The Angel Maker - 2 (36 page)

"Am I under arrest?"

Daphne sensed this wasn't pamela Chase speaking, but Elden Tegg.

The girl had been coached. She couldn't arrest her for taking plane flights to Vancouver, and she couldn't very well bring her downtown for further questioning. Not given Shoswitz's edict. The policewoman Daphne Matthews couldn't lie, but she didn't have to answer.

Pamela stood quickly. Daphne instinctively reached for her weapon, as Pamela trundled off toward the kitchen. "Where are you going?" Daphne asked. "Just a minute," Pamela muttered. The carpet was wom in a straight line between that couch and the kitchen alcove.

Daphne pulled the weapon now, for Pamela had moved so quickly, she was already out of sight and around the corner. Her heart suddenly in her throat, Daphne edged toward the kitchen.

Noises! A cabinet door? A weapon? With the Beretta gripped tightly in both hands, its barrel trained at the floor, Daphne began to level it as she rolled gently around the edge of the corner.

Pamela attempted to hide the large jar of peanut butter, but her cheeks were bulging with it. She swallowed it away, gaping eyes glued to Daphne's gun. "Did Tegg ask you to make those trips for him?" She returned the gun to her holster. "I go there for study and research."

"Did he tell you to say that? We know why you go there. We know the flights you connect with there. It's only a matter of time before we uncover the other courier, the one making the international flights. Tegg is going to be mad at you when he finds out how we caught you: It was your frequent flyer miles, Pam. Every trip you took to deliver those organs is listed on your frequent flyer records."

"And why shouldn't they be? I go there for research."

"Kidnapping is a federal offense. A capital offense. You understand that? Prosecuting attorneys will often trade with one of the suspects, but only one. The others get the full charges. We already have Maybeck in custody." This shocked Pamela. She reached for the peanut butter and scooped out some with a spoon. Daphne said, "Tell me about Elden Tegg."

When Pamela spoke, her lips smacked with peanut butter.

"He's the best vet in the city. Ninety percent of our new business is based on referrals-cases other vets couldn't solve." This seemed more recited than spoken. Daphne could picture Tegg proudly, arrogantly, announcing these statistics to his assistant and staff.

Pamela Chase had been carefully indoctrinated. Such people couldn't easily be broken; they had to be worn down over repeated sessions, and Daphne didn't have the time for that.

Panic seeped through the cracks. Pamela Chase had to talk.

People on the fringes of criminal activity could often be compromised, but those at the heart proved far more stubborn.

Those who stood directly in the shadow of the power were the most difficult of all to break: a dangerous combination of too loyal and too naive. Pamela Chase seemed to fit this latter category.

Daphne quickly adjusted to her new role. Her only hope now was to use Pamela as a conduit, to manipulate her into doing Daphne's work for her. Pamela was anything but cool, calm, and collected; she was panicked inside. They both were! Daphne could see it in the woman's frantic consumption of peanut butter, the perspiration on her upper lip, and her nervous eyes. If Daphne pushed her hard enough, if she pushed her over, Pamela would go running to Tegg, whether physically or by telephone, and that would lay the groundwork for an appearance by Daphne at Tegg's home.

She reminded herself that people who served as other people's assistants were accustomed to taking orders. She needed to be more authoritative with this girl. "Leave that on the counter and come into the other room. You're disgusting me."

Pamela's face flushed red. She hesitated. "Now!" Daphne pronounced. Down went the jar of chunky.

Daphne didn't carry a purse during working hours; she kept as little on her as possible, divided among several pockets: her wallet, her I.D. and shield, lip gloss, a small comb. The picture of Sharon Shaffer was in the left pocket of her coat, along with some notes, phone messages and her car keys. She handed the photograph to Pamela Chase and watched as those eyes squinted tightly and the girl's neck flashed crimson.

It was Daphne who felt light-headed now. Strangely, until this moment, she had clung to the hope that Sharon's disappearance might be explained some other way-any other way-that they had it wrong. But there was no mistaking the recognition in Pamela's reaction, although she also seemed surprised, and this confused Daphne who stated, "Her harvest is scheduled for tomorrow, isn't it." "Tomorrow?" Pamela questioned, still puzzled. Then she thought better of it. "I d-don't ..." she stumbled on her words, "I don't know this person."

"That's a lie, Pamela.

Lying to the police is a serious crime. You can go to jail just for lying to me. Tell me about Sharon. Where is Tegg keeping her? Why has he kept her for so long, when Cindy Chapman was kept less than thirty-six hours?" There was recognition of that name as well. Daphne's palms were damp, the muscles in her upper back and neck had frozen into an unforgiving knot. So close now She rotated her head trying to free them. Pamela Chase continued to stare at the photograph.

Daphne said, "You think he's wonderful, don't you? You probably even think that what you've been doing is right, at least on some level. You don't strike me as a criminal. Now you're protecting him. Why? He uses you. Don't you see that?"

Pamela's head snapped up from the photo.

"He's using you and Maybeck to do the criminal work while he takes all the money. Do you know the kind of money we're talking about?"

"Shut up!"

"Hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"Quiet!" She dropped the photo and pressed her hands to her ears. The photo glided to the carpet and landed face up. Sharon looked up to Daphne for help.

Daphne asked, "Is she at the clinic? Is that where he's keeping her? If you take me to her, if you helped me to find her, you'll get off scot-free. I promise you." Pamela shook her head no, but Daphne pressed on. "Think! You're a smart woman.

You can see Tegg has used you. What laws has he broken? But you can take me to Sharon, can't you? You can save her. Take me to her now. What do you owe him?" A look of defiance came over the suspect. Her eyes flashed hatred and she said strongly, "I owe him everything! What do you know about it? Nothing! It's all lies. You're the police. You tell nothing but lies. Little people is what you are. Public servants, nothing more. You get out of my house. You get out of my house now!"

"I can bring you downtown for questioning."

"Then do it.

You're not going to do it, are you? If you were, you would have done it right away, wouldn't you have?" Pamela stepped toward her.

Daphne challenged. She too stepped forward, preventing Pamela from stepping on Sharon's photograph. "She's AB-negative," she said, displaying the photograph once again, "not O. Our experts tell us that her rare blood type indicates the harvester is after a major organ-something that will kill her. A liver maybe. A liver, like Anna Ferragot. Were you part of that?"

Pamela stopped cold. Her eyes filled with tears. Her hurt and horror were palpable.

Sensing a nerve, Daphne pushed harder. "Tell me about Anna. We found her bones, you know? We found them buried by the Tolt River. You can't run away from any of this. There's no running away from this kind of thing. This is murder. At least three others besides Anna Ferragot. You think Elden Tegg is the best?

Well, not on humans, he's not. These three died of incompetence-of hemorrhages. They bled internally. Bled to death on the streets. Runaways. No one cares, right? Is that what he told you? Well, he was wrong. We care. I care. Little people? is that what you called me? Where does that leave you, Pamela? Where in the hell does that leave you and Dr. Elden Tegg?"

"Out! Get out of my house!" She stepped forward and the two of them were face to face, though Daphne stood taller. The girl smelled like a combination of department store perfume and peanut butter.

Given Daphne's present situation, there was nothing more to be done. She ached with this realization. Was Pamela strong enough to act on her own? Daphne decided she wasn't. With Boldt keeping an eye on Maybeck, that left only Elden Tegg. Pamela would have to turn to one or the other. "You can still save yourself, Pamela."

"Get out."

Daphne slid the photograph into her pocket. As she stood in the open door, the sun now fully set, she said, "If you let her die, if you help him, what kind of person does that make you?"

She added, "You're the only one who can save her. Tell me where she is. Tell me about Tegg. Tell me something. Think, Pamela, think!"

"Go away." Pamela pushed the door closed. Daphne kept her foot wedged in it briefly and the two met eyes. Then the door pushed shut completely. She heard crying on the other side of that door. She lifted her hand to knock-to try one last time, but thought better of it. The phone was quicker than the car.

She had to get to Tegg's as quickly as possible.

J When Donnie Maybeck returned from his ordeal with the police, he found an unusual delivery awaiting him. Outside his apartment door in the drearily lighted hallway sat a dog cage containing a pit bull. His name and address were written on an envelope taped to the outside of the cage. This cage helped explain a smaller parcel that had arrived earlier, a parcel he had received just prior to heading off to the pit bull fight that had ended in such complete and total disaster. In that earlier package he had found a padlock key and a remote device for a shock collar. The accompanying note, printed by a computer printer, read: More To Come.

Had to be from the Doc. It was just like him to It do something this anonymous. The Doc didn't trust anyone. Didn't trust the phones. Didn't trust nothing. Did he intend for him to use the dog on Pamela? Something like that? No one needed to warn Donnie Maybeck about the danger that these dogs represented.

Donnie lugged the cage inside and shut the door, taking a second to lock it as well. He tore the envelope off the outside of the cage and ripped it open. The note inside read: Travel money.

His heart beat a little quicker. Cash? The payoff? The Doc was telling him to get the hell out of Dodge and do it now.

Maybeck practically dove at the cage. He peered into the dark hole, the dog growling at him, and spotted a manila envelope taped to the back wall. Then he understood: If you tried to open the cage without the key, without the remote wand to this shock collar, you were toast-you were never going to see that money. Genius! Leave it to the Doc!

Maybeck was beside himself with excitement. He had never been long on patience, and now he found himself moving so quickly he was bumping into things. Fifty? Would the Doc pay him the full fifty? Half would suit him fine. Even ten grand would make him happy for a long time. Why be greedy? But it was greed that drove him to act with such haste.

He found the key and the remote device by the telephone, where he'd left them. He rushed to the cage, the electronic wand at his ready, and frantically went about unlocking the wire door.

He was so excited that he forced the key, and damned near broke it off. He tried again and the lock came unsprung. He kept one hand firmly against the cage, to hold the dog inside, and readied the shock collar's wand.

How was he going to do this? He needed to get the dog out, the money out, and then the dog back inside. He hit the button, just to make sure it worked. The collar buzzed. The dog looked terrified in there. It looked mad as all hell. /istay," Maybeck commanded. He showed the dog the remote device, believing this would serve as a warning. The dog growled.

Maybeck swung open the cage door.

The dog sprang out of the cage like a thirty-pound bullet.

Maybeck triggered the wand. He heard the collar buzz, but the dog was on him now and had him by the forearm. Maybeck let out a roar and hit the button again. Again the collar buzzed, but there was clearly no shock delivered. As a training device, the remote could be set either way-to deliver just the sound of the warning buzz or the sound and the shock. The Doc never set the remote to buzz the collar without delivering a shock, because the dogs weren't that well trained.

But he had this time. Maybeck knew how a pit bull worked its opponent: fast and dirty. It went for your arm if you were holding an object. Once that object was dropped, it went for your heels and calves. Once you were down, it went for your throat.

it was for this reason he seized the dog by the collar and pulled, struggling with his wounded hand to maintain hold of the wand. The dog's jaws were gripped onto him like a bear trap. How many times had he witnessed this death grip in their backwoods contests? How many times had he wondered what it must feel like to have one of these things locked onto you? And now he knew! If he let go of the wand, if he dropped it, would he have time to get out that door? If not, then what were his choices?

The teeth were through the muscle now and into the bone and nerve, like two saw blades heading for each other. On his knees, Maybeck continued pulling against that collar, trying to choke his adversary to pull him off, but it was useless. The thing was like a pain machine. Instinctively, Maybeck sounded the collar repeatedly, until his fingers stopped working. The remote tumbled out of his hand.

Before the wand reached the floor, the pit bull was already going at the rest of him. It got a good piece of his front thigh. Maybeck deflected its next attempt and made it to his feet. He completed two full steps before the dog severed his right Achilles tendon. Maybeck cried out again, but fear stole his voice. No sound came out. His right foot flopped uselessly, like it didn't belong there. The leg dragged behind him. He stumbled, but bounced back up; if he went down, it was all over.

He danced his way toward the window, trying to give his adversary a moving target, but the dog's reactions were ten times as quick as his. When he swung his leg left, he felt a bite. The calf muscle. Kicked it right. Calf muscle again. He fell to his knees. The fucking dog bit him right square in the ass and held on tight.