Dead Ringer (6 page)

With a salesman’s smile, Gerhard offered a beefy hand. “Glad to meet you, Doc. Watched you a bit today. I’m no surgeon, but it sure seemed to me you got yourself a great pair of hands.”

Lucas’s guard immediately went up. No one gives you that kind of verbal blow job without an ulterior motive.

They shook hands. But Gerhard didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled Lucas’s hand closer. “May I inspect it?”

“What?”

“Your hand.” Gerhard carefully turned Lucas’s hand over, gently thumbing the palm. “Just as I expected, no calluses. Certainly not the hand of a journeyman.” He inspected the back of the hand, fondling a finger in the process. “So long and delicate. I’ve never felt a neurosurgeon’s hand before. It’s exactly what I imagined.”

Regaining his composure, Lucas jerked free of Gerhard’s grip. He stifled the urge to wipe his palm with a napkin. He couldn’t keep the thought out of his head,
I’ve been slimed
. “I’m curious. How do you obtain your, ah, material?”

Gerhard rocked back onto both heels. “Donations.”

“Donations?”

“Sure. You know. People donate their bodies to science. For medical research.”

Maybe some donate for that cause, but not Andy Baer. Especially for a cause as open-ended as “medical research.” That could mean a thousand things, and Andy was very specific and precise. Was? Jesus, he was already thinking in the past tense.

“Dr. Wong said you brought them with you,” Lucas said. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So how does that work?” Lucas asked.

“Not sure what you’re getting at.” Gerhard’s adenoidal and whiney voice and roly-poly sloppy demeanor seemed the opposite of what Lucas expected. Then again, what did he expect, he wondered? Never thought about couriering body parts before.

“I’m asking how you physically transport them.”

“In a Halliburton.”

“An aluminum suitcase?” This immediately triggered more questions.

Gerhard gave him a look.

Lucas asked, “You brought four heads, right?”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m interested. Mind explaining how that works? I mean, you show up at the airport with four heads in a suitcase. Is it some kind of specially made suitcase? I mean, the dimensions of a head are pretty specific and I assume you’d want to keep them—or any body parts—pretty well cushioned. And what about the authorities? Every piece of luggage is x-rayed or inspected.” He imagined a TSA agent’s reaction to several human skulls suddenly popping up on the screen. “Doesn’t that raise a few eyebrows?”

Gerhard laughed dismissively.

To Lucas, the laugh sounded hollow and strained, and the smile that went with it seemed forced. As Gerhard sipped his drink, Lucas suspected the man was sizing him up, like the kid on the playground who’s deciding whether or not to throw a punch.

But Lucas was still working up to the main point of the questioning. “Well?”

“For us, it’s a bit different than when you pass through security. First of all, before we ever begin a transport we got to meet several requirements.”

“Like?”

Gerhard’s smile tightened. “Like I said earlier, you got a point to this line of questioning? This don’t seem to me like your typical cocktail conversation.”

“It’s a little bizarre, walking through an airport with human heads in a suitcase, isn’t it? I’m curious how it works is all.”

Gerhard studied his drink a moment, rattling the ice cubes. He drained his glass in one long gulp. “Understand something. The business is regulated. We got ourselves a series of hoops to jump through including the CDC. What’s more, the Department of Commerce requires us to carry a certificate at all times. So, before we ever set foot inside an airport, there’s a ton of paper we got to fill out. We got to notify the airline and the TSA. And for international trips like this here, we got to clear it through customs days ahead of time. Once we got all that done”—he shrugged—“we’re free to go. That answer your question?”

Lucas asked, “Why not just FedEx them?”

Gerhard snorted. “I’m surprised you got to even ask that.”

“Well, I’m asking.”

For a moment Gerhard’s eyes flashed anger but quickly changed into a dead-eyed poker mask. He coughed into a fist and cleared his throat. “You got all sorts of reasons. We got to bring every little chunk of body part back home so it can be buried or cremated just as if it were whole again. That’s the agreement we make with the families. See, they don’t mind their loved ones being used for research, just as long as we bring back the body. Just like in the army, we don’t leave no one behind. Satisfied?”

“Okay, I understand the process better. Thanks. Bear with me for one more question. You maybe use a head here and a leg somewhere else. How do you keep track of everything?”

Gerhard seemed befuddled by the question. “Keep track? Simple. I return with everything I take.”

“No. What I mean is, you came here with four heads, right? What’s to say you don’t go back with an arm and a leg instead? Who keeps track?”

“The fuck you talking about? If I come with four heads, I go back with four heads.”

“No offense. I don’t mean you personally. I’m talking hypothetical here. What I’m asking is, does anyone actually check what you take in and out of the airports?”

“The FBI checks to make sure every scrap of tissue that goes out comes back. End of discussion.”

Yeah, right. As if the FBI has the manpower to do that
. He didn’t believe that for one second. Still, he hadn’t asked the most important question. “Then I guess DFH Inc. keeps good records?”

“Yeah, yeah, precise records. This conversation is over.”

“Just this one more thing. What’s the name of the man whose head I saw this morning?”

Raw anger flashed through Gerhard’s eyes. “Why?”

“I think I know him.”

“Oh, bullshit. You know as well as I do that a detached head don’t look the same as when it’s attached. No way to tell who it was.”

“No, I know him.” Still, doubts lingered in Lucas. What were the odds of it really being Andy? Damn small.

Gerhard’s eyes narrowed to slits; his hands balled into tight fists. “Back off, doc. I’m not giving you any name.”

“Why not?”

Gerhard glanced around, balling and unballing his fists. “You give out medical records to anyone who asks for ’em?”

“The person I’m asking about is dead, for Christ’s sake. His death certificate is a matter of public record. I’m asking his name, not the
cause
of death.”
Asshole
. He glanced at Wong for support, but he didn’t say a word.

Gerhard started to turn away, stopped, smiled. “Tell me the name of the guy you
think
it
might
be, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

“Andy Baer.”

“Nope, not him.”

“You’re lying.”

Gerhard nodded to Lucas, then to Wong. “Been a pleasure, gentlemen.” He walked away.

“W
HAT EXACTLY ARE YOU
saying?” Lieutenant Randy Redwing asked Wendy. “That this Ditto character is responsible for your missing working girl?” Tilting his chair back, left foot on a partially open desk drawer, Redwing clasped his hands behind his head. His face stayed expressionless, making it maddeningly difficult to read. Wendy hated that.

Redwing, a Native American from Fargo, grew up in South Dakota. Wendy knew this because of the
Fargo
movie poster and a high school banner proudly displayed on his office wall. His bronze skin, dark brown eyes, craggy features, and high cheekbones reminded her of some famous plains chief you might see in a painting from the Wild West. All he needed to complete the picture was one of those headpieces made of eagle feathers or whatever they were. He meticulously kept his coarse salt-and-pepper hair in a severe military brush cut, which went along with his scrupulously honed reputation for being a real hard-ass as the commander of the Missing Persons Unit. He was especially tough on the minorities in the department.

Before working Missing Persons, Wendy served a stint in Vice as a decoy, hanging out in a high prostitution area wearing a miniskirt, flashing her legs and luring guys into negotiating a price as the two male team members monitored the discussion
from a car on the next block. She thought about the first time she’d met Ruiz.

Wendy stands under the blue neon sign of the adult video store—a cinderblock rectangle off Aurora Avenue that sells porn and sex toys—waiting for a potential john to proposition her. It’s chilly for hot pants and a halter, so she wears her lightweight pink parka to keeps warm enough as she paces the Aurora side of the building.

She sees another woman come around the corner of the store from the parking lot and head toward her. She tenses, not knowing what to expect. The woman comes right up to her. She’s Hispanic, attractive, still young—probably in her twenties—but “the life” is etched in her face, and it makes Wendy sad.

“You police, right?” the girl says, more as a statement than question.

Wendy’s caught off guard and doesn’t answer.

“Yeah, you police. You ain’t got real street moves. Look, we need to talk. I got a room there,” with a nod at the two-story run down motel the next block north on Aurora.

Wendy doesn’t move. “About what?” She’s not about to go into an unknown room with a hooker.

“A deal.” Lupita glances down the street. “But we can’t stay out here.”

“No way.”

Lupita shakes her head, looks directly at where the hidden microphone is taped to Wendy’s chest just below her breasts. “Naw. This gotta be strictly between us.”

Just before Wendy enters the motel room she says to the microphone. “I’m entering room 104, request you move up.” She figures, screw it, her cover’s blown, so why not at least have her
backup in the parking lot in case they’re needed? Her transmitter isn’t powerful enough to reach the car from inside the room, especially with the door closed.

Inside, standing next to the queen-size bed, the girl says, “Name’s Lupita. Yours?”

“Cop.” She’ll be damned if she’s going to divulge personal information.

“Then make one up, I don’t care. Me? Street name’s Charmane.”

To Wendy the statement seems honest and open, and she likes that. “What you want to talk about?”

“What if I could give you information on the crew bringing in them Asian girls?”

“What kind of information?” For a year now Vice has been investigating the illegal importation of young women from Asia for use as “sex slaves.” Some girls were found in a shipping container at one of the piers. But little headway had been made in the case. Any good information would be welcomed.

“Like where they keep them. Once you guys know that, you can work it back, find out who’s behind it.”

“And what do you get out of it?” Wendy expects a dollar amount.

“Here’s the deal. Got me some friends, their hearings are coming up in a few days. They need to get cut some slack.”

There it was. “What friends?”

“Some girls I know. Friends. I’m taking care of one of their daughters until … shit, I can’t see her doing time, not with her daughter out on the street … and I can’t keep on taking care of her. Got my own problems.”

Wendy puts her hand on Lupita’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I have the juice to do a deal, and I sure as hell don’t know anything about your friends. Give me their names, let me look into it, and we meet tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

Next day in a small cafe off Aurora, Wendy tells Lupita, “That’s the best I can do. We cool?”

Lupita nods. “Thank you.” Those two words carrying genuine gratitude.

“But there’s a catch.”

Lupita looks up. “There always is. What?”

“This won’t be our last conversation.” She pauses to let that sink in. “You will, of course, be compensated.”

“Such as?”

Wendy is amazed at herself, negotiating this deal, her commander letting her work her first confidential informant. “You know how it works. The price of the product is only worth its value. Depends.”

Lupita sips her coffee, glances out the window.

“I take that as agreement.” But it worries Wendy, the responsibility this suddenly places on her shoulders. It feels heavy. She’s now responsible for this woman she has somehow connected with. If she fucks up, Lupita will be the one to pay … “Excuse me for asking, but why are you doing this for these girls?”

Lupita seems surprised by the question. “They friends.”

“What I mean is, this can get dicey. You sure you’re up for it?”

“Hey, just ‘cause I’m in the life, doesn’t mean I like it. Some of these players are mean motherfucks. If I help a few friends while
taking some of these fuckers down, I’ll be happy. None of us chose to do this. But it’s what we do.”

Wendy realized Redwing was staring at her, waiting for an answer. “Her street name was Charmane, and yes, I do think Dittos is involved. Somehow.” She realized she was frowning, which would piss him off. Not a smart thing to do when requesting his help. Especially since he was always sucking up to the brass, bragging on how happy the members of his team were.

“You think he’s a killer?” Redwing said with a trace of annoyance.

“I’m not saying he’s involved directly. What I’m saying is that particular Suburban is registered to DFH Inc. It was documented to be in the immediate area about the time she went missing. And a couple of my girls noticed it cruising her territory earlier that afternoon.”

Charmane’s territory. As if Lupita were a company sales rep or something. An adult bookstore and a couple cheap motels occupied the block she worked, so it wasn’t like
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
.

“That’s pretty slim evidence to go on,” Redwing said.

“Maybe, but Ditto started acting guilty as sin as soon as I started asking him questions.”