Under Cover of Darkness (3 page)

The fourth ring was followed by a raspy "Hello." "Carla, it's Gus. Sony to wake you."

She didn't reply. For a second Gus thought she might hang up. Carla was his younger sister, but that was secondary. First and foremost, she was his wife's best friend. Growing up, they had never been close. Marrying Beth and effectively coming between her and her best friend had only made things worse. Whenever Beth had a complaint about Gus, Carla was on her side. Sometimes it seemed as though Carla was even leading the charge. Through it all, however, they had managed a level of civility. A low level.

"It's twenty after six," she said, groaning. "What do you want?"

"I'm a little concerned about Beth."

Her voice took on urgency. "What did you do to her?"

The accusatory tone angered him. God only knew what Beth had been telling Carla. "I didn't do anything to her. Can you please just answer a simple question for me? When's the last time you talked to Beth?"

"We went out for brunch yesterday. Why?"

"Did she say she was going anywhere--going away?" "You mean, like a vacation?"

"Anything at all. In town, out of town. It doesn't matter."

"The only thing she mentioned was that she had to take
Morgan over to the youth center at two. Why are you asking me all this?"

He sighed, then said, "Beth dropped Morgan off, but sh
e n
ever picked her up. I had to get Morgan myself. Bet
h n
ever came home last night. I don't know where she is." "She's not here with me, if that's what you're implying." "I wasn't implying anything. I'm just trying to locate m
y w
ife. Do you have any idea where she might be?" "No. But I can speculate."

"Go right ahead."

"Has it occurred to you that perhaps Beth has finally seen the light and found the courage to leave you?"

She sounded so smug, he wanted to tell her to go to hell. But he knew Carla's theory wasn't out of the question. "If that was the case, don't you think she could have found a better way to do it than to leave her six-year-old daughter stranded at the youth center with no ride home? Does a reasonably intelligent woman do something like that?"

"If she's confused enough, maybe she does. Beth was very unhappy. You have no idea how unhappy she was."

"That doesn't explain everything. I've been through her closet, her drawers. All her clothes are still there. Her shoes. Her photo albums and collectibles. Nothing seems to be missing. It just doesn't look like she was planning an escape. Even her car is still in the garage."

"She doesn't have to drive to leave you."

"I've been making phone calls since four A
. M
. I've checked with every cab company in the city. None of them picked up Beth from our house yesterday. I've called every hotel between here and White Pass. No Beth Wheatley. I even called highway patrol to see if there were any accidents."

"Did you try Sea-Tac?"

"The airlines won't give out passenger information." "There you go. She could be flying the friendly skies as we speak."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Come on, Carla. I know what's going on here. I've suspected for months."

"Suspected what?"

"She's seeing someone, isn't she?"

"Another man? No way. You've soured her on the species for life."

"Carla, be straight with me. If she spent the night with another man, that's between her and me. But if that's not the case, then something scary is going on, and I need to call the police so they can start looking for her. So tell me, and you'd better tell me the truth. Things haven't been good between me and Beth lately. But this is Morgan's mother we're talking about. Your niece."

"I honestly don't know what to tell you."

"Stop covering for her." He was louder than he'd intended. He drew a deep breath, but he still spoke harshly. "This is serious. Does a woman leave her husband without a suitcase? Without a purse, a wallet, her driver's license? Without so much as a fifty-dollar withdrawal from our bank account? Don't make me drag in law enforcement if you know this boils down to another lover. But if we can agree she might be in trouble, it's time to call the cops. Which is it, Carla?"

There was a pause on the line, as if she were trying to put aside the lifetime of anger she'd built up against her brother. Finally, she answered in a shaky voice. "I think you'd better call the police."

The response chilled him. He didn't say thank you. He didn't say good-bye. He just hung up the phone and dialed the police.

Chapter
Four.

The Mean y Science, Math and Arts Academy let out at three-thirty. Five hundred middle-school students burst through the exits like escaped prisoners. Some headed for the playground until their ride arrived. Others went straight for the long line of yellow buses. Noisy groups of kids who lived close enough to walk home were escorted off the school yard by volunteer patrollers. Benny Martinez and his two sidekicks walked alone.

Benny was big for a sixth-grader, confident to the point of cockiness, a natural leader. As to whether he'd devote his talents to good use or gang life, the verdict was still out.

He walked slowly down the sidewalk and away from the school, passing the crowded buses. He wore a flashy blue and gray NFL Seattle Seahawks athletic jacket. Once outside the school property, he clipped a chain dog leash to his oversized blue jeans, just for effect. Although his parents wouldn't allow the skinhead haircut that was a gang trademark, his hair was cropped as short as his scissors could possibly cut it.

"Come on, Benny," his buddy said. His voice shook with nervousness. He was clearly in a hurry.

"Be cool." Benny clutched his knapsack, which concealed a stolen football. Experience had taught him never to run when carrying stolen goods. Some twenty percent o
f h
is classmates had been suspended at some time during the school year. Benny had yet to be tagged for anything. Fools, all of them. Coolness was key.

He smiled at the patrolwoman on the corner as he and his two buddies crossed the street. His friends looked as if they were about to wet their pants. Benny muttered beneath his breath, "Run and I'll kill you both."

His friends slowed their pace. Past poundings from Benny had taught them to do exactly as he said.

Benny seemed to glide across the street, not anxious in the least. His friends tagged along on either side of him, with Benny a half step ahead. They walked as a unit for several blocks until Benny signaled halt. They'd reached the entrance to Washington Park Arboretum, a twohundred-acre woodland northeast of downtown. A light breeze from Union Bay stirred the towering fir trees before them. The sun was just a fuzzy amber ball behind a patchy blanket of clouds. Benny unzipped his knapsack and removed the leather football. Only now did he allow himself a smile.

"Go long," he said.

His friends sprinted into the park. Benny waved, telling them to keep going. He heaved the football with all his strength. Wind-aided, it nearly made it to his friends. They wrestled with each other and rolled in the grass to gain control of the bouncing ball. Benny ran to catch up with them. His friend pitched it back to him, rugby-style. The threesome ran along the asphalt bicycle path, pitching the ball back and forth among them. The winding trail took them up and over a hill, deep into a lush green meadow. The impressive Japanese tea garden loomed ahead. The boys were more focused on the ball than the sights. The long run had them breathless, but no one wanted to be the sissy who stopped the game. Benny pitched a high one. His friend got a hand on it but missed. The ball rolled down the hill into a heavily wooded area.

"Idiot!" shouted Benny.

"Me? You threw it!"

They stood at the edge of the bike trail. The hillside dropped off at a steep forty-degree angle. The longpole pines were nearly thirty feet tall, the Douglas firs even taller. Yet the ravine was so deep that some of the treetops were at the boys' eye level. They could hear running water splashing against the rocks somewhere below, but the evergreens were too thick to actually see the creek.

Benny glared at this friend. "Go get it."

"No way."

Benny shoved him off the ledge. He rolled about thirty feet down the hillside before grabbing hold of a tree. Loose gravel continued down the hill. He looked up in fear, about ready to cry. Benny didn't flinch. "Get the ball," he said.

The other boy spoke up. "Just forget it. It was stolen anyway."

"You afraid?" asked Benny.

"No. Are you?"

Benny's eyes narrowed. "If you get there before I do, you can keep the ball."

His pal smiled at the challenge. Quickly but carefully they started sliding on their butts down the side of the hill. It was grassy at the top, making it easier to control the descent. But the mud near the bottom made the slide even faster. Too fast. They were bouncing, then tumbling out of control. Low-hanging branches. slapped their faces. Mud was flying everywhere, into their shoes and up their shirts. The farther the descent, the darker it got. The sound of the creek grew louder, until finally they landed with a thud at the foot of the hill.

Benny groaned. His friend groaned louder. They were only a few feet apart, but there was barely enough light for them to see one another.

"Benny?"

He shook his head, getting his bearings. "Yeah?"

"What the heck is that?" "What?"

His friend pointed. "That. Up there, behindyou."

Benny turned. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dimness. Something was in the tree, a good twenty feet overhead. He stared, trying to focus. Finally, he could see it. Turning. Twisting. His eyes widened. There was no mistaking it.

A body was hanging at the end of a rope.

The boys looked at each other, then screamed in unison as they ran the other way along the side of the creek.

For a special agent in the FBI, it was hard to define a "typical" Monday. The Monday after a wedding like Andie's definitely was not typical.

Andie had been in the FBI for three years, all in the Seattle field office. The bureau wasn't exactly a lifelong dream of hers. It was more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker who might well have courted the other side of the law had Mr. and Mrs. Henning not adopted her at the age of nine and channeled her energy in the right direction. She was a Junior Olympic mogul skier till her knee gave out and a certified scuba diver by the time she was sixteen. She went away to college at the University of California, Santa Barbara, thinking she would build a life near the beach. To everyone's surprise she chose a rather serious major, psychology. Her grades were good enough to get her into law school, and, yet another surprise, she went. But it wasn't until her final year that real inspiration struck. At a recruitment panel on alternative careers, she was mesmerized by a woman who had just returned from an investigation of a terrorist bombing. That had settled it. She would join the FBI.

The decision had thrilled her father, himself a cop who had introduced her to guns at an early age. During her training at the academy, she had become only the twentiet
h w
oman in bureau history to make the "Possible Club," a ninety-eight-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Despite the distinction, she'd spent her first six months doing routine background checks on prospective federal employees. It was a career dead end reserved for marginal agents, or for someone like Andie, who simply looked young for her age and wasn't taken seriously. Fortunately, one of the supervisory special agents spotted her talent: "Unmatched drive and a healthy spirit of adventure," he had written in her evaluation, "tempered by serious brainpower and exceptional technical skills." He got her assigned to the bank-robbery squad, where she'd made a name for herself over the next eighteen months. At twenty-seven she still looked young. No one, however, had trouble taking her seriously anymore.

At least not before the wedding.

Andie struggled to keep smiling throughout the day. It wasn't easy. Nobody said a word about the wedding, though a group of secretaries at the watercooler had giggled after she'd passed. Everyone knew about it, of course. Some of them had been there. One of them was sporting a black eye to prove it.

"See ya manana," said Andie on her way to the elevator. The receptionist waved and buzzed her through the electronically secured door.

It was early, around four-thirty: Thanks to the canceled honeymoon, her calendar was completely clear, making it a stretch to fill her day with anything meaningful. She didn't feel like going straight home, another night alone. Nights were awfully long this time of year, even without a heartache. She headed a few blocks south from the federal building toward historic Pioneer Square, the old downtown business district where quaint cobblestone streets and nineteenth-century brick buildings were home to trendy galleries, boutiques, and restaurants. Andie stopped at
J&M Cafe, a popular saloon that boasted the most impressive wooden bar this side of San Francisco. It was her favorite place for nachos, the perfect sinful ending to the rabbit food diet she'd endured for the bikini she wouldn't wear on the Hawaiian honeymoon she'd never take.