Blood Lies (9 page)

I headed out on my road bike the next morning at five for another dark ride. I cycled at a leisurely pace because my head ached and my stomach flip-flopped from the remainder of the bottle of scotch I’d polished off on returning home from Helen’s. Fighting back the nausea, it dawned on me that I’d consumed more alcohol in the past week than in the past year. Memories drifted to my mind of Dad waking Aaron and me up in the middle of the night with his missteps and stumbles on the staircase from yet another night of boozing. How he managed to function in the daytime and sustain his accounting practice amazed me even then. And having witnessed my identical twin battling drugs, I didn’t need a blood test to know I possessed the same predisposition toward addiction.

Blood.
It suffocated me. I could still see the disappointed certainty in Helen’s brown eyes. With each turn of the pedal, I grew more convinced that she already knew what the whisperer had predicted—that the blood on the wall did match mine.

But how?
Had someone stolen a sample of my blood? I scoured my memory for my last blood test. Three years earlier I’d had baseline testing done at the hospital lab to check my hepatitis immune status, but there was no way the lab would have hung on to the blood for more than a few weeks.

My stomach churned again, but not from alcohol. If the blood wasn’t mine, then the only alternate explanation was Prince’s farfetched suggestion that it came from my brother. And unless the killer had access to highly sophisticated blood-freezing equipment, it would have to have been produced by Aaron’s bone marrow in the last few months. But I wasn’t ready to accept the implication that Aaron survived the slaughterhouse of his trunk and was somehow involved in Emily’s death.

Pumping hard to climb the last steep hill on my cycle home, a moment of clarity overcame me. No one was going to rescue me. I’d become the sole focus of the investigation, and after hearing Helen’s long list of circumstantial evidence, I understood why. I had no time left for mourning or self-pity. I had to act.

They would come for me soon.

At 8:05
A.M.
, I sat in Michael Prince’s office staring out at the fog that hid much of Puget Sound and sipping a coffee as bitter as the last one. Across the desk, Prince leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his neck interlocked over his flowing silver hair.

“Ben, I think it probably was not the most prudent step,” Prince summed up my visit to Helen’s house with pained understatement.

“I consider Helen a friend,” I said. “I thought without her partner around, she might see my side.”

Prince pulled his hands from his head and snapped forward in his chair. “Listen to me, Ben. You have no friends left inside the Seattle P.D. From now on, you do not talk to
any
of them. That’s my job.”

“Meanwhile I sit back and wait?”

His expression softened. “I know it’s frustrating, but that’s exactly what you have to do. Go back to your regular life. Maybe this won’t lead to the doom and gloom you’re expecting.”

I shook my head. “They think I killed Emily. They’re not going to drop this.”

“But they need evidence.”

“I think someone is supplying them with all the evidence they need.”

Prince tilted his head. “Oh?”

I told him about the two anonymous whispered phone calls. When I finished, Prince viewed me poker-faced. “And you’re certain the calls originated in Canada?”

“According to my call display,” I said.

“Why Canada?”

“There could be a connection. Aaron had moved to Vancouver about a year before he died.”

Prince’s lips broke into a slight smile. “You mean before he disappeared.”

“I keep forgetting.”

His smile faded. “I won’t let you.”

“Michael, I don’t think I can sit back and wait. The cops aren’t looking for any other suspects. They’re building the case against
me.
”

“Which may or may not be enough to lead to charges,” Prince said, relaxing back in his seat. “We can’t stop them from investigating you. What we need to do is to focus on preparing your defense should it become necessary.”

I wasn’t ready to let it go. “Michael, didn’t you once defend the second victim, Jason DiAngelo, on charges of drug possession?”

The skin around his eyes tightened slightly. “And how is that relevant to you?”

“I’m not sure it is, but I’d heard that Philip Maglio hired you.”

“Which of course I can’t comment on,” Prince said dismissively. “Where are you going with this, Ben?”

“J.D. was a drug dealer who sold Emily black-market HIV drugs. He worked for a supposed Seattle mob boss. A few days ago, I saw another drug dealer die in the Emergency Room of the same kind of knife wound that killed J.D. Maybe it’s all tied in somehow.”

Prince smiled reassuringly, but warning lurked behind the benign countenance. “Ben, we don’t have to produce alternate suspects. We don’t even have to prove your innocence. All we have to establish is reasonable doubt. And I think your missing brother will offer us that.”

An hour after leaving Prince’s office, I sat at the computer in my small home office. Trying to follow my attorney’s advice, I surfed the familiar cycling Web sites looking for distraction. I logged onto the Pacific Northwest Cyclist’s discussion forum. (Having sworn never to get involved in online chatting, I’d skeptically signed on to the forum a year earlier and after following the intelligent conversation threads for a while I soon became a frequent contributor.) The online members were holding another “did he or didn’t he?” discussion of Lance Armstrong’s alleged blood doping in his early Tour de France wins. I’d sat through the same discussion too many times before. Besides, I couldn’t stomach the topic of incriminating blood tests.

Exiting the forum, I wandered off into cyberspace. At the Google home page, I typed in “Emily Kenmore AND Philip Maglio” but came up with no hits. I tried the same with various combinations, including “Jason DiAngelo AND Aaron Dafoe.” All misses. Then I searched for “Philip Maglio.” I stumbled upon a few old newspaper articles that insinuated links to organized crime, before finding the official Web site of his company, NorWesPac Properties, a Seattle-based real estate development company. I clicked on the CEO’s biography. Predictably, the blurb focused on his rise from humble working-class roots in nearby Redmond to become founder and chairman of the multimillion-dollar NorWesPac Properties.

I enlarged the small photo inset in the corner of the screen. Fiftyish, with thinning black hair and acne-scarred skin, Philip Maglio smiled back at me, though his face was anything but welcoming. Strong jaw clenched, his gray eyes challenged the camera. Though not handsome, his face exuded power. From the photo alone, I would’ve recognized in an instant that Maglio was not someone to be screwed with.

I read as much as I could find on his company, learning that NorWesPac primarily developed condo projects. I know little about real estate, but I was impressed by the list of their current developments, which stretched from Portland, Oregon, to as far north as British Columbia, Canada.

On a hunch, I Googled “Emily Kenmore AND NorWesPac Properties.” I sat up straighter when the list of twenty-five hits popped up on my screen. My heart rate sped up as I scanned the list, including one from the official NorWesPac Web site. I clicked on that link to discover that Emily was listed as the Seattle sales director for NorWesPac’s very upscale condo development called SnowView at the world-renowned Canadian ski resort of Whistler, seventy miles north of Vancouver.

Canada!
There it was again. Another link to our northern neighbors.

Fingers racing and mouse clicking frantically, I pieced together the story of the SnowView development. Intended to cater to the Seattle “dot-commers” with loads of disposable income and a taste for the slopes, the development never got off the ground. Problems with zoning permits, the rising Canadian dollar, and cost overruns eventually sidelined the project. None of the sites mentioned how Emily came to part ways with NorWesPac Properties, though I knew from our own interactions that NorWesPac hadn’t employed her for more than six months.

I pushed away from the computer and stared at the screen saver, a cyclist sprinting up the picturesque but grueling Peyresourde leg of the Tour de France’s time trials. I empathized with the rider, but I also felt my first glimmer of hope. I’d just unearthed a connection between the two victims and Philip Maglio. Emily and J.D. had both worked for Philip Maglio—a very dangerous man, according to my cousin. I realized the link might simply be coincidence, but as far as I was concerned, in the past week I’d already chewed through a lifetime’s worth of coincidences.

I wheeled my chair back toward the desk and reached for the computer mouse. I clicked my way through the NorWesPac Web site until I found the
CONTACT US
section. Secure in the knowledge that my home phone number was unlisted, I reached for the phone and dialed the company’s main office number.

“NorWesPac Properties.” The upbeat voice answered on the second ring. “This is Megan. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Maglio, please.”

“Who may I say is calling?”

I hesitated a moment and then an idea struck me. “My name is J.D. Emily.”

“
Amilley
?” she asked.

“No, Emily. As in the poet, Emily Dickinson.”

I wondered if the reference was wasted on the young-sounding receptionist, but she simply said, “Please hold a moment, Mr. Emily.”

I only had to suffer through thirty seconds of canned hold music, before the line clicked. “Phil Maglio,” growled the cigarette-and-whisky-ravaged voice.

“Mr. Maglio, I’m a friend of Emily Kenmore’s.”

The line went quiet. “Emily Kenmore doesn’t work for NorWesPac any longer.”

“Emily doesn’t breathe any longer,” I said provocatively. “What about Jason DiAngelo,
AKA
J.D.?”

He cleared his throat loudly. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

I glanced at the monitor where Maglio’s photo still appeared. I could picture his jaw clenching even tighter and his gray eyes steaming. “He used to work for you.”

“Not at NorWesPac.”

“No, not at NorWesPac. I think he worked for you in a sector other than real estate.”

Another pause. “Who is this?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Maglio grunted his disdain.

I took a slow breath. “Phil, I want to know what happened to Emily and J.D.”

“Me, too!”

The line clicked dead.

I cradled the receiver in my hand for several seconds. I considered phoning him back to try to set up a meeting, but aside from getting myself killed, I couldn’t see what it would accomplish. Still, a vague buzz enveloped me. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like I was careening downhill in the backseat of a car without brakes.

I put down the receiver and glanced at the computer’s clock: 5:45
P.M.
I’d been snooping online for more than four hours. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten yet today. I stood up and stretched, then decided it was time to head downstairs and reward myself with a massive turkey breast sandwich and an icy beer. I was glad I had restocked my fridge and liquor cabinet earlier.

As I walked past the curtained window, movement from the street caught my eye. I moved closer and peered out through the gap between the curtains.

I jerked back instantly, as if shot at. My chest slammed. My palms dampened.

The doorbell rang, and I shuddered.

I stole another furtive glance between the curtains. I could see two police cruisers parked on the street, one of them blocking the driveway. Two uniformed policemen stood in front of Helen’s sedan.

The doorbell rang again. I knew Helen and Rick were standing at my front door.

For them to have arrived accompanied by backup meant only one thing: The blood on Emily’s wall officially matched my DNA.

I forced saliva down my tightening throat. I took several slow breaths, willing the panic to subside. Drawing on years of Emergency Room experience in facing critical situations, I focused my thoughts away from the anxiety and onto the immediate next steps.

If I go with them now
, I thought,
I might lose my only chance to clear my name
.

I peeked out the window again. Even if I could squeeze my Smart Car past the cruiser blocking the driveway, I couldn’t outrun the cops with an engine the size of a moped’s. Suddenly the allure of the car’s fuel efficiency evaporated.

The doorbell rang a third, fourth, and fifth time in rapid succession. I knew that I didn’t have long before they broke through the door.

Frantically stuffing my wallet and cell phone in my jeans, I threw on a sweatshirt. I grabbed my cycling shoes and hopped into each of them on my way out of the bedroom. I tore down the stairs. Without stopping at the main floor, I rounded the corner and ran to the basement.

I opened the door to the attached garage. Stepping carefully on the concrete, I willed my bike cleats to silence. More out of reflex than reason, I slipped on my helmet, and then lifted my road bike off the rack. The gentle thud the tires made on contact with concrete sounded to me like a brick hitting the ground. I wheeled the bike to a strategic spot five feet from the garage door. I mounted the bike and clicked a foot into the pedal.

I allowed myself three long breaths then reached for the garage door opener. Heart pounding, I pressed the button.

The garage door clunked its way open. As soon as I judged the opening near bike level, I jumped onto the pedal. Ducking my head, I flew through the gap and gained speed with each pedal up the driveway. Reaching the top, I caught the bewildered expressions of the uniformed policemen as they scrambled to react.

“Stop!” the female cop yelled.

But stopping wasn’t an option. I didn’t even look back as I rode past. Instead, I stood on the pedals and pumped like I was sprinting for the finish line in the race of my life.

At the T-intersection at the bottom of my street, I veered hard right and was almost clipped by a car cruising past with the right of way. The horn sounded angrily, but like a bike courier with a death wish, I cut across the street and rode into the oncoming lane half a block until my next left turn. Leaning into the corner, the wind whistled by my ears, and I heard the wail of sirens behind me.

Adrenaline flooded into my system. My lungs burned as I raced along Woodlawn Avenue North, knowing my only hope of escape was Woodland Park. I hit the T-intersection at Woodlawn and Fifty-fifth, swerving to my right. I could see the park ahead of me, but the sirens were gaining. With a quick check over my shoulder, I saw the cruiser less than half a block behind.

I reached the main thoroughfare of Green Lake Way. Ignoring the stop sign and the oncoming traffic, I raced across the intersection. Brakes screeched as I veered to avoid a speeding car. I almost toppled off my bike, but I managed to regain my balance just as I hopped the curb.

I roared down the sidewalk against the pedestrian traffic. A couple walking in the opposite direction had to release hands and dive out of my way as I rode between them. I heard the man’s fading shout of “Watch it, asshole!” but I didn’t dare look back.

I reached the entrance to the park and cut in. I screamed along the path beside the soccer pitch, heading desperately for the park’s thicker trees and paths that I hoped would offer some protection. I reached the parking lot in front of the tennis courts. Gasping for breath, more from anxiety than exhaustion, I raced on past the tennis players and around the courts until I arrived at the first footpath.

As I rode deep into the park under the cover of the dense trees, I no longer heard the sirens, but the adrenaline wouldn’t let me slow down. I reached Aurora Avenue, the thoroughfare that divides the park, and I doubled back into the thicker woods.

Slowing the bike, I checked behind me again. No one.

I brought my bike to a stop by a tall maple tree. Pausing under its branches, I weighed my options. Police all over the city would be looking for a cyclist in jeans on a red bike. Reluctantly, I realized I had no choice but to ditch the bike. I tucked it away in the most concealed spot I could find behind another tree, though I knew the effort was futile. If the bike weren’t stolen, the police would confiscate it. Either way, I would never see it again. After dropping my helmet behind the bike, I twisted the headlight off the handlebar and pocketed it. I took one last glance, as if saying good-bye to an old friend, and then hurried off on foot.

Feeling the pressure of the bicycle cleats digging into the soles of my feet, I jogged through the woods, darting between trails on my way out to North Fiftieth Street. I stopped a hundred feet from the road, certain I would hear sirens or see flashing lights the moment I emerged from the cover of the foliage.

I inched closer to the street until I had a glimpse of the road on either side that ran along the perimeter of the park.

Nothing.

I ducked back into the trail and wrestled with another choice: Either I could call a cab on my cell phone (and risk being traced by some high-tech GPS system), or I could stand on the busy street in bike cleats while trying to inconspicuously hail a passing cab. I decided to take my chances on the phone. I pulled it out of my jeans and dialed the number for the taxi company. I gave the dispatcher exact instructions on which side of the street to pick me up.

Heart still hammering despite the rest, I moved close enough to the street to watch for the approaching cab. In the five-minute wait, which felt like five days, I second-guessed my decision to run from the police. If Helen had any doubt left as to my guilt, I suspected I had dispelled it by fleeing.

The streak of yellow slowed to a stop at the side of the road. My cleats clicked like horses’ hooves as I ran along the pavement to the cab. I grabbed for the door handle and resisted the urge to dive into the backseat. I climbed in and slumped down in the seat as low as possible without looking overly suspicious.

The young African-American driver eyed me indifferently in the mirror. “Where to?”

“Emerson and Thirty-third, please,” I said, conjuring an address in the Magnolia Bluff neighborhood that was at least six blocks from Alex’s home.

We drove in silence. Fighting the impulse to scan every window, I focused on the floor of the taxi where a tourist map of Seattle lay in a wadded ball. It struck me as metaphoric; to sort out this mess, I had to discard Seattle, too. I had an inkling of where I had to go, but I’d no idea how to get there.

The driver dropped me off at the designated intersection. I wandered down Emerson but turned back as soon as his cab was out of sight. Hands in my pocket and head down, I struggled to slow my pace as I strode the three blocks to Discovery Park.

Daylight had begun to dwindle by the time I reached the trails. Through my light sweatshirt, I felt a chill in the cooler evening air, but I wasn’t willing to venture out until dusk had fully given way to darkness.

I found a bench in the woods and sat down. Now that the adrenaline had finally washed out of my system, I was able to consider the scope of my predicament. The whisperer’s prediction had panned out—my two-year-old DNA sample must have unequivocally matched the blood on Emily’s wall.

It’s not my blood!
I wanted to scream at the trees.
Somebody is framing me.
Someone with access to a perfect facsimile of my blood. And without any other plausible explanation, a belief began to take root that was as jarring to me as anything that had happened during the past week.

Aaron is alive
.