Dead Ringer by Allen Wyler Read Free Book Online Page A

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.

7

W EST P RECINCT , S EATTLE P OLICE D EPARTMENT
    “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 discussionfrom 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,