Andie.
“Fine. The winner drives to Yakima.”
Isaac was being a real hard ass. It must have stemmed from last night, the brief lapse in the parking lot when he’d let his guard down. Definite overcompensation, thought Andie.
“The issue isn’t who goes,” she said. “It’s how. I don’t think it’s smart for the FBI to march into this store and start flashing badges and asking questions. From all indications we’re dealing with a fairly intelligent serial killer. We don’t know the nature of his connection to this clothing store.”
“If any,” snapped Lundquist.
“True, if any. But we could blow everything if we walk in as straight agents. We need to be more subtle, more creative.”
“This is a pretty flimsy tip to start spending the taxpayer money on surveillance.”
Lundquist piled on smugly. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“Doesn’t have to be surveillance. I can do a cameo appearance. The store caters to lower-income Hispanics and Indians. I’m half Indian. I can play the part.”
“What’s wrong with that, Kent?”
Lundquist made a face. “Because I can see how this is going to turn out. She’ll do a cameo for an afternoon, then she’ll ask for another day, then for a week, on and on. Before you know it, we’ll be into a group-two undercover assignment to the tune of seventy thousand bucks, and in six months the auditors will come crashing down on my head.”
Isaac raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Did I hear someone say the sky is falling?”
“Come on, Isaac. You know that’s the danger of these cameos.”
“To some extent, you’re right.” He glanced the other way. “How about it, Andie? Can you look me in the eye and tell me this is a one-afternoon cameo, nothing more?”
She would have liked to say yes, but she never suckered Isaac. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
“Just so we’re not arguing about extensions day after day, let’s just agree up-front on a time limit.”
“How long?”
“Give me three days. If nothing turns up, I back off the assignment.”
Isaac nodded. “Seems reasonable. You okay with that, Kent?”
He thought for a second, then said, “Fine. Three days.”
“Good.” Andie rose and started for the door before anyone could change their mind. “Thanks, Isaac. I’ll pick you up a nice secondhand shirt or something.”
“Don’t forget about Kent.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said with a thin smile. “I’ll put his on six-month layaway.”
“Three days!” he shouted, but she was already out the door.
Gus had hoped to hear back from Andie quickly, but as the day dragged on and last night’s phone conversation played over and over again in his mind, he was no longer sure she even owed him a call. He had her assurance that she would do everything possible to work a deal with Shirley if her tips panned out. He could only assume that nothing had firmed up.
That afternoon he picked up Morgan from school. During the ride home he tried to follow up on the hunch Carla had raised yesterday—that someone was bothering Morgan at school. He asked general questions. How’s school? Everything okay with your friends? The car was both the best and worst place for this kind of conversation. He had her captive, but with her riding safely away from the air bags in the backseat he couldn’t read her face or check her body language. He wasn’t getting anywhere, so he let it go for now. He wasn’t going to pop the hard questions and try to gauge her reaction in the rearview mirror.
They were home by three o’clock. Morgan went to her room. Gus checked the answering machines in the kitchen and his study. Nothing.
He gave Morgan a few minutes to settle into her room, then checked on her. The door was half open, enough for him to see completely inside. Morgan sat cross-legged on the floor, her back to him. The television was playing. He watched the back of her head, her thin neck, the slight shoulders that made it ever so clear what a little girl she still was. Then he watched the screen. It was the sound that had caught his attention more than the picture. She was playing one of her old videocassettes. Very old. It was called More Baby Songs. Gus remembered it because Morgan used to play it all the time. She was little more than two and had just learned to use the VCR. It was kind of a family joke, but at twenty-six months she knew how to operate it better than her parents did. More Baby Songs had been her favorite video, and her favorite song was the one Beth had taught her. It was right about the time Beth had decided to go back to work for the hotel. The song was about a working mother who leaves her daughter at day care for the day. The daughter cries when she leaves, but the song taught her not to. Because my mommy comes back. She always comes back. She always come back to get me.
Morgan’s voice was cracking as she sang along. Gus watched from the doorway, his heart breaking.
Because my mommy comes back. She always comes back. She never would forget me.
Gus wanted to go to her, scoop
her up in his arms, and hold her, tell her yes, Mommy would be back. But then she would see the doubt in his eyes, his own uncertainties about Beth. That would only make things worse. For the moment, Morgan was better off without him. She was better served by her videos and her songs and her memories of her mother’s unconditional promise.
He suddenly felt the chill, then the warmth of an ironic sense of solace, as if the very thought of Beth’s promise erased any doubt of her return. It occurred to him that in this family he was the promise breaker. Not Beth.
He watched a moment longer, then turned and walked away, a little more sad and yet a little more hopeful.
Thirty-six
His general direction was south, but it had been a zigzag route through Oregon. He had no specific destination in mind, so long as it was well south of the last dump site. Over the past three days he’d moved from town to town, hotel to hotel, shopping mall to shopping mall. He was a compulsive planner but above all a realist. Selection of the next victim always involved a certain amount of luck.
Lucky you, he thought as he sifted through the purse of his latest target. He’d stolen it yesterday, having followed her to a crowded happy hour after work. One minute it was on the bar stool beside her, the next it was gone. Afterward, he’d stayed around to check her reaction from afar. The moment of panic, the frantic search, the realization that it was gone. He could tell a lot about a woman by the way she responded to a minor crisis like a stolen purse. Whether she took charge or crumbled. Whether she got angry or just sobbed. Whether she was a fighter or an easy mark.
This one would be so easy.
And she was a pretty good match, too. She was the right age and build, and the eye and hair color were the same. She was the exact height, according to her driver’s license. She didn’t work at a hotel like the others, but it was getting too damn hard to match them up that closely. He was cutting corners, admittedly, but time was of the essence.
He waited on the east side of her house, dressed in black and nestled between trash cans. Low-hanging pine limbs blocked out the moonlight and shrouded him in darkness. A thick row of evergreen shrubs stretched from the fence to the house, presumably to keep the garbage cans out of view. It was the perfect hiding spot. Through the branches he could see the driveway, which was empty. He had expected her home by now, but she was late—or at least later than the previous three nights he’d stalked her.
It was getting colder by the half hour. He could see his breath. The rubber gloves were stiffening as the night neared the freezing mark. Finally, just after nine o’clock, her car pulled up. The head lamps switched off. She stepped out and slammed the car door shut, then headed up the sidewalk with her house key in hand. The very sight sent his heart pounding. He could have jumped her right there, but that would have been an unnecessary risk. Women were always on guard during that trip from the car to the front door. Better to wait till she was inside, snug and oblivious, completely unaware of the killer outside her door.
She appeared nervous as she climbed the front stairs. The locks had been changed, he knew; he had tried the key from her stolen purse. The new house key shook as she aimed for the lock. All that shivering might have been the cold night air, except that she was bundled up in a heavy winter coat and a warm knit hat. More likely, the theft of her purse yesterday had left her paranoid. She probably thought some guy with a knife was hiding in the bushes beneath her bedroom window.
What an imagination.
She finally opened the door and disappeared inside. A string of windows brightened one after the other as he monitored her movement from the foyer to the living room, down the main hall, and finally to the back bedroom. He knelt outside her window and peered inside. The blinds were raised a half inch above the sill, just enough for him to see inside. She was seated on the edge of the bed, but the way the blinds were adjusted he could see her only from the waist down. For the moment, that view was just fine. She kicked her shoes off. The skirt dropped to the floor. She worked the sheer pantyhose down her long legs. It seemed to gather for a second at the calves. Very nice calf muscles. A jogger for sure, maybe some dance training. She pitched the hose aside and crossed the room to the full-length mirror.
He could see her whole body now, her face, her hair. The hair!
Outside, the change had been hidden beneath her winter hat. The brunette was gone. She’d colored it. Son of a bitch!
Three days of preparations and planning for nothing. He was furious at first, until he realized it was of his own doing, a manifestation of the immense power he wielded. The publicity had gotten to her. Yet another woman unnerved by reports of a serial killer who targeted thirty-something brunettes and who was apparently working his way south from Seattle. He wondered how many other women had been affected the same way and were now driven by fear, though he realized the purse snatching had probably driven this one over the edge.
He watched as she slipped into her robe and admired her new color in the mirror. He was tempted to go through with it, just out of anger. After all, the last one hadn’t been such a perfect match either. Then inspiration struck. He could kill her and dye it back to the rich shade of brown it used to be. That would send a message that no one was safe. If you didn’t look the part, the killer would remake you. Blondes and redheads were no longer immune. No more hiding behind your bottle of Lady Clairol.
It was a stupid idea, giving a corpse a dye job. He had no interest in playing beautician. In fact, he had nearly lost interest in this one altogether. Those self-proclaimed expert profilers would probably say he was in some supposed cooling-off period. They’d say he was still too sated from the last one to get excited about the next. The FBI thought it had everything figured out, as if every serial killer on the planet went into hibernation after a kill and needed time to rejuvenate before the next strike. Some of them did. Some slept for days. But he wasn’t like them.
They didn’t share his energy.
Quietly, as secretly as he had come, he sneaked away from the house. This wasn’t a failure, his walking away. His lack of enthusiasm had nothing to do with timing. It wasn’t even the dye job that had ruined the excitement for him. At bottom, he was simply losing patience with the whole scheme. After three dead look-alikes he had to know.
Was Beth Wheatley with him? Or was she against him?
Part Four
Thirty-seven
Early Friday morning found Andie at Goodwill shopping for secondhand clothes. She bought two pairs of old jeans, one black, one blue; hiking boots; a stained sweatshirt; two sweaters; and a brown winter coat with a torn pocket. She returned to the office at mid-morning and met with a backup technician to construct her cameo persona. They didn’t bother with the phony driver’s license, Social Security number, apartment, telephone number, employment history, credit record, bank account, and other trappings of identity that came with a full-blown undercover operation. For such a short assignment she needed only a name and a story. For the next three days she would be Kira Whitehook, a high school dropout who had drifted in and out of trouble and part-time work for the past ten years. It was not the kind of past to be proud of, which was perfect. She couldn’t be expected to answer many personal questions.
It took some effort to look the part of a transient. She did most of the work herself in one of the office changing rooms. She stripped the polish from her nails and cut them down jagged, till they looked bitten to the quick. She had a few calluses from the weights at the gym. She roughed them up with a pumice stone and gave her knuckles a few nicks with the car keys. The hair was next. Too stylish. She trimmed it at the ends, making sure the ends were slightly uneven. She wet it and blew it dry for nearly a half hour, till it looked baked and over-processed. Finally, the face. The eyebrows were far too perfect, but she couldn’t un- pluck them. She shaved off the very outside tip of the left one. Nothing too distracting, just enough to create a little asymmetry, as if she’d been in some kind of brawl at some point in her life. She washed off ev
ery bit of makeup, but the Cover Girl complexion wasn’t exactly in role. She did a caky, over-brushed job on her cheeks. A waxy brown lipstick helped harden the soft mouth.
She checked the mirror and nearly screamed. Then it seemed funny. She imagined herself sneaking up on Isaac and telling him this was what she looked like on the morning after. Suddenly, it wasn’t so funny. Two weeks ago she would have joked at her own expense, but now for some reason she wouldn’t think of letting him see her like this.
Life is too damn complicated.
She wore the beige cable-knit sweater and baggy blue jeans, no jewelry. The rest of her belongings went in the duffel bag, along with two hundred dollars in cash, the entire budget she had managed to squeeze out of Lundquist. She left her FBI shield and credentials behind in her desk. The gun, a Walther PPK .380, she strapped to her ankle inside her pant leg. It was smaller than her usual Sig-Sauer P–228, more suitable for undercover work.
She left the office during the lunch hour, sneaking out the back so no one would ask her where she was headed or what the new look was about. No one outside the Wheatley kidnapping team, her supervisor, and Isaac would know she was working undercover. It was simply too dangerous to divulge a secret like that, be it to the victim’s family, outside law enforcement agencies, or other FBI agents who didn’t need to know. As much as she would have liked to assure Gus that she was following up his lead, phoning him was out of the question.
The Greyhound bus left Seattle at 3:10 P.M. She probably could have driven, but the safest course was to stay in her role from the minute she left the field office.
She was one of eleven passengers scattered about the bus. Andie had a window seat in the middle. She rode in silence, save for the occasional outburst from the two young boys with their grandmother up front. The creepy guy across the aisle made eye contact once, smiled, and pulled a big wad of chewing gum from his mouth.
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