Under Cover of Darkness (27 page)

Fears that Gus's wife was a victim had shifted their focus toward the Beth Wheatley look-alikes, victims three, four and five. But if she was an accomplice, maybe the answer lay with the men--the first two victims.

Early that morning she arrived at 151 Chatham Lane, home of the late Patrick Sullivan. He had been the first of two brown-eyed fifty-one-year-old, Ford pickup truck-driving, divorced men to have been handcuffed in his living room, strangled on the couch, and stabbed exactly eleven times. A far cry from the three women found hanging in trees. If it wasn't for the same triple braided three-quarter-inch yellow nylon rope, police would never have made the connection.

Andie spent more than an hour at Sullivan's house, taking notes, some on paper and some mental. Detective Kessler acted as tour guide. He had been over the house thoroughly and repeatedly as part of his homicide investigation.

Around nine o'clock they finished and headed to the vacant home of Victor Millner, victim number two. The house was near the Sammamish River in north-central King County, an area popular with hot air balloonists who
could be seen peacefully drifting overhead on most any summer day or clear autumn evening. Winters were another story. The day had started gray and stayed that way, showing occasional signs of movement from dull to threatening. No breeze to speak of. A light mist was floating more than falling, not near enough to warrant an umbrella. The slow and steady saturation had turned everything darker. The asphalt blacker. The canvas awning greener. Her mood gloomier.

Andie stood at the end of the sidewalk for the broad view. It was a relatively new single-family home, one more box in a building craze that had tripled the Redmond-area population in the last two decades. Structurally, it looked like many of the new frame houses in the same development. The most striking thing, however, was how strongly it resembled the first victim's house, miles away in a different part of town, a totally different neighborhood. The similarities weren't in the architecture or general design. They were in the details. The green awning that extended from the garage. The wooden flower boxes on the windowsills. The hanging plants and latticework around the front porch. Andie had read the police reports that had noted the curious similarities, but words could leave the reader with the impression that it was mere coincidence. She had seen the photographs, too, but they hadn't captured the feeling. A personal visit left no room for doubt. The killer had very specific criteria.

He profiled his victims.

"You just gonna stand in the rain?" said Kessler.

She started, her concentration broken. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You want to go in?"

"Yeah, of course."

She followed him up the sidewalk and climbed the three stairs on the front porch--the same number as the last house. Kessler pulled aside the crime tape and reached fo
r h
is key. At that moment Andie focused on one of the major differences between the two crime scenes.

"No forced entry:" she said, thinking aloud.

"It's noted in the first officer's report," he said. "That shouldn't be news to you."

"It's not. My perspective is just changing a little." "How so?"

"One of the things Victoria Santos tried to reconcile was the fact that at Sullivan's house the lock had been picked and the door broken open. Here, there was no sign of forcible entry. Yet the crime scene looks exactly the same."

"It's probably like Santos said. He forced his way inside the first time, talked his way in the second. Both guys ended up handcuffed. It's the same ritual once you get the victim under control."

"That explanation makes sense if you're trying to understand why a work-alone killer would change his entry m
. O
."

"You got something else in mind?"

"Just testing my supervisor's accomplice theory."

Kessler shook his head, smirking. "Look, I'm the last guy to cross a potential suspect off the list willy-nilly. But Beth Wheatley is no serial killer's sidekick."

"That's the same reaction I had. At first. But we have to look at the evidence. One scenario suggests that whatever con or ruse the killer used to gain access the second time didn't work with the first victim. He had to force his wa
y i
n?,
"Maybe the first victim was more careful than the second, more savvy."

"Possibly," said Andie.

"Or maybe practice makes perfect. He had a little more polish on his ruse the second time. He was more persuasive with victim number two."

"Or maybe he had help the second time."

He nodded slowly, seeming to pick up her drift. "Like a
n a
ttractive thirty-five-year-old woman. Someone who could knock on the front door, say her car broke down, and ask to use the phone. A fifty-one-year-old man would be more willing to open the door for an attractive woman in distress."

"For that matter, so would another woman."

Again, he read her mind. "As in the next three victims, all female."

They exchanged a long look, as if each were waiting for the other to say it was ridiculous. Neither one did.

Kessler raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "So, where does that leave us?"

Andie watched as he turned the key and opened the door. It was like unsealing a tomb. Dark and silent. The residual odor of death wafted from the living room.

"Confused," she said as she stepped inside.

Gus didn't leave the house all day. The prospect of a phone call kept him there. Beth. Her kidnapper. Someone responding to his ad.

The ad had run again in this morning's Post-Intelligencer, identical to yesterday afternoon's ad in the Times. A smaller version would run again tomorrow in Seattle and in the Portland Oregoner. After all, Beth's fingerprints had been found on an Oregon pay phone. Agent Henning had told him to run everything by her, but she had also told him the FBI considered his wife a possible accomplice. That had changed the whole ball game in Gus's eyes, heightening the need for self-help. To that end, he borrowed one of the computer experts from his law firm to help load pictures and information about Beth in all the right places on the World Wide Web, along with the offer of the reward. He even purchased an ad from America Online and other major Internet services. For the next twenty-four hours his would be one of a half dozen advertisement icons that popped on the screen when subscribers logged on. Peopl
e w
ouldn't have to read the actual ad unless they clicked on the icon and opened it, so he had to be creative. "Win $250,000!" was what he came up with. It was a little slick perhaps, but the idea was to get people to click and read. "Have you seen this person?" wasn't exactly catchy.

Less than an hour of his day had actually felt wasted. That was how long it took to return phone messages from the office. It was something he had to do, so in that sense it was productive. But when he had finished, it hardly felt like an accomplishment. He had voluntarily reassigned his case load to other partners so that he could focus on finding Beth. That left little in the way of legal responsibilities. And last week's bloodless coup had shifted all his managerial responsibilities to Martha Goldstein. For the first time in his life he wasn't the point man at the office.

It was liberating in a sense, knowing how easily he could divest himself of responsibility and chuck it all, if he wanted. No one would be hurt, not the firm or his clients. On the other hand, such freedom didn't exactly stroke his sense of self-worth. It reminded him of the so-called Preston & Coolidge revolt some years ago. Gus had ruffled a few feathers by deciding to run for managing partner at the relatively young age of thirty-eight. He challenged his own mentor, a senior partner with twenty years more experience. Eleven other senior partners threatened to resign if Gus were elected. Gus ran. And he won. The old guard made good on their threat. They left in a huff to open a competing firm right across the street. They did everything they could to hurt what was left of Preston & Coolidge. They reviled Gus in the newspapers. They made job offers to the firm's top young associates. They tried to lure away clients. Their actions created chaos and panic throughout the firm. For about two days. Then
. T
he reporters moved on to stories more newsworthy. The lawyers went back to practicing law. The clients stayed put. It took about a week for the buzz around the watercooler to switch from "D
o y
ou think we're going to make it?" to "Do you think those crazy old fools are going to land on their feet?" In a month it was as though the infamous "Geriatric Dozen" had never worked at the firm, their influence as remote as the very dead Mssrs. Preston and Coolidge who had founded the firm a hundred years earlier. That was the beauty of the institution. No one was indispensable.

Not even Gus.

"We're back," Carla announced as she entered the house. She was carrying a bag of groceries in each arm. Morgan was behind her, toting a smaller bag. Gus met them in the kitchen.

"Hi, Morgan."

"Hi," she said softly.

"Can Daddy have a hello kiss?"

"I'm pretty dirty right now. I have to wash up before dinner." She hurried from the room before Gus could think of something to say. He looked helplessly at Carla.

"Is it my imagination, or am I actually losing ground with her?"

Carla set the bags of groceries on the counter and removed her jacket. "She's a little upset today."

"Is it the ad in the paper?"

"That could be part of it:'

"What's the other part?"

"I haven't been able to get anything out of her, but I think maybe somebody said something to her at school." "Like what?"

"I don't know. Kids can say mean stuff."

"Maybe I'll have a talk with her."

"I'd leave her be for a while. I worked her over pretty good in the car. She's not ready to talk about it."

He nodded once, reluctantly. "All right. Later."

Together they unloaded the groceries. Carla was like a machine, pulling things out in short and jerky motions, setting them down on the counter with a little too much force.

"You mad about something?" asked Gus.

"I was thinking about what you said this morning." "Which was . . . what?"

"How the police are even considering the possibility that Beth has something to do with her own disappearance. That really frosts me."

"Hopefully, they won't waste too much time on that." "You know they will. It's always been that way." "It's always been what way?"

"Everyone always wants to blame Beth."

"No one wants to."

The bag was empty. She looked directly at Gus. "But that's what they're doing. It's the same thing they did five years ago, when you two had your . . . your blowup. Beth's a wacko. Beth needs a shrink. Beth needs a life. It's always her fault."

"This is not the same thing as five years ago."

"How is it different?"

"I'm not a serial killer, for one."

"That's only a difference of degree. Beth was a victim both times."

"I was the one she falsely accused."

"You were the one who drove her nuts."

Gus angrily folded the paper sack, then shoved it in the cupboard and slammed the door. "I thought we were past this, Carla."

She drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm not blaming you." She paused, then added, "No more than you do, anyway." "What does that mean?"

"Come on. A reward of two hundred fifty thousand dollars? Even the FBI told you that was excessive. What prompted that, love?"

"Frankly, yes."

"And you want others to see how much you love her." "I'm not trying to prove anything, if that's what you're suggesting."

"People who feel guilty always have something to prove."

Had someone else said it, Gus would have erupted. But

there was no fooling Carla. Not his own sister. Not Beth'
s b
est friend.

"I don't see what good it does to say things like that." "Maybe it will help you understand why your daughter won't kiss you hello."

Gus stopped to think. "You think she blames me, too?" "Of course she does. And she always will. So long as you mope around blaming yourself."

"I'm not moping around. I haven't stopped looking for Beth since she disappeared."

"And that's all terrific. But I'm talking about the very private moments, the way you act around Morgan. The way you look at her. The things you say to her. The things you don't say to her. Guilt is dripping off of you."

"I just want her to know I'm sorry."

"No. You want Beth to know you're sorry. But it doesn't work that way. Morgan can't grant you Beth's forgiveness. So stop looking to her as if she can. Or you're just going to drive her further away."

He thought of his mea culpa at Morgan's bedside and her headphone response. Maybe Carla had a point, harsh though she was.

The phone rang, giving him a start.. He answered in a detached voice. A woman was on the line.

"I'm calling about that ad in the paper."