The Shadowkiller (26 page)

“How many did you make? Just make this easy on yourself, shithead, and tell us where the bodies are.”

“You're going in the wrong direction,” said Ty. He looked to the other cop. There had been a flicker of recognition in the man's eyes. Ty knew he didn't feel the same way as his partner.

Ty's glance made Mac uncomfortable. “All right, thanks for the information, Mr. Greenwood,” concluded Mac, easing toward the door. “We'll be in touch.”

Carillo was ready to spit more venom but saw they had nothing and would have to go back to the drawing board. He turned to leave.

“I'll be back with a warrant, Greenwood. Count on it.”

In the car Carillo angrily keyed the ignition. “Fuckin' rich asshole. If he didn't personally do it, he knows who did 'cause he hired 'em.”

“Maybe,” said Mac distantly as he looked at the house.

“Maybe? Fuck maybe, he did it,” said Carillo angrily.

Mac sighed. “Regardless, we need to solve this before anybody else disappears.”

C
arillo insisted on one more related interview, and though Mac didn't think it would provide anything of substance, he kept quiet. Thirty minutes later they entered the private drive of Digiware Microsystems Corporation, where Veronica Greenwood was listed as senior vice president. Located on a verdant three-acre plot in Redmond, the high-tech campus blended concrete and cedar with the earth in a tribute to green-conscious, cutting-edge architecture. Carillo hated it.

“Looks like they're sinking into the fuckin' ground” was his assessment of the structures.

“Yeah, but it's energy efficient,” Mac said, occasionally delighting in pressing one of his caveman associate's hot buttons. Carillo winced because he hated wimps, and wimps worried about wasting energy and protecting whales and owls, how much mercury was in their tuna, and saving fucking soda cans. Carillo was only thirty-three but his sensibilities resided comfortably in the twelfth century.

A bubbly young acolyte of the computer age escorted them to the reception area of Veronica Greenwood's office, where they were offered a choice of bottled water, natural soda, fresh-brewed Starbucks, or fresh-pressed organic juice. Mac requested a water. As they were ushered into Ronnie's office, she crossed the large room and greeted them.

Carillo got down to brass tacks. “Mrs. Greenwood, we think your husband may know something about these disappearances lately. We need to ask a few questions.”

Ronnie had been scared by Ty's recent arrest but had assumed it was just harmless curiosity. She had seen all the materials Ty had pinned and taped to the walls of his office, but she'd let it go, assuming it was better for him to be open with it than hide it. But as the shorter, more muscular detective with the flattop and mustache began describing Ty's alleged fascination with the missing men, she could feel her face flushing. Her knees went suddenly weak and forced her to sit.

One of the cops asked about that particular Saturday, and with little prompting suddenly Ronnie was admitting that Ty had been up early, taken a drive, and later looked hungover. They asked about other days and behavior but all the questions and answers blurred together. Ronnie's belief that those who have nothing to hide hide nothing suddenly seemed at loggerheads with the inferences of the two cops.

“You say he might be involved. How?” she asked.

“We don't know yet, ma'am,” said Carillo. He looked at Mac, then turned back to her. “Have you ever seen any…uh, I'm not sure how to say this. Big feet? Big fake feet, like you'd strap on your shoes and make prints like…” Carillo hesitated.

Ronnie shook her head slightly. “Like Bigfoot.” Mac thought she sounded tired.

Carillo nodded. “Right. He has some?”

Ronnie didn't know what these men were trying to imply, but they'd gone too far. “My husband may be a bit eccentric, but he doesn't run around making big footprints. No, he does not have any such thing. He has castings, plaster castings, of what he says are real footprints, but that's his claim, not mine. He does not make fake tracks.”

Her secretary's voice over the intercom broke the tension in the room.

“Ronnie? The call from Fujioka Electronics is ready in the conference room. Everybody's waiting.”

She headed them toward the door, feeling shaky but trying to cover. “I'm sorry, but that's all I know. I have to take this call.”

Carillo handed her a card. Mac felt his partner had actually been pleasant to this woman, but Carillo was always transparently pleasant if they were attractive and Veronica Greenwood was definitely that.

As they exited the building, out of earshot of the employees, Carillo slapped Mac's shoulder and whispered, “See what I told you? Fuckin' guy's lyin'. Not only lied about the Allisons, but his own wife just blew his story out about being home on that Saturday morning. When the lawyers bit it, Greenwood was AWOL.”

Mac doubted the connection. “He went for a drive at three a.m. He was back around seven. I don't think that left him enough time.”

“Four hours. Anyway, a drive at three in the morning? C'mon. The lawyers disappeared sometime after five or so. No one saw them after that. And another thing, he's got those feet somewhere. Wife isn't in on it, but he's got 'em, for sure. I'm getting a warrant.”

Mac didn't think Greenwood was their man, but if Carillo wanted to chase his tail with a warrant, he'd let him. That might just give Mac time enough to turn up something real.

Mac and Carillo returned to the department around quarter to five. Mac quickly checked his messages, grabbed some paperwork, and left. Wiped out after his late night, he told Carillo he was heading home. Once on the road, he plugged in a Pat Metheny CD and started to relax. He tried putting all of his current problems out of his mind and zeroed in on regaining focus. His plan was to nap, shower, then do a little light reading. At the first stoplight, he turned off his pager and cell phone.

A few minutes before the five p.m. newscast, a sound technician rigged Kris with a lavalier microphone and she took her place at the end of the news desk, just out of sight of camera one. Sitting closest to Kris, an impeccably styled Jerry Vance made some notes while Trish got a last-minute face powdering from a makeup assistant. While Kris whipped over her page of notes, Jerry reached out and touched her arm.

“I wish you'd been able to clear this with Doug. But good luck.”

His falsely soothing tone sounded like he was speaking to the condemned. Kris forced a smile and briefly wondered again how she would get rid of him. She was feeling strong. She caught Jerry's eye again and smiled like a shark.
Yeah, you're next, shithead.
Kris smiled brightly as the theme music for the newscast began.
The population in the cornfield is heading for a growth curve.

M
ac entered his condo and ignored the blinking light on his answering machine, turned down the volume, and switched off the phone's ringer. Then he tossed off his coat, shoes, and pants and fell across the bed. During the next three hours, while he slept soundly, he received fourteen messages on his pager and his answering machine screened out ten more calls.

It had become a habit for Ben to watch the local news, hoping to get some sort of clue. Just as the five o'clock news began, the phone distracted him. It was David.

“I got some info on your guy, the one with the Web site. Interesting stuff. Also, turns out your hotel has a fax. They're getting it as we speak.”

“Thanks. Whadidja find?” Ben asked.

“You might want to meet this guy. I had to do some hacking, but I tracked down his address. He's definitely looking for the same thing you are. About two years ago he quit looking. Now it seems he's back at it. Hey, you need anything? You're only about forty minutes from us and—”

Ben cut him off, “No, David, I'm good. You've been a huge help.”

“Okay. Good luck, Uncle Ben.”

“Thanks, David.”

At the front desk a clerk handed Ben the sheaf of fax pages. Walking back to his room, Ben was so engrossed in the information, he collided with a huge potted tree, bringing snickers from a couple waiting outside the restaurant. Ben laughed too, knowing they recognized him.

“That plant did that on purpose, didn't it?” he joked.

They shared another laugh.

Ty would have been very interested in the content of the five p.m. news, but he left the house promptly at four thirty in his Forest Service uniform and drove away in his truck. He'd been doing so since he quit. Every evening he'd wait until he was sure Ronnie was home before returning, then he'd make an entrance like everything was status quo. On the days she was going to be late, he came home, quietly changed, and checked in with the kids. When Ronnie got home, he carefully avoided any discussions about his day, not wanting to turn the lie into a major project. But his best chance in the last three years to prove himself right was in his lap and he couldn't let it go this time.

He popped a few Oxys before he left the house. A few was three or four and that was two or three more than he'd been prescribed, but hey, they worked. One was okay, two were good, three better, and four, well hell, four were goddamn wonderful. He was feeling blissful at that moment but also a little fearful because he knew a crash would follow. He put that dark prospect out of his mind as he arrived at the local building supply. Climbing out of the truck, he planned in the next hour to wander through the aisles, trying to gather his thoughts and strategize his next move.

The police questioning him that morning had irritated him but it had also energized him. He was glad Ronnie didn't know about that. Ty resolved to tell Ronnie he'd quit his job and was going to work full-time on his project.
This thing is so close, practically in my backyard. She'll have to understand.

Susan Hunter's eight unanswered phone calls to her parents between seven thirty that morning and now, thirteen hours later, had her worried and upset. She, more than her three siblings, was close to their folks, Burt and Ada Krinkel. She knew they were creatures of unfailing habit and never ventured anywhere without a minimum two months' planning and fanfare. A routine drive to Arizona the previous year had seen her dad working out the details six months prior.

Susan couldn't fathom why they weren't answering the phone. The telephone operator told her the line was in order, which only fueled her anxiety. Susan lived at the water's edge on Mercer Island with her husband and two kids. A lushly forested enclave of architectural fashion in the middle of Lake Washington, The Island, as locals called it, was forty miles from her parents' place. Susan's husband told her to quit worrying and let her parents live their lives, but Susan sensed trouble.

The idea of driving way out there was nixed when her husband pointed out it was nearly nine p.m. He advised her to check on them the following morning if she still couldn't reach them. She wandered down to the lake, flopped onto the dock, and lit a cigarette. She always did that when she was stressed. She didn't want the kids to know she smoked but they did anyway. She blew out a large cloud and resolved to start calling at four thirty a.m., precisely the time her dad got up.

Ronnie rolled up the driveway at quarter to ten. Busy wrapping up pre-Christmas break projects, she had had a very long day, not made any easier by the visit from the police. She had eaten at the office, so after changing, she made some tea and went to Ty's office. She still had an energy rush from the day's activities and decided she'd better use it to get through this. She tapped on his door, then entered.

“Hey,” she said, as she crossed and kissed him.

“Hey,” he said, quickly clicking the mouse to escape from his own Web site. “You had a long one.”

She nodded and sat on the corner of his desk. “Yeah. Ty, the police came to my office today.”

Ty's face froze, the blood draining from it. Ronnie saw the effect her sentence had. She continued. “You're in trouble. They think you have something to do with these men disappearing.”

Ty opened his mouth but Ronnie held up her hand. “No, hear me out. Look, I know you don't.” She paused and fixed his eyes with hers. “Right?”

Ty blinked with surprise. Ronnie waved her hand. “I had to ask. You're just not you when it comes to this thing.”

“Jesus,” said Ty, clenching his lips. “Even you? You—”

She raised her voice and stopped him. “Ty, listen to me. I know you had nothing to do with any of this, but I thought maybe you had an idea of what was going on.”

“I do.”

She sighed. “Okay. I know, right. This is out of control again. But this time the stakes have gone up. I don't care what you do or how you do it, but you have to let this go. Get some therapy. I'll go with you if you want me there. Ty, Christmas is in ten days. I want you to be here, with us and celebrating it.”

“What does that mean?”

Ronnie stood. “It means I'm putting my foot down and hard. Give this up or move out.” She headed toward the door, then turned. “I love you but I have to protect the family, and you too, if you won't. That's my decision but it's your choice.”