Collecting the Dead (21 page)

It’s the best we can hope for in this, the worst of situations.

Still, Jimmy doesn’t like the idea of parking a cop in plain view, arguing that we’re tipping our hand, letting Sad Face know that we’re on to him. But in the end, it comes down to the first rule of law enforcement: protect the public. In this case, that means Becky Contreras, regardless of the consequences to the case.

My eyelids are heavy as we head north on I-5. It’s been a long day. Maybe I’ll sleep well tonight. Maybe I won’t dream … maybe.…

CHAPTER TWENTY

June 30, 7:42
A.M.

The hotel’s complimentary breakfast is better than most and Jimmy’s already halfway through a second helping of French toast when I make it downstairs. I grab a poppy-seed muffin and an orange juice and settle into the chair next to him.

Jimmy’s intent on a crossword puzzle, so we eat in silence while the room around us murmurs with sleepy morning sounds: subdued voices, shuffling feet, coffee percolating, newspapers rustling, spoons rattling.

Most of the breakfast club consists of businessmen and businesswomen already dressed in their best attire, with briefcases and laptops at the ready. Even now you can see they’re pumping themselves up for the day ahead. If they’re staying in a hotel, it means they have an important meeting or sales pitch ahead of them.

Then there are the tourists. You can spot them a mile away because they’re wearing shorts, flip-flops, suntan lotion, and hallelujah smiles—that’s the smile that plants itself on your lips when you realize you don’t have to go back to work for two more weeks.

The businesspeople smile, too, but it’s that polite smile we all wear when we’re not really happy but have to pretend we’re glad to see you or excited about the day ahead. It’s a hi-how-are-you? smile, not a hallelujah smile.

“A tower,” I say, tapping Jimmy’s crossword puzzle.

“What?”

“Seventeen down, a group of giraffes.”

“A group of giraffes is called a tower?”

“It is.”

“That sounds like something you just made up.”

“Google it.”

He does—which is a bit insulting.

“How’d you know that?”

“I’m a genius.”

He snorts and takes another bite of French toast.

Five minutes later the crossword puzzle is finished. I stuff what’s left of the muffin in my mouth and chase it with orange juice as Jimmy wipes his hands on a baby-blue napkin and grabs his Fossil briefcase.

A smoky sky weeps as we exit the lobby, casting down a host of tears the size of cherry pits and sending us scurrying across the parking lot, our heads hunched low between our shoulders—as if that’s going to stop the creeping wet. The forecast called for a partly cloudy day with a 10 percent chance of rain.

They were 100 percent right.

Our rental car is a blue Ford Escape and it looks miles away through the downpour. As usual, the rental agreement’s in Jimmy’s name, since he’s the one with the expense account. He’s also the only authorized driver, since it costs eleven dollars a day to add a second driver.

Jimmy assures me this isn’t intentional, it’s just that he wants me to be free to watch the road, the vehicles, the people, and the places; like I’m going to suddenly spot Sad Face thumbing a ride as we cruise down some backcounty road.

I suspect Jimmy doesn’t trust my driving …

 … which is ridiculous.

I’ve never been in an accident and I’ve only ever gotten one ticket, and that was for doing twenty miles per hour
under
the speed limit, which shouldn’t even count. It was like a reverse speed trap: a slow trap. The speed limit changed from twenty-five to forty-five, and a half mile down the road Bubba Gump was waiting for me in a turnout.

I feel edgy just at the thought.

It happens every time I see a traffic cop. Guilt sneaks up from behind and shanks me in the kidney. It doesn’t matter that I’m in law enforcement; primal instincts take over. On that particular day I crept by Bubba at twenty-five, my eyes glued to the speedometer. I made sure I used my blinker well before the next turn, kept my wheels between the lines, and tried not to drift back and forth too much in my lane of travel.

Intense driving.

Religiously adherent to the rules of the road.

Suddenly lights were behind me, followed by a short
brrpt brrpt
of the siren. I was still swearing at my speedometer when he got to my window; and when he told me what I was getting pulled over for, I must have said,
You’re kidding
, a dozen times.

I just paid the fine and told no one.

Something like that can ruin your reputation.

Jimmy’s an alpha male, so I let him drive. Alpha males don’t like the passenger seat because it doesn’t fit well. If they’re forced to sit in the passenger seat they just squirm and complain. I’m pretty sure I’m not an alpha male. I mean, I’ll take charge of a situation if no one else steps up, but I prefer to be the guy in the background.

I’m probably a bravo male.

Bravo males are important because they help out the alpha males and say,
Bravo! Bravo!
whenever they do something right, even if it’s infrequently. This positive reinforcement is vital because alpha males have large egos that constantly need refilling.

This morning the rain drives any thought of alpha males and bravo males from my mind, leaving only wet males in its wake. Despite a shielding hand, the morning storm consumes my special glasses and turns the world into a warped and fragmented kaleidoscope. Halfway across the unending parking lot I take them off and slide them into my shirt pocket. I’m ten paces from the Escape when something catches my eye.

No.

I stop abruptly; the rain beats me down. Jimmy’s still hunkered down, eyes to the pavement, when he runs into me from behind. Like a pinball, he bounces off and tries to go around, his only thought to get out of the rain. I reach out and grab his sleeve, pulling him up short.

“What?”

The shine glows boldly through the rain, bursting forth with intensity. It’s new, maybe three hours old. Jimmy sees it in my eyes, in the creases of my forehead, but I say it anyway. “It’s Sad Face. He’s been here.”

In an instant his gun is out and at a ready position. Sweeping left, he clears the front of the vehicle and the bushes beyond while I sweep right. There are two distinct and separate tracks; one is coming and going from the landscaping at the front of the nosed-in Ford, the other is in the parking lot near the rear of the vehicle.

Neither track is connected, which is odd. I stare at the parking lot track for an eternity, oblivious now to the rain. All of a sudden it clicks. It makes sense.

I wave Jimmy over and raise my voice above the rain. “He must have our license plate number.” I point to the pavement at our feet. “He drove through the parking lot looking for our SUV, then, when he thought he had the right Ford Escape, he got out right here and walked over in the dark to check the plate number.” Pointing to the right, I continue. “He got back into his car and parked somewhere else, then came back on foot.”

I open the Ford’s passenger door and my gut convulses. He’s all over the inside: in the seats, under the seats, on the visors, in the glove box. An ugly swath of brilliant amaranth and rust lays across the interior, a hideous beast asleep on the leather.

Inside the glove box, every document has been handled and searched. Most are irrelevant: owner’s manual, satellite radio instructions, that type of thing. One piece of paper, however, is covered in amaranth.

“Jimmy,” I say, holding the paper aloft, “it’s the rental agreement; he was
really
interested in it. Looks like he was holding it with both hands, and he turned it over and over, like he was looking for—”

Of course

“—the renter’s name.” My words are a whisper.

I stare at Jimmy, immobile.

“Dammit!” Steam appears to rise off his body, as if something smolders below the surface, burning off the rain. “Dammit!” he repeats. “The bastard was watching us. He probably staked out the sheriff’s office right after the media blitz. It wouldn’t take much to single us out, especially with our picture plastered all over the paper. We’re going to have to change vehicles—and hotels.”

“Yeah, but what does he want? He already knows we’re FBI.”

“He wants names. He wants to know who his adversaries are, who’s hunting him. He wants…” Jimmy’s eyes glass over, and for a moment he assumes the thousand-yard stare.

“Oh, God.” His voice is a whisper, a shiver.

“Let me see that,” he says, snatching the wet paper from my hand. He flips it over and right side up. His eyes dart to the top and he exhales sharp and hard, like someone just gut-punched him with a lead fist. It almost doubles him over.

“My home address,” he gasps.

“Your home add— Oh, no. Jane. Pete. No, he wouldn’t. He can’t.”

Jimmy’s on the phone; I’m pacing in the rain.

“He couldn’t have made it to Bellingham,” I say, more to myself than Jimmy. “There wasn’t enough time. Not—enough—time,” I emphasize. But there’s no answer at Jimmy’s house. He tries Jane’s cell.

Nothing.

Jimmy keeps calling; over and over he calls, first the house, then the cell, pleading small prayers in between. Begging God. Begging Jane. Begging anyone.

We’re jumping to conclusions
, I tell myself.
Sad Face isn’t interested in Jimmy’s family, he’s interested in Jimmy. He’s interested in me.
But then I remember Alison Lister. I remember Jennifer Green and Dany Grazier and Sarah Wells. I realize that we know little about Sad Face and what motivates him.

Fishing the phone from my pocket, I flip to the contact list and scroll down, eyes searching. There he is. It’s too early for the office, so I dial his home phone. It rings and rings, and then the answering machine kicks on. Just as I start to hang up, a voice cuts in. “Hello?”

“Dex. Thank God. I need your help.”

*   *   *

Within four minutes the first Lynden officer arrives on Jimmy’s doorstep. Within nine minutes two Whatcom County deputies, a state trooper, and two more Lynden officers, including the chief, are on site. With Jimmy’s permission I guide them to the hidden key near the birdbath in the backyard. They enter through the front door, and I hear them sweeping each room and calling out, “Clear,” over and over again as they work their way through the downstairs, then the upstairs.

It’s empty.

No sign of a struggle.

A cell phone sits on the kitchen counter ringing and ringing, then stopping, then ringing some more. “There’s a coffee mug with two inches of black in the bottom,” the chief tells me. “It’s lukewarm. She hasn’t been gone long.” A check of the garage finds Jane’s 2008 Acura TL gone, and the chief calls dispatch and issues a BOLO—be on the lookout—for the car.

“Just a precaution,” I tell Jimmy. “He can’t have gotten up there that fast.”

Time slows, and it’s another hour before we know.

It’s an hour of cursing as we pace.

It’s an hour of rain bouncing off asphalt and traffic moving in surreal slow motion in the distance and bulging clouds weeping and weeping.

It’s an hour.

You can never know the endless length of an hour until you walk it off by seconds and minutes. You can suffer a lifetime in an hour. Purgatory isn’t a place, it’s time.

The call comes at last; it’s Dex.

“We got her,” he says. “Pete, too. They’re fine.”

Seconds later Jimmy’s phone rings. He’s sitting in the passenger seat of the Escape, soaked to the bone and shivering. The rain is finally letting up, so I leave him in the peace of his wife’s voice and give him some space.

Sad Face’s trail leads away from the Ford in a southwesterly direction, cutting through the mulched flower beds that define the edges of the hotel’s property. It dips down into a depression of rocks and weeds now covered by two inches of storm water. I take little notice of the water as I trudge across the hundred-foot depression; my feet have been at risk of trench foot for the last hour, a little more water isn’t going to hurt. My shoes make a wet squishing sound as I soldier on through.

On the other side the ground rises six or seven feet on a gentle sloop, leveling off into a sparse scattering of pine trees. Beyond is a strip mall with a gas station, a convenience store, a Domino’s Pizza, and a custom nail salon.

Sad Face’s trail ends in an empty parking space at the farthest corner of the lot. Any evidence he may have left—a cigarette butt, an empty beer can, signs of an oil leak, blood—has been washed away with the rain.

I turn my attention to the eaves of the strip mall. There’s nothing above the nail salon; nothing on the Domino’s; nothing on the outside of the convenience store. The gas pumps. That’s where I find them: three cameras watching the pumps from different angles, but not one of them points to the far end of the lot.

Still, I have to try.

My phone rings as I’m walking through the front door of the convenience store. It’s Jimmy. He’s exhausted and ecstatic at the same time—you can hear it in his voice. Like a man who just ran a marathon. I tell him where I’m at and ask him to bring the SUV over; my feet have managed to squeeze gallons of water from my shoes and socks and I have no intention of walking through the flooded ravine for a refill.

Jimmy says he’s on the way and as I end the call I size up the tattooed clerk behind the counter. He’s watching a YouTube video on his smartphone and barely looks up when I approach the counter.

“What can I get you?” he manages after a second, setting the phone to the side.

“I need to see your security footage for the last eight hours.”

“You a cop?”

“FBI.”

“Really? Can I see your badge?”

His tone tells me he’s not trying to verify my credentials, he just wants to see an FBI badge up close. I pull the trifold wallet from my back pocket and hold it out so he can get a good long look.

“That’s really cool,” he says at length. “So … if I wanted to be an FBI guy, what would I have to do? You have to have, like, college for that, right?”