by Allen Wyler
Ditto breathed a sigh of relief. “What’s a more realistic figure?”
“Ninety, thereabouts.”
Ditto had already done the math. Even at ninety it was a steal. He held out his hand. “Deal.”
6
HUTONG RESTAURANT, HONG KONG
“YOUR DRINK, SIR.” A waiter wearing white gloves and a tux held out a round black lacquer tray to Lucas with a traditional martini glass perfectly centered. A spiraled lemon rind floated in Bombay Sapphire, one end hooked over the rim, looking like it was right out of an Architectural Digest advertisement.
“Thank you.” Lucas sampled the drink. Perfect. Exactly what he needed. Especially after today. Man, what a bitch it’d been.
Once he’d recovered from the initial shock of seeing that guy that looked like his friend, he’d gone on to do the demonstration, but only after Wong exchanged that head with another one, which turned out to be a female with her hair clipped off too. From the natural color of the roots and the lack of lines around the eyes and mouth, he guessed her to be mid-twenties. Which also seemed so depressing. How could a woman so young be dead? It caused him worry again about his son Josh. Was he okay?
Now he was supposed to be chatting up the other surgeons but couldn’t bring himself to do it. They seemed to sense this and left him alone, standing in small clusters, chatting and munching serious-looking hors d’oeuvres served by an attractive Chinese woman in an embroidered red silk dress with a mandarin collar and provocative slit up the side to show a little leg. With her killer smile and long legs, she wove effortlessly through the group.
With the start of the morning session delayed an hour, they’d finished later than scheduled, so Wong had shepherded the group here directly from the hospital, giving Lucas just one chance to call home with his cell phone, only to get no answer. How frustrating. He checked his watch and calculated how much longer until the party might be over so he could go back to his room. Hopefully, dinner would be mercifully short.
He took another sip of the martini and attempted to distract himself by looking more closely at the restaurant. Impressive. The society had reserved a separate dining area of the Hutong, a restaurant renowned for its bird’s-eye view of Hong Kong from the twenty-eighth floor of One Peking in Tsim Sha Tsui. Nice place. And in a better frame of mind, he’d certainly would’ve enjoyed the guest of honor role. But not after this morning.
Drink in hand, he stepped to the floor-to-ceiling windows to peer down on Hong Kong Island and Victoria Harbour where two Star Ferries passed each other in opposite directions. He checked his watch again, trying to convert to Seattle time, vaguely aware of a fifteen-hour difference.
A familiar voice asked, “You feel better now?” Wong stood next to him, teacup in one hand, saucer in the other.
Lucas said, “Let me ask you. How did you obtain the heads?”
“We ordered them from a supplier. M-E-R-C-S.” He said each letter individually. “With all the demonstrations you do, I’m sure you must have heard of them. Perhaps you have even been an instructor for one of their in-house courses?”
“No, never heard of them.” But it made sense to obtain anatomical parts this way. The specimens were always there for him at the demonstrations, and he’d never given it much thought. Besides, his primary focus was on the dissection, not how the parts were supplied. But now … Suddenly his mind flooded with questions. “So how does it work? You just call up and say I want four heads for such and such a date, and they show up?”
“Essentially, but the process is not as capricious as that. First, you must be able to document a legitimate need. In this case, we were required to verify our status as a valid medical organization made up of licensed physicians.”
This was another point he hadn’t considered. “When did they arrive?”
“Yesterday. In fact, the courier is over there.” Wong nodded to his left.
“Courier?”
“Yes, of course.”
Lucas looked in the direction Wong indicated and saw the Westerner from earlier. He’d forgotten all about the paunchy bald guy with thick glasses. Now, seeing him again, Lucas remembered him hanging around the periphery of the class, never quite interacting yet never leaving. Like muted patterned wallpaper: there but never noticed. He wore a cheap brown business suit, and the front of his white dress shirt hung sloppily over his belt. His tie was pulled loose, and his top button was undone. A squat glass of amber liquid—scotch or bourbon maybe—was held in his right hand, his little finger extended in a delicate manner. An odd affectation, Lucas thought.
“He brought them? I mean personally?” He just took it for granted the material would show up, maybe using DHL, FedEx, or a similar overnight service. Maybe all you had to do was fill out an order form on the Internet, and at the scheduled time the material appeared. But now that he thought about that, it seemed incredibly idiotic for various reasons. The biggest being that packages were sometimes lost or delayed. There had to be better delivery assurance than an Internet tracking number.
Wong appeared puzzled by the question. “I’m not sure I understand what you are asking.”
“You say he brought them. How?”
“In his luggage.”
Jesus. He imagined arriving in a hotel room and unpacking—shirts here, pants there, and arms in the fridge.
“May I introduce you?”
Lucas was already heading toward the man, intent on asking whose head they’d used today.
Wong caught up with him in time to say, “Mr. Gerhard, allow me to introduce our honored guest, Dr. Lucas McRae.”
With a salesman’s smile, Gerhard offered a beefy hand. “Glad to meet you, Doc. Watched you a bit today. I’m no surgeon, but it sure seemed to me you got yourself a great pair of hands.”
Lucas’s guard immediately went up. No one gives you that kind of verbal blow job without an ulterior motive.
They shook hands. But Gerhard didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled Lucas’s hand closer. “May I inspect it?”
“What?”
“Your hand.” Gerhard carefully turned Lucas’s hand over, gently thumbing the palm. “Just as I expected, no calluses. Certainly not the hand of a journeyman.” He inspected the back of the hand, fondling a finger in the process. “So long and delicate. I’ve never felt a neurosurgeon’s hand before. It’s exactly what I imagined.”
Regaining his composure, Lucas jerked free of Gerhard’s grip. He stifled the urge to wipe his palm with a napkin. He couldn’t keep the thought out of his head, I’ve been slimed. “I’m curious. How do you obtain your, ah, material?”
Gerhard rocked back onto both heels. “Donations.”
“Donations?”
“Sure. You know. People donate their bodies to science. For medical research.”
Maybe some donate for that cause, but not Andy Baer. Especially for a cause as open-ended as “medical research.” That could mean a thousand things, and Andy was very specific and precise. Was? Jesus, he was already thinking in the past tense.
“Dr. Wong said you brought them with you,” Lucas said. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“So how does that work?” Lucas asked.
“Not sure what you’re getting at.” Gerhard’s adenoidal and whiney voice and roly-poly sloppy demeanor seemed the opposite of what Lucas expected. Then again, what did he expect, he wondered? Never thought about couriering body parts before.
“I’m asking how you physically transport them.”
“In a Halliburton.”
“An aluminum suitcase?” This immediately triggered more questions.
Gerhard gave him a look.
Lucas asked, “You brought four heads, right?”
“What’s your point?”
“I’m interested. Mind explaining how that works? I mean, you show up at the airport with four heads in a suitcase. Is it some kind of specially made suitcase? I mean, the dimensions of a head are pretty specific and I assume you’d want to keep th
em—or any body parts—pretty well cushioned. And what about the authorities? Every piece of luggage is x-rayed or inspected.” He imagined a TSA agent’s reaction to several human skulls suddenly popping up on the screen. “Doesn’t that raise a few eyebrows?”
Gerhard laughed dismissively.
To Lucas, the laugh sounded hollow and strained, and the smile that went with it seemed forced. As Gerhard sipped his drink, Lucas suspected the man was sizing him up, like the kid on the playground who’s deciding whether or not to throw a punch.
But Lucas was still working up to the main point of the questioning. “Well?”
“For us, it’s a bit different than when you pass through security. First of all, before we ever begin a transport we got to meet several requirements.”
“Like?”
Gerhard’s smile tightened. “Like I said earlier, you got a point to this line of questioning? This don’t seem to me like your typical cocktail conversation.”
“It’s a little bizarre, walking through an airport with human heads in a suitcase, isn’t it? I’m curious how it works is all.”
Gerhard studied his drink a moment, rattling the ice cubes. He drained his glass in one long gulp. “Understand something. The business is regulated. We got ourselves a series of hoops to jump through including the CDC. What’s more, the Department of Commerce requires us to carry a certificate at all times. So, before we ever set foot inside an airport, there’s a ton of paper we got to fill out. We got to notify the airline and the TSA. And for international trips like this here, we got to clear it through customs days ahead of time. Once we got all that done”—he shrugged—“we’re free to go. That answer your question?”
Lucas asked, “Why not just FedEx them?”
Gerhard snorted. “I’m surprised you got to even ask that.”
“Well, I’m asking.”
For a moment Gerhard’s eyes flashed anger but quickly changed into a dead-eyed poker mask. He coughed into a fist and cleared his throat. “You got all sorts of reasons. We got to bring every little chunk of body part back home so it can be buried or cremated just as if it were whole again. That’s the agreement we make with the families. See, they don’t mind their loved ones being used for research, just as long as we bring back the body. Just like in the army, we don’t leave no one behind. Satisfied?”
“Okay, I understand the process better. Thanks. Bear with me for one more question. You maybe use a head here and a leg somewhere else. How do you keep track of everything?”
Gerhard seemed befuddled by the question. “Keep track? Simple. I return with everything I take.”
“No. What I mean is, you came here with four heads, right? What’s to say you don’t go back with an arm and a leg instead? Who keeps track?”
“The fuck you talking about? If I come with four heads, I go back with four heads.”
“No offense. I don’t mean you personally. I’m talking hypothetical here. What I’m asking is, does anyone actually check what you take in and out of the airports?”
“The FBI checks to make sure every scrap of tissue that goes out comes back. End of discussion.”
Yeah, right. As if the FBI has the manpower to do that. He didn’t believe that for one second. Still, he hadn’t asked the most important question. “Then I guess DFH Inc. keeps good records?”
“Yeah, yeah, precise records. This conversation is over.”
“Just this one more thing. What’s the name of the man whose head I saw this morning?”
Raw anger flashed through Gerhard’s eyes. “Why?”
“I think I know him.”
“Oh, bullshit. You know as well as I do that a detached head don’t look the same as when it’s attached. No way to tell who it was.”
“No, I know him.” Still, doubts lingered in Lucas. What were the odds of it really being Andy? Damn small.
Gerhard’s eyes narrowed to slits; his hands balled into tight fists. “Back off, doc. I’m not giving you any name.”
“Why not?”
Gerhard glanced around, balling and unballing his fists. “You give out medical records to anyone who asks for ’em?”
“The person I’m asking about is dead, for Christ’s sake. His death certificate is a matter of public record. I’m asking his name, not the cause of death.” Asshole. He glanced at Wong for support, but he didn’t say a word.
Gerhard started to turn away, stopped, smiled. “Tell me the name of the guy you think it might be, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“Andy Baer.”
“Nope, not him.”
“You’re lying.”
Gerhard nodded to Lucas, then to Wong. “Been a pleasure, gentlemen.” He walked away.
7
WEST PRECINCT, SEATTLE POLICE DEPARTMENT
“WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU saying?” Lieutenant Randy Redwing asked Wendy. “That this Ditto character is responsible for your missing working girl?” Tilting his chair back, left foot on a partially open desk drawer, Redwing clasped his hands behind his head. His face stayed expressionless, making it maddeningly difficult to read. Wendy hated that.
Redwing, a Native American from Fargo, grew up in South Dakota. Wendy knew this because of the Fargo movie poster and a high school banner proudly displayed on his office wall. His bronze skin, dark brown eyes, craggy features, and high cheekbones reminded her of some famous plains chief you might see in a painting from the Wild West. All he needed to complete the picture was one of those headpieces made of eagle feathers or whatever they were. He meticulously kept his coarse salt-and-pepper hair in a severe military brush cut, which went along with his scrupulously honed reputation for being a real hard-ass as the commander of the Missing Persons Unit. He was especially tough on the minorities in the department.
Before working Missing Persons, Wendy served a stint in Vice as a decoy, hanging out in a high prostitution area wearing a miniskirt, flashing her legs and luring guys into negotiating a price as the two male team members monitored the discussion from a car on the next block. She thought about the first time she’d met Ruiz.
Wendy stands under the blue neon sign of the adult video store—a cinderblock rectangle off Aurora Avenue that sells porn and sex toys—waiting for a potential john to proposition her. It’s chilly for hot pants and a halter, so she wears her lightweight pink parka to keeps warm enough as she paces the Aurora side of the building.
She sees another woman come around the corner of the store from the parking lot and head toward her. She tenses, not knowing what to expect. The woman comes right up to her. She’s Hispanic, attractive, still young—probably in her twenties—but “the life” is etched in her face, and it makes Wendy sad.
“You police, right?” the girl says, more as a statement than question.
Wendy’s caught off guard and doesn’t answer.
“Yeah, you police. You ain’t got real street moves. Look, we need to talk. I got a room there,” with a nod at the two-story run down motel the next block north on Aurora.
Wendy doesn’t move. “About what?” She’s not about to go into an unknown room with a hooker.
“A deal.” Lupita glances down the street. “But we can’t stay out here.”
“No way.”
Lupita shakes her head, looks directly at where the hidden microphone is taped to Wendy’s chest just below her breasts. “Naw. This gotta be strictly between us.”
Just before Wendy enters the motel room she says to the microphone. “I’m entering room 104, request you move up.” She figures, screw it, her cover’s blown, so why not at least have her backup in the parking lot in case they’re needed? Her transmitter isn’t powerful enough to reach the car from inside the room, especially with the door closed.
Inside, standing next to the queen-size bed, the girl says, “Name’s Lupita. Yours?”
“Cop.” She’ll be damned if she’s going to divulge personal information.
“Then make one up, I don’t care. Me? Street name’s Charmane.�
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To Wendy the statement seems honest and open, and she likes that. “What you want to talk about?”
“What if I could give you information on the crew bringing in them Asian girls?”
“What kind of information?” For a year now Vice has been investigating the illegal importation of young women from Asia for use as “sex slaves.” Some girls were found in a shipping container at one of the piers. But little headway had been made in the case. Any good information would be welcomed.
“Like where they keep them. Once you guys know that, you can work it back, find out who’s behind it.”
“And what do you get out of it?” Wendy expects a dollar amount.
“Here’s the deal. Got me some friends, their hearings are coming up in a few days. They need to get cut some slack.”
There it was. “What friends?”
“Some girls I know. Friends. I’m taking care of one of their daughters until … shit, I can’t see her doing time, not with her daughter out on the street … and I can’t keep on taking care of her. Got my own problems.”
Wendy puts her hand on Lupita’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I have the juice to do a deal, and I sure as hell don’t know anything about your friends. Give me their names, let me look into it, and we meet tomorrow. How’s that sound?”
Next day in a small cafe off Aurora, Wendy tells Lupita, “That’s the best I can do. We cool?”
Lupita nods. “Thank you.” Those two words carrying genuine gratitude.
“But there’s a catch.”
Lupita looks up. “There always is. What?”
“This won’t be our last conversation.” She pauses to let that sink in. “You will, of course, be compensated.”
“Such as?”
Wendy is amazed at herself, negotiating this deal, her commander letting her work her first confidential informant. “You know how it works. The price of the product is only worth its value. Depends.”
Lupita sips her coffee, glances out the window.
