Under Cover of Darkness (26 page)

She picked up a pizza on her way home, flopped on the couch, and caught the tail end of a Sonics basketball game on television. They were winning by eight, but she would have bet her last two slices that they'd blow another fourth-quarter lead.

The phone rang with less than a minute to play. The score was tied. The bad guys were closing. With the game in the balance she was tempted to ignore the phone, but she had watched this unhappy ending unfold too many times this season anyway. She rolled from the couch and answered. Good thing. It was the crime lab.

"Got a read on those fingerprints," he said.

She sat up immediately. "Which set?"

"The thumb and index finger from the phone. It took
a w
hile to isolate something readable. That's just the nature of a public phone."

"What did you pull up?"

"The buttons were too smudged, but we got a read and a match from the mouthpiece."

"Who is it?"

"You're gonna be surprised. Beth Wheatley."

Andie was stunned into silence. She thanked him for the quick work and hung up, confused. Little over an hour ago, she had convinced Isaac and everyone else at the meeting that the killer was a mind-control expert who had crawled inside Beth's head, gotten the secret code she and Morgan used to communicate, and dialed the number himself. Now this. She wracked her brain, but her theory and the facts were irreconcilable. Fingerprints generally don't lie. Beth had held the phone in her hand. One way or another, she had been there.

And then disappeared. Again.

Andie phoned Gus with the news that same night. He had scores of questions, none of which she was prepared to answer. She left him frustrated but grateful for the call.

She spent most of Tuesday in the office just getting organized. Isaac had told her to make the Wheatley kidnapping--they were calling it a kidnapping--her top priority. Fortunately, most of her thirty-three other cases were relatively dormant, but she knew that could change at any moment. She got commitments from other agents to cover the ones most likely to blow, which her supervisor approved.

Her supervisor was Kent Lundquist, who had taken over as the violent crimes squad supervisor upon Isaac's promotion to the number two position in the office, assistant special agent in charge. Lundquist reported to Isaac, and he rather frequently reminded Andie that she didn't. It wasn't unusual for an agent to appeal a supervisor's decision to the ASAC, but Andie and Isaac's unusually close relationship made Lundquist quite defensive whenever she went over his head. He seemed fearful that Isaac had more confidence in her than him. On technical or procedural matters that' required an experienced eye, that wasn't the case. For decisions that drew on interpersonal skills and raw intelligence, his fears were justified.

There was no kidnapping squad as such in the office. Like Andie, plenty of other agents in the violent crimes squad had relevant experience. Andie met with three other agents assigned to the Wheatley case, briefing them on each of the known homicides, the Wheatley family, the peculiarities behind Beth and her disappearance. By the end of the day they had carved out specific areas of responsibility. Everyone had plenty to do. Andie's first task, however, was a direct order from Lundquist himself. He had been in his office reading the afternoon edition of the Seattle Times. He had seen the huge ad with Beth's picture and the offer of a reward.

"What the hell is this?" he asked.

Andie sat across the desk from him, staring at the page. "This is the first I've seen of it."

"Damn it, Henning. You can't let the family haul off and do things like this without coordinating through you. Now get control of your case. Or you're going to lose it before you get started."

"I'll meet with Gus Wheatley tonight."

"And another thing," he said, grousing. "Make damn sure Gus Wheatley plans to make good on two hundred fifty thousand dollars. It's his private reward, but I know how these things play out in the press. If he reneges after we make the arrest, it'll reflect badly on the FBI."

"I understand your concerns."

"You better. Because I'll hold you responsible."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." She answered in a tone that made it impossible to tell if she was gung-ho or a smartass.

He glared for a moment, then returned to his newspaper, dismissing her. Andie went straight to her car, speaking to no one on the way out.

Andie stopped by the Wheatley residence on her way home from work at the height of dinner hour. Gus greeted her at the door and took her to the dining room, where Morgan was slouched in her chair and poking her peas.

"Hi, Morgan," said Andie.

"Hi," she said weakly.

"Sony to interrupt your dinner."

Morgan pushed her plate away. "It's okay. We're done." "Done?" said Gus. "You've hardly eaten."

"I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat, sweetheart?' "Why?"

"Because if you don't eat, you'll get sick."

"Is Mommy sick?"

Even she had noticed the eating disorder. Just one more indicator of just how oblivious Gus had been.

"We're not sure how Mommy feels. But Agent Henning is going to help us find out."

"That's what you said yesterday."

Andie said, "We're working very hard. It just takes time."

"How long?" Her voice had lost its defiant edge. It had even cracked.

Gus scooted onto her chair beside her, put his arm around her, and stroked her head. "We're going to keep looking as long as it takes."

They both looked at Andie, as if seeking a commitment. "That's right," she told them. "As long as it takes."

Some of the anxiety faded from Morgan's expression. The little grown-up was more like a kid again, though her heart was clearly aching. "Dad, can I feed my goldfish now?"

"Sure."

She gave Andie a little smile as she rose from the table, then scampered down the hall.

"Don't feed them too much," he called out, but she didn't answer. He glanced at Andie and said, "If those fish get any bigger, I'll have the friends of Willy outside my door demanding I set them free."

Andie smiled. Gus checked his empty wineglass and said, "Like some cabernet?"

"Can't. I'm on duty. I'm actually not much of a weeknight drinker anyway."

"Neither am I. Normally."

"I understand."

Gus excused himself and retreated to the kitchen for a refill. Alone at the table, she canvassed the opulent surroundings while contemplating how, without insulting him, she could confirm that Gus was good for the reward. The crystal chandelier was undoubtedly Steuben or Baccarat. On the wall opposite Andie was an antique mahogany-and-glass cabinet that displayed the Wheatley china. The pattern was distracting at first, as no two plates looked alike. Then Andie realized that each plate was a small piece of a larger picture, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It was as though someone had cut twelve perfect circles from a huge painting, keeping the plates and discarding the rest. It was a spectacular effect, like something out of a museum. That alone could cover a good chunk of the reward.

"Did you see my ad in this afternoon's paper?" Gus asked as he returned to his chair.

"Yes," she said, startled. "I'm glad you brought that up." "I thought you'd be pleased."

"A quarter-million-dollar reward seems a little hefty, don't you think?"

"If it brings Beth back, I can afford it."

"I'm sure you can. But maybe a hundred thousand would have been enough."

"I'm not looking for the blue light special here. I'm trying to get my wife back."

"I know that. But an overly generous reward can make the bad guys see dollar signs."

"I don't understand:'

"That's because you're thinking like a victim. You need to think like a criminal--like a kidnapper. There's been no ransom demand yet, but you could get one any day. Imagine him sitting out there somewhere trying to figure out how much to demand. There's no science to this. Maybe to him a quarter million sounds like a good number. He thinks that's a ton of money. Then he picks up today's newspaper and sees you offering two-fifty as a reward to any Joe Blow off the street. Suddenly, his sights are much higher."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"That's why it's so important that you never do anything like this again without calling me first."

It was a little harsher than she'd intended. Gus said, "You sound ticked off."

"I just want us to communicate better. I know it's your personality to be proactive, but I'd like you to check with me before you do anything. Agreed?"

Gus nodded, but she'd clearly put him on the defensive. "All right. I can agree to that. So long as the communication flows both ways."

"I've been keeping you informed."

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you?"

"Yes, as best I can."

"Then tell me what's going on with Beth's fingerprints." "I told you. We found a match on the phone."

"Thank you, Joe Friday. Now can you get beyond the facts and tell me what you're thinking?"

"We think they're hers."

"Come on," he said, eyes narrowing. "Don't be cute. Surely you must have developed some theories as to how they got there."

"Gus, some aspects of an investigation have to remain confidential."

"I promise, I don't work for Newsweek."

"I'm serious. Some things I can't share with anyone. Not even the victim's family."

"Ah, yes, I forgot. That's the eleventh commandment, isn't it? Or perhaps it's an addendum to the Magna Carta. Or no--I remember now. It's just administrative bullshit some law enforcement bureaucrat made up."

Andie nodded, unoffended by his wit. "Touche."

He sipped his wine, then turned more serious. "You must be able to understand my need to know."

"Of course I do."

His gaze tightened. It wasn't a stare, or even a glare. It was just a long, hard look. "I didn't sleep a wink last night. Up all night after you called. I kept thinking about those prints, wondering how the hell they got there. My first thought was that the worst had happened. Kept thinking he brought her there, forced her to dial, then killed her, too."

Andie couldn't tell him much, but she couldn't let him twist in the wind either. "We searched for any signs of a second victim at the site. Nothing, beyond Beth's prints."

"Which triggers a number of other not so pleasant possibilities."

"Such as?"

"He brought her there to terrorize her. He let her call home, dial up her daughter's line and punch out their secret message. Just when she thinks maybe he'll set her free, he shows her the other victim hanging in the tree, his way of telling her how she'll end up if her husband doesn't meet his demands."

"What demands?" she asked, alarmed. "You didn't say anything about any demands."

"Relax. There are none yet. But like you said, a ransom note could arrive any day."

"That's true."

He finished his wine, a long sip. "So, for a guy whose stomach is tied in knots, I've come up with some pretty good theories. Don't you think?"

"Pretty good."

"You got any better ones?"

Andie didn't have to answer, but she suddenly felt as though he had a right to know. Suffering was its own right of passage. "None better," she replied. "Just different."

"How so?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Try me."

Its a remote possibility, but we can't rule it out." "I'm listening."

"It's something we feel we have to consider, in light of your wife's history."

"History?"

"The bulimia, the shoplifting, the postpartum depression, the false accusations of spousal abuse against you. Her general psychological instability."

"I don't see how any of that explains how her fingerprints ended up on a pay phone in Oregon."

She hesitated. It was Lundquist's theory, one she didn't fully embrace. It pained her to repeat it. "It raises the possibility that she was there willingly."

"What the hell are you saying? She's an accomplice?" "Remote possibility. But yes."

"That's preposterous."

"It might explain why she's alive. Assuming she's alive."

"My wife is no killer."

"It could explain why there's no ransom demand." "Are you seriously considering this?"

"It is a theory."

"It's a terrible theory," he said sharply.

"I sincerely hope you're right."

"I know I'm right." His face was flushed, both from th
e w
ine and adrenaline. He said nothing for a minute or two, staring blankly at his empty glass. Finally, he spoke again, though he sounded a hint less sure of himself. "That just can't be."

Chapter
Thirty-Three.

On Wednesday Andie decided to start at the very beginning: victim number one.