by Allen Wyler
This being a routine trip, he should be able to just zip through as long as the paperwork appeared in order. Except this time he felt a little twitchy. For a couple reasons. Partly on account of the Chinks being the ones to sign off on him in Hong Kong. Never trusted those slants. They’d fuck you over for a quarter and never think twice about it. More than that was a nagging suspicion that somehow McRae had enough juice with the authorities, maybe on account of being some big shot doctor, to cause him grief. If McRae pissed and moaned loud enough, might be that immigration would give him a closer look. Then again, he was carrying good paper. Fuck McRae.
He knew he was being paranoid, but still …
Especially with Bobby ranting about that female cop. He could kick himself for leaving the Suburban in that alley. Fucking No Parking signs all over the place. But parking in that area sucked, and besides, it was going to take him only a few minutes. What were the odds? Should’ve known. Bad luck being pretty much his life story.
He filed into the customs line and watched more travelers fill in behind him. Glanced around for McRae but didn’t see him. He probably didn’t bring more than one carry-on bag, so the bastard wouldn’t have to wait for luggage like he did. McRae. Fucker worried him. Had that nervous squirrely look about him. The moment he got back he’d have a talk with Bobby. No way was Gerhard going to let him underestimate McRae. He had a feeling about McRae, and it wasn’t good. A troublemaker is what he is. And he needed to make sure Bobby understood that. Bobby was smart, probably the smartest guy he knew. Except for chess. When it came to chess, they were equals. And he bet that if they ever kept track, he won more games than Bobby. But when it came to gut feelings about people, Leo figured he was the better of the two.
Leo approached the booth and handed the immigration officer his paperwork. He checked to make sure it was all there: the departures from Sea-Tac and Hong Kong. The special papers.
The guy flipped through them with a bored expression, stamped Leo’s passport, and handed it back. “Nothing to declare?”
Leo shook his head.
The agent looked at the papers again. “Bring the suitcase into the other room, and let’s have a look.”
Leo hesitated, wondering if it was possible for McRae to have already stirred up the cops, but knew he couldn’t very well refuse to be inspected. “Certainly, Officer.”
Leo followed the officer into a small side room used for this type of inspection and wondered, why this time? Most of the time they didn’t inspect. He set the Halliburton on a small table, and the officer inspected the security tape covering the latches by the Hong Kong authorities. The tape stuck like hell, making it impossible to remove or open the case without cutting through it.
“Open it, please.”
Leo glanced around for a box cutter, saw it on the desk, slit the tape and opened the suitcase. He was sweating now. How detailed would the guy check? But, he reassured himself, the papers would look good.
Inside, the dissected heads were wrapped in blue-green surgical towels. The officer glanced down at the individual packages, then back at the papers. “Unwrap one, please.”
Leo swallowed, selected a bundle that wasn’t Baer—just in case this was being videotaped—and carefully pulled away the towel exposing a disembodied head. The jaw had been disarticulated during one of the dissections and the nose had been pushed to the side. Leo realized it was the one McRae made such a scene over.
The officer said, “I’ve seen enough. Wrap it up.”
Leo stifled a sigh of relief and replaced the towel, closed the Halliburton, thanked the officer, and left the room, wondering, why the fuck did someone want to look this time?
It never ceased to amaze him that customs never bothered to check the suitcase’s contents. They simply accepted his word that what left Seattle matched what came back in. McRae had that part right. Leo could fly out of Sea-Tac with a suitcase full of human body parts and return with a load of dead cats, and no one would know. Yeah, but there was always the chance they’d check. All it took was getting caught once, and you were fucked. From then on they’d check you every time—if they even let you continue. So far, Leo’s record was impeccable.
Gerhard continued on through the baggage claim area, out through the sliding glass doors to catch the shuttle to long-term parking, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. He glanced around for someone paying too much attention to him, but didn’t see anyone. He then noticed a Port of Seattle cop walking his way. Where the fuck is the shuttle?
The cop sauntered past just as the shuttle rounded the corner and came into view.
At the long-term parking, Gerhard transferred the cases to the trunk of the black Chrysler and headed to Seattle. Forty minutes and McRae’s buddy’s head would go up in smoke.
LIKE ALL THE INTERNATIONAL flights Lucas took to Sea-Tac, the United 747 docked at the South Terminal. Lucas followed the zigzag route to the immigration arrival lounge where he took a place in one of the rapidly enlarging lines for US citizens.
With only a carry-on, he bypassed baggage claim and went straight for customs where an agent waved him through without a word. Then he rode the subway to the main terminal and called Laura’s cell. As planned, she was waiting in the nearby lot.
He headed out to the passenger loading zone to wait. In spite of having been gone only a few days, he looked forward to seeing her. Returning home was always the best part of each trip.
Lucas checked his watch—1:04 p.m. on Friday. No matter how many times he’d been to Asia, it amused him to arrive an hour before he departed. It was as if he had just gone through some sort of time travel.
He reset his watch to local time and waited. Long international flights left him feeling grimy, fatigued, and thankful the plane didn’t crash or blow up from a terrorist bomb. Though the experts claimed air travel was safe, Lucas never felt at ease.
Lucas recognized Laura’s silver Volvo station wagon swing into the curb lane and slow. Grabbing his wheeled carry-on, he waved to catch her attention and wove through a throng of travelers boarding a bus to the downtown hotels. After dumping the suitcase in the backseat, he climbed in the front and shut the door.
Laura said, “Welcome home,” and pulled away from the curb.
“Missed you.” He remembered how they used to kiss when he returned from a trip. Long gone, those days. Now she was already checking traffic and accelerating into the left lane. He sat back to watch her drive. She still looked good after twenty-one years of marriage. Luxurious brown ponytail adjusted just so out the back of a foofoo white ball cap. A trim five-foot-seven-inch frame. She hadn’t put on weight after the pregnancy, nor with the subsequent years, like so many people do. Kept the gray out of her hair and always made sure she looked put together before leaving the house.
“I’m meeting Carol at the spa, so I’ll just drop you off. Your flight was ten minutes late.”
That figured. Funny the pall only a few words can cast on a mood. Just minutes ago he’d been looking forward to seeing her. But that seemed to be a byproduct of memory of better times. Now, face-to-face, the rancor of their pending divorce made him not want to be in the same car with her. Where did things go so wrong in their relationship?
He doubted she was involved with someone. If that were the case, the signs would be different, he believed.
Years ago when Lucas returned from a business trip, they’d hurry home to enjoy sex. No longer. Laura’s libido vanished as the other symptoms of depression started to become apparent. Making matters worse, their sex life had become an off-limits subject, one that Laura refused to even discuss, leaving him even more frustrated. To him, sex was an important part of loving the other person. To have it unilaterally amputated from their relationship left him feeling alienated and, well, angry. And sometimes it felt like neither of them seemed capable—or perhaps even desirous—to fix their problems. As if it would be too much trouble.
He asked, “You get hold of Andy?”
She hesit
ated too long before answering. It was a sure sign she was scrambling to figure out how best to lie. “I called his condo a couple times but only got the answering machine. When I tried his cell, I got an out-of-network message.”
Yeah, shit, she hadn’t even tried. Which, given the intensity of her dislike of Andy, didn’t surprise him. Lying about it did. But what could he do? Nothing. Certainly he couldn’t challenge her story. Her attitude toward Andy was a battle he’d surrendered years ago.
Lucas sighed, dug out his cell phone. This time of day, Andy would already have left the office to work out at the Athletic Club. He tried the office number anyway and got the standard recording about not leaving any trade instructions because the timeliness could not be assured. Next he tried Andy’s cell and reached the synthesized message that the Verizon customer was out of the service area. That could mean anything from the phone being shut off to having lunch on Mars.
He decided to unpack, shower, then go out and find Andy himself.
14
DITTO FUNERAL HOME, INC.
ARMS LOOSE AT HIS sides, Bobby Ditto leaned against a reinforced concrete support column waiting for the steel garage door to start clanking up with that loud metal on metal screech the maintenance guy never seemed able to fix. Had his ankles crossed in a pose he thought looked extremely cool if anyone happened to notice. Dressed in corporate casual: chinos, a lightweight navy polo shirt, and Top-Siders sans socks. Always fantasized the life depicted in Ralph Lauren ads—to glow with the subtle patina of old money. Instead of leaning against a bare concrete column, he should be leaning against a granite column on his mansion’s front steps and circular flagstone drive.
Why couldn’t he have been born into money? The luck of the draw, he supposed. He’d had the bad fortune to grow up in a working-class neighborhood. Instead of a father with an undertaking business on the first floor of the family home, his dad should’ve come from a family with enough power to keep him out of jail if he piled up the Benz after too many Heinekens with his school buddies.
He should be enjoying the privileges of a Florida winter home and a Nantucket beach house for those times he needed a break from his plush Manhattan co-op and the rush of city life, living off a trust fund with a seven-figure income regardless of whether or not he chose to work at his father’s brokerage. He threw the cigarette into the drain. What the hell was taking Gerhard so long? He’d called from the car, giving an ETA of ten minutes. Meaning he should be here by now. Fucking Seattle traffic.
Parallel rows of concrete columns ran the length of the floor, which made some parking spots a bitch to get into. But the good news was this section was totally isolated from the adjacent larger basement area, making it perfect for transporting bodies. For reasons he never could understand, dead bodies always seemed to spook people.
He heard the motor catch, followed by the metallic grind as the heavy door started up. The distinctive grille of the black Chrysler nosed in. Ditto moved away from the column and waited for Gerhard to park and pop the trunk.
Gerhard stepped out, arched his back, arms stretched above his head. He stayed like that a moment. “Come on, let’s get these taken care of.”
Ditto went to the trunk. “What’s wrong?”
“Customs. They stopped me to check the shipment.”
Ditto looked in the trunk for the suitcase with a discreet DFH Inc. sticker next to the handle, the one that carried the specimens. Lifting it out, he examined the seals and saw the slits. As far as he was concerned, turning those heads into unidentifiable ash couldn’t happen soon enough. Then maybe the crazy recurring vision of Detective what’s her name would stop haunting him.
“What exactly happened?”
“Nothing, really, but it fucking freaked me.” Leo hefted the remaining suitcase from the trunk, closed and locked the lid before following Ditto to the elevator.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Ditto said, stepping into the cage. He poked the first-floor button. The door closed, and they started up as Gerhard explained in his whiny voice.
When starting Ditto’s Budget Funeral Services, he invested in an Ener-Tek IV Cremation System. He loved that particular model because it had relatively quick throughput, taking only seventy-five minutes or less per body, allowing for up to fifteen cremations in eighteen hours. But hell, no one could be that busy. More importantly, the Smoke-Buster 190 feature eliminated airborne particulates and odor from the cremation process, making it environmentally sound. What’s not to like?
The unit was large, almost ten feet high, eight feet wide, and twelve and a half feet long, and front loaded. Ditto punched a button. The square, recessed front door opened noiselessly, exposing the firebox. What a beauty. It was already fired and ready to go.
Ditto watched Gerhard throw the suitcase on a stainless steel dissection table unsnap the locks open. Inside were four bundles in black Hefty garbage bags. He unrolled all four, then unwrapped the surgical towels covering the heads and set them aside.
Suddenly, Gerhard turned toward him and said, “Yo! Heads-up.”
Bobby saw a head come flying across the room, caught it, faked left before doing a one-handed jumper through the furnace opening. A regular fucking Brandon Knight.
“Three points,” Gerhard yelled, then pumped a two-hander rocket from behind the table.
The head sailed toward the furnace, hit the front just above the door, fell to the floor with a thunk, rolled to a stop at Ditto’s feet. A woman, her hair salvaged for wigs, her face now indistinguishable from the dissection.
Ditto scooped it up, shoved it through the opening. “Rebound. Two points.”
Gerhard took another shot, this time making it. “Swish!”
Laughing, Ditto pushed a button, closing the door, cutting off the heat entering the room. No sense keeping it open any longer than necessary, what with the cost of air-conditioning. For a moment he watched through the small tempered glass window as the heads were engulfed in two rows of gas flames. He felt relieved now that the evidence was gone.
Ditto and Gerhard took an extra couple minutes inspecting the suitcase, making sure it was spotlessly clean. All that remained of any evidence were the damp surgical towels and wrinkled garbage bags. Gerhard balled the bags and dropped them into the waste. The towels went into a bucket of weak Clorox solution to denature any residual DNA. The towels would be washed and reused. He seriously doubted that lady cop would be back with a search warrant, but you could never be too sure.
Finished cleaning up, Ditto smiled with satisfaction. Maintaining a neat work area was another trait learned from Dad.
“Well, that takes care of that,” said Gerhard.
In spite of the huge sense of relief at watching the heads incinerate, Ditto was not completely at ease. Nagging doubt still troubled him. “It takes care of any evidence, but if you’re right, McRae might still try to cause a stink. We don’t need anyone looking at us.”
Gerhard nodded. “You can count on it. He threatened as much.”
Realistically Ditto knew there was nothing McRae could do at this point. Still, he hated the specter of any lingering threat, no matter how small. The Tigers and Red Wings served as perfect examples of why you should never underestimate your opponent’s tenacity. Tenacity too often prevailed. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d watched a comfortable lead evaporate into a defeat. Relaxing your guard was just asking the other team to regroup and win. Never ever let up. Not until the game is over. Squash them.
So this McRae … no way could he allow even the slightest threat to remain. And the only way to eliminate the threat was to eliminate the man.
Earlier today he’d Googled McRae, searching for every bit of information he could find. Then, for good measure, he’d driven past his two-story house in the Magnolia neighborhood in northwest Seattle.
Ditto handed Gerhard a slip of paper. “Here’s his address. Have a beer, relax a bit, maybe even nab a few hours shut-eye, then drive over. Find a way in. See what you
can figure out in case we have to, you know …” He nodded at the oven.
15
MAGNOLIA NEIGHBORHOOD, SEATTLE
BY THE TIME LUCAS removed the key from the front door, Laura was halfway down the block, not having bothered to wave good-bye. Welcome home. He watched the Volvo round the corner and disappear. He’d forgotten what it was she was going to do. Meet one of her girlfriends, maybe. Was that one of the problems? Not paying as much attention to what she said, his mind too busy with other things?
With a mixture of sadness and frustration, he carried his suitcase inside the modest two-story remodel that had originally been a one-level rambler. The upstairs master bedroom provided a southeasterly view over multiple layers of rooftops to the downtown Seattle skyline. The panorama wasn’t as grand as the multimillion-dollar homes two blocks away on Magnolia Boulevard, the first tier above the bluffs, but he loved it. Seattleites appreciated views regardless of limitations.
He went to the phone and called all three of Andy’s numbers. No answer. Go over to his condo? If he was there, he’d answer. So what next? He sat down at his desk and thought about that a moment. Initially, he intended to go over to Andy’s condo, but now that he thought about it, that wasn’t likely to yield much because he’d not be able to get past the doorman. Besides, it wasn’t unusual for Andy to take a three- or four-day vacation with his latest girlfriend. Or maybe he’d gone to Las Vegas to play with the hookers. He did that once in a while. Probably shouldn’t get too worried unless he didn’t show up for work on Monday.
Lucas unpacked, tossed his few dirty clothes into a wicker hamper, and removed his safety razor from the shaving kit before replacing the kit in his bag. Then he stowed the bag on the top closet shelf. He stripped, showered, dried with one of the oversized bath towels Laura liked so much, put on black jeans and a black T-shirt. Didn’t bother with socks or shaving.
