Under Cover of Darkness (28 page)

Gus was suddenly alert. "Yes?"

"I know Beth Wheatley. I think I can help."

"Who are you?"

"Shirley Borge."

Gus searched his mind but couldn't recall the name anywhere in Beth's past. "How do you know Beth?"

"Seen her around."

"Where?"

She didn't answer. From across the kitchen he felt
Carla's stare. She stood motionless, listening, sensing the urgency in his voice. He asked again, "Where have you seen her?"

Still no answer. His voice hardened. "Is this a crank?" Your wife had bulimia."

For a second he couldn't speak.

She added, "And she's the dumbest shoplifter in King County."

His throat tightened. "What else do you know?" "Plenty."

"Where is she?"

"I got a pretty good idea."

"Tell me."

"Uh-uh. We gotta work out a deal first."

"If you're worried about the reward, don't. I'll even sign a contract with you. I'll promise to pay you a quarter of a million dollars if the information you give me leads to Beth's return."

"That would help."

"Where would you like to meet?"

She laughed lightly. "I'd like to meet in Mexico. But I think it's best we meet right here where I live."

"Sure. Where is that?"

"Gig Harbor."

He hesitated. "Isn't that where--"

"Yeah. I'm at the Washington Corrections , Center for Women. Is that some kinda problem for you?"

"Under the circumstances, I'd say that only enhances your credibility. I can be there tonight."

"Good. But don't come if there's only money on the table."

"What do you mean?"

"There's only so much chewing gum a woman can buy. I want outta here."

He froze, not sure what to say. "I don't think I'm in a position--"

"I'm gonna hang up."

"Don't, please!"

"You sound desperate, Mr. Wheatley."

",`My wife is missing. How do expect me to sound?" "Then help me. And I'll help you."

"All I was trying to say is that it really isn't my place to negotiate your release. Something like this needs to be worked out between your lawyer and the state attorney's office and the department of corrections and whoever else is involved."

"Fine."

"Do you have a lawyer?"

"Yeah."

Who is it?"

"You."

"What?"

"You are a lawyer, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but--"

"But you've never done anything like this. So what? This is about influence, not experience. Guy like you has plenty of influential friends. A lot more than that incompetent little twit of a public defender who landed me here in the first place. You expect me to go back to him?"

"All I know is you're asking for an awful lot. If you want money, you got it. But on something like this, I just can't guarantee anything."

"Your guarantee is that you'll work harder than anyone to put this deal together. Because there's not another lawyer on the planet who has more incentive to get me out of here."

She had a point. He at least had to try. "What are you in for?"

"Conspiracy."

"Conspiracy to do what?"

"Murder."

"It's not going to be easy to spring a murderer from jail."

"I'm not in for murder. It was conspiracy to commit murder."

"So what are you saying? Someone else was the trigger person?"

"I'm saying no one got murdered. It was a conspiracy. Just a plan. The police got wind of it before anyone got killed."

"It's still not going to be easy."

"You want your wife back or don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Then get me outta here."

"Okay," he said, his heart racing. "I'll see what I can do."

Chapter
Thirty-Four.

It was a J-shaped drive from Seattle to the Washington Correctional Center for Women, down the interstate to Tacoma, then back up to Gig Harbor on the western side of Puget Sound. In good weather and light traffic the trip normally took about two hours.

Gus made it in record time.

Gig Harbor was a quaint harbor town with bite. It had plenty of lovely old-fashioned shops, restaurants, and bedand-breakfasts. Getting there, however, meant a trip across the mile-wide Tacoma Narrows, where winds whipped so furiously across the water that the original bridge had twisted and turned and toppled into the sea just months after opening in 1940. It had been replaced by the world's fifth largest suspension bridge, but Gus couldn't cross without one or two panicky visions of "Galloping Gertie," the ill-fated predecessor that had galloped too much.

The prison was located just outside of town, a recently renovated compound that spread across several acres of cleared evergreen forest. Of Washington's twelve major correctional facilities, WCCW was the only one exclusively for women. Medium
-
and minimum-security facilities housed nearly seven hundred female inmates, their crimes ranging from property theft to murder.

It was well after normal visitation hours when Gus arrived. Gus had spoken to Andie en route by car phone and told her all about Shirley Borge. Andie had called the Department of Corrections. If this inmate might help catch a serial killer, the warden was all too happy to allow an after-hours meeting.

Gus entered the compound at the close-custody reception unit, a long building that resembled old army barracks. A corrections officer led him down the hall to the attorney-client visitation area and checked him in. Gus entered booth number one, a small room with one chair. The door was behind him. White walls on either side. A glass partition separated him from an identical room on the lockup side. It was empty for the moment. He scooted his chair closer to the glass, closer to the phone box on the counter. He waited.

He heard a noise on the other side of the glass. The handle turned and the metal door opened. Gus started to rise, forgetting for a second that there would be no handshake. He settled back in his chair. Shirley Borge entered. She looked right at him. The door closed behind her. She sat in the chair and faced him, saying nothing. For a moment they just studied each other from opposite sides of the glass.

She looked younger than she had sounded on the telephone. And she was much prettier than Gus had expected. She had sandy blond hair and mysterious brown eyes. The face was thin with attractive lines, the lips full. Still, she was a hardened twenty-five. Andie had pulled her police record and shared it with Gus. Shirley had been convicted on conspiracy charges but had a history of prostitution. A long scar ran frOm her left temple and down across her cheek. Someone had cut her badly, perhaps with a razor. Deep in her eyes, the anger was still there. Gus looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at her misfortune. His eyes drifted down her neck. Inmates didn't wear uniforms at WCCW unless they were in segregation. Shirle
y w
as dressed in baggy cotton sweats that were unzipped at the collar to the base of her cleavage, where a small purple tattoo clung to her left breast. The breasts were round and firm, but the tattoo was horrendous, presumably an in-house jail job. Again, Gus tried not to stare, but there was magnetism in this abomination.

She tapped on the window, giving him a start. Gus looked up, embarrassed. The phone was pressed to her ear. Gus picked up.

"You like the tattoo?" she asked.

He blinked, even more embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to figure out what it was."

"What does it look like?"

"Kind of like a flower."

"Not a bad guess. It's my genitalia."

"Excuse me?"

She leaned forward, pointing and offering a closer look, as if she were an anatomical chart. "I know it looks a little strange, but it's dead-on accurate. My labia minora is much larger than my majora. A lot larger. They call it a full-blown rose."

He wasn't sure what to say. "I guess I'd never heard of that."

"Me neither. Till I got locked with seven hundred other women."

He squirmed, which she seemed to enjoy.

"You think I'm kidding?"

"I don't really care. I'm here to find my wife."

Her smile turned sly. "You surprise me. Being married to a shoplifter, I thought maybe you'd have a soft spot for the plight of us convicted felons."

"How do you know so much about Beth?"

"How are you going to get me out of here?" She was glaring, but it wasn't contempt. It was just negotiations.

"Bottom line is that I can't make this happen overnight. I spoke to the FBI at length on the way over here. The
y d
on't just spring you from jail because you claim to have information that will help solve a crime."

"Then you've got your work cut out for you, don't you?"

"Yeah, but you have to work with me. It's like any transaction. The FBI has to know what it's buying. Which means you have to show them what you've got."

"Where I come from, you get the cash on the dresser before
. Y
ou show the bootie."

"This isn't the happy mattress hotel. You can't just walk down the street to the next john and work out a better deal. You have one customer. That customer makes the rules."

She thought for a second, but she seemed a little less tough, as if starting to understand. "So I tell them what I know. Then what?"

"The FBI uses your tip. If it turns out to be true and helps them find my wife, they write a letter to the parole board telling them to please take your cooperation into consideration at the next parole hearing."

"But there's no guarantee."

"No. The board can still deny parole."

She thought for a second, then the eyes narrowed. "Fuck 'em, then."

"What?"

"They don't do the deal my way, I don't do it." "That's not smart."

"Who are you to say?"

"I'm your lawyer."

"You're whatever I say you are."

"I'm here to help you."

"You're here to help yourself."

"We can both win."

"I don't care. Just fuck the FBI. Fuck you, too." "This isn't about me and the FBI."

"Damn right it isn't. It's about me."

"Go to hell, lady. It's about a six-year-old kid who misses her mom."

Their eyes locked. He noticed the slightest twitch in her eye.

"You got a kid?" she asked.

"Yeah. Morgan's her name."

Shirley fell quiet.

He added, "She's full of questions, you know. Half the time she wants to know why someone would take her mommy away. The other half she wants to know why her mommy would leave her. Hard to make a six-year-old understand."

The silence lingered. They were staring at each other, the phones pressed to their ears. Then she blinked.

"I got a little girl, too. She's four."

"Girls are great."

She nodded. "Don't get to see her much."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," she said with a mirthless laugh. "Pretty hard to make her understand why her mommy has to live here."

Gus started to say something, then let it go. Shirley was thinking, weighing things in her mind, perhaps even agonizing. He could see it in her eyes. In a minute, she had shaken it off. "Tell you what, Mr. Wheatley. I won't just spill my guts to you like some fool. But I'm gonna give you a chance."

"That's all I'm asking for."

"Here's the deal. The FBI has to prove itself to me, convince me that they're willing to deal. So I want you to tell them to get me some privileges here. If they can do that, I'll talk. That will show me they're dealing in good faith."

"What do you want?"

"I want to get back on the prison pet program." "What's that?"

"It's a special program here. Some of the inmates get to keep dogs in their cells and train them. Then we give them away to handicapped people as pets. It's a nice thing.

Makes you feel like you're doing something worthwhile. I did it for about a year or so. They kicked me off."

"How come?"

"I let one of the dogs lick me."

Gus looked confused.

She added, "You don't want to know where."

"I see."

"It was stupid. Just a spur of the moment thing that grossed me out immediately. My luck I got caught."

"We all do stupid things."

"Anyway, I want back on the program. So this is a good way for the FBI to show me some good faith. If they can do a little something for me now, then I'll know they're taking me serious. Then you and me can talk."

"You can't just put the FBI to the test. You have to give up something in return."