You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (37 page)

“Did he know a boy named Richard Phelps?” Andrea asked.

“Yes, but the police already asked him about Richard. Kirk hasn't seen him or heard from him since early last spring. And if you're trying to connect Kirk to that fire in Fairfax, you can't. He was with me at the time—in Williamsburg at a family reunion.”

“But he knew Garrett Beale.”

The woman sighed. “Know him? He worshiped him. He would have followed Garrett to the other side of the world.”

“Did Kirk ever mention to you anything about a private detective named Hugh Badger Lyman?”

“Yes, Mr. Lyman talked with both of us shortly before Kirk took off for Seattle.”

“What about? Do you mind my asking?”

“He wanted to know about Richard and the fire that killed Garrett and his parents. This detective thought Richard may have started it. Both Kirk and I had to agree with him. I think Richard stole enough money to disappear, and made sure to burn the place down as he left.” Andrea heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “I threw away Mr. Lyman's number. Maybe I shouldn't have. He's from Seattle. Maybe he could help me track down Kirk.”

“Ah, I don't think he's available,” Andrea said, deciding to leave it at that. “When did you last hear from Kirk?”

“Well, he left in mid-September,” the woman answered. “He'd always been interested in Kurt Cobain and the grunge or grungy movement there in Seattle. So when he won some money at the racetrack, he decided to fly out there on the cheap. He was very good about keeping in touch, too—right up until the first week in October, and then suddenly, nothing. Even his phone doesn't answer now. I'm worried sick about him. You see, Kirk got himself into trouble once. Well, I guess you know—if you know about Richard and Garrett. Anyway, I can't help thinking he's in trouble again—or worse. Because of his problems with the law in the past, I've put off calling the Seattle Police about his disappearance. But I—I can't wait any longer. I'm positive something's wrong . . .”

All Andrea could think about was that Kirk had disappeared just around the time Damon had faked his death in the car explosion.

“Ms. Jansen, I'd like to help you if I can,” she said. “Would it be all right if I called you back later today?”

“Why, sure,” she replied. “I'd appreciate anything you could do to find my son . . .”

After she hung up with Kirk's mother, Andrea stared at the list of Doreen Carters. The last one she'd called, the married dental hygienist from Richmond, had hung up on her.

Yesterday, in the morgue, Luke had asked the police about Damon's missing teeth. His son had made sure three of his teeth were found amid the ashes, bone fragments, and rubble from the car explosion.

She remembered what Dana had told her about the fire that swept through the Beales' house:
There was hardly anything left of the place—or the three corpses in it. They had to identify them all from dental records . . .

Andrea didn't think she'd get any answers out of Doreen Carter of Richmond. So she started up Luke's computer and went onto Google. She found Doreen's current résumé on LinkedIn. Doreen had been working at Cuyer-Paul Dentistry in Richmond for the last three years.

Andrea looked up the phone number for the dentist. She knew they wouldn't be open on a Sunday morning. But she grabbed Luke's cordless and dialed the number anyway.

“Cuyer-Paul Dentistry,” a woman answered.

“Hello, I have a dental emergency,” Andrea lied. “My son broke his tooth and he's in a lot of pain. But I'm not sure if this is the right dentist. If I give you my son's name, could you check to see if he's a patient there?”

“This is the answering service,” the woman said. “But Doctors Cuyer and Paul check in regularly. If you leave your name and phone number with me, I'll have them get in touch with you.”

“Ah, well, my son was at the Virginia Juvenile Correctional Institution last year,” Andrea said. “He had some dental work done there. Does Dr. Cuyer or Dr. Paul handle the dentistry for inmates at the facility?”

“Yes, they're on the client list. Now, if you leave your name and phone number, I can have one of the doctors get in touch with you—”

“Thank you very much,” Andrea said.

She clicked off and then immediately dialed Doreen Carter of Richmond.

Doreen picked up after three rings: “Yes, hello?”

Andrea could hear a child griping about something in the background. “Hi, Doreen,” she said. “I called you yesterday, but we got cut off.”

There was no response for a moment.

“What do you want?” the woman finally growled.

“I'm an old friend of Garrett Beale's, and I believe you were acquainted with him, too—when your dentist was doing work at the correctional facility.”

“I—I don't know what you're talking about,” the woman stammered.

“I don't care whether or not you had sex with him,” Andrea said. “Your secret's safe with me, Doreen. But just tell me this. How did Garrett persuade you to switch the dental records? You swapped Richard Phelps's records with Garrett's, didn't you?”

“Who are you?” Doreen whispered.

This time, Andrea hung up on her. She had her answer.

Richard Phelps hadn't really disappeared after the fire that killed Clinton and Denise Beale. His was the third corpse in that house.

Garrett's first friend disappeared after Garrett “died” with his parents in that blaze. And his second friend disappeared after Damon “died” with his mother in that car explosion. In both cases, the only means of identifying the remains were by examining the victims' teeth.

It was Kirk Mowery's body that was blown to bits—along with Evelyn Shuler—when the BMW exploded.

Kirk's mother said her son would have “followed Garrett to the other side of the world.”

But Kirk only got as far as Seattle.

* * *

In the powder room, Andrea splashed cold water on her face.

It all started to make sense. She could see it now. A pattern was there. Garrett had manipulated—
forced
, really—Spencer to kill his parents, and he'd manipulated Damon into killing his mother.

Andrea knew Damon only remotely. He was a troubled kid, but he hadn't seemed like a killer. It had taken someone like Garrett to push him over the edge and become one. She imagined him helping Damon fake his death. After all, Garrett had gotten away with faking his own demise a few months before. She could see slick, charming Garrett working on both Evelyn and Damon, playing mother and son against each other.

It made sense that Garrett would want to frame Spencer for these murders. Six years ago, he'd expected Spencer to take full blame for killing Viv and Larry. He never thought he'd be held accountable for his crucial role in those murders. What better way to get even with Spencer and his meddling aunt than to set up his old friend for these new murders?

Andrea was drying her face with a small hand towel when she heard her phone chime. Someone had just sent her a text—at 5:40 in the morning? She hurried into the kitchen, where she'd left the phone on the counter. She checked who it was:
B. MIDDLETON.
Spencer had mentioned Bonnie Middleton a few times. It was clear he had a little crush on her.

Andrea checked the message:

With a shaky hand, Andrea phoned her back. She wasn't going to waste time texting her. It rang once and then went to voice mail.
“Hey, this is Bonnie, and you've reached my voice mail,”
she said on the recording.
“Sorry I can't pick up. You know the drill. Leave a message. Thanks. Bye!”

Andrea waited for the beep. “I need to hear your voice,” she demanded. “I'm not coming there based on some stupid text.” With the phone to her ear, she hurried into the living room, and glanced out the window. The police car was still parked in front of the town house.

“I need to hear you or Spencer tell me to come there,” she continued. “Someone could have stolen your phone . . .”

The call-waiting signal beeped. Andrea switched to the other line.

“Come, and don't—don't bring the police,” the girl said. It sounded like she was crying. “Please, hurry . . .”

There was a click, and the line went dead.

* * *

Past the sound of water lapping against the boat and the pilings, Spencer heard footsteps on the dock. He was lying on the bed in the stateroom, with just his shoes off and the itchy blanket over him.

The last twelve hours had dragged by. His clothes had dried, and he'd put them back on. He'd figured out how to work the stove, and heated up some Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup, which he ate with some saltines—comfort food. Last night at nine o'clock, the oldies station—the only station that came in clearly on the radio—went to nonstop infomercials without any news breaks. So while he'd gotten all sorts of information about a cruise line's various destinations, a great vitamin supplement to help boost his energy, and how to guard against identity theft, he had absolutely no idea what was happening out there right now. Were the police closing in on him? Were Aunt Dee and Bonnie okay?

He'd been too keyed up and worried to focus on any of the books the Middletons had on board. He'd discovered the toilet worked, thank God. But upon flushing, it dispensed some kind of air freshener, the scent of which made him a little nauseous. He noticed they had Dramamine and NoDoz inside the bathroom's medicine chest. He almost popped a Dramamine, but rode out the slight case of seasickness. He felt like such a nautical wimp. The boat was still in its slip, for God's sake.

Spencer had also discovered where they kept the tools in the cabin and the storage box on deck where they kept the flare gun and extra flares. At one point, he'd actually stepped off the boat—just to stretch his legs and keep from going stir crazy. He'd wandered to the pay phone and almost called Aunt Dee, but decided against it.

He'd had several false alarms—with the sounds of different people coming down the dock. The squeaky planks were a dead giveaway each time. He hadn't heard anyone out there since midnight.

But he heard someone now.

Throwing back the blanket, Spencer climbed off the bed. He stumbled into the galley, switched off the cabin light, and peered out the window. He listened to the dock planks groaning under footsteps. It sounded like more than one person. Had the police found him?

He didn't see anything, and tried the next window. In the darkness, he spotted Bonnie coming toward the boat—with a man at her side. She wore a hooded jacket and jeans with sneakers. Spencer didn't recognize the man. He didn't look old enough to be her dad, and from the way he was dressed—army cargo pants and a leather aviation jacket—he didn't look like a cop. The man carried a backpack in one hand. His other hand was behind Bonnie.

As they got closer, Spencer noticed that Bonnie was crying.

Maybe the guy was a cop after all.

They stepped onto the boat. Spencer moved to the cabin steps. “Bonnie?”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, cringing.

Behind her, the man gave Bonnie a forceful shove. She cried out and toppled down the companionway steps, slamming into Spencer. They fell onto the cabin floor in a tangle.

Catching his breath, Spencer managed to sit up. Bonnie winced and rubbed her elbow. She sat up, too. He could see she wasn't hurt too badly.

Bewildered, he gazed up at the man at the top of the steps. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Don't you recognize me, Spence-o?” the man replied, smiling. He had a slight southern accent. He took a gun out of his jacket pocket and started down the steps. “Don't you know your old pal?”

Spencer hadn't heard that voice in over five years.

And the sound of it now made him sick.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

 

F
rom the darkened living room, she stared out the window at the police car, still parked in front of the town house.

“That's right,” Andrea said into her phone. “I'll be at Max's Mini-Mart at the bottom of Queen Anne—off Olympia. How soon can you send someone?”

“Ten minutes,” the Orange Cab dispatch woman said. “Is this a good number?”

“Yes, it is,” Andrea said. “Thanks very much.”

She clicked off the line. For a moment, she once again contemplated calling Luke. She wanted someone to know where she was going. Maybe she could work something out with him. If she didn't call back in a half hour, he should phone the police and send them to the marina. But he was probably sleeping right now. Late last night, after the rough day he'd had, the nurse had said something about giving him a sedative and letting him sleep in this morning.

Besides, Luke would try to talk her out of going. He'd want to call the police. He'd say she was walking into a trap—and she probably was. There was every possibility she'd go there and find Spencer and his friend already dead—and Garrett waiting for her.

But as long as there was a chance Bonnie's text was true, she couldn't send the police to the marina. She had to check it out first.

She decided to let Luke sleep.

The closest thing they had to a gun in the house was the prop revolver on his desk from one of his plays. It looked and felt real enough. Andrea stashed it in her purse. She figured it might buy her some bargaining power—for a few minutes anyway. She transferred her little canister of pepper spray from her purse to the pocket of her jeans.

She took one last look out the window at the patrol car. Then she headed into the kitchen and quietly slipped out the back door.

* * *

“That's it, that's the stuff,” Garrett said, leaning against the galley counter with the gun in his hand.

Bonnie was holding up a sixteen-ounce plastic bottle she'd pulled out of his backpack. The bottle said Sprite, but was three-quarters full of a pale brown liquid.

“Now, you help your boyfriend guzzle down about a third of that,” he said.

Aboard the Middletons' Catalina 36, Garrett was calling all the shots. All the curtains were drawn, and there was only one small light on—in the main cabin. That was where Spencer sat on the sofa-bench. At gunpoint, Bonnie had been instructed to tie a rope around his ankles—and around his hands in back of him. The rope pinched at his skin. Garrett had warned Bonnie not to leave any slack. He'd tested her work and seemed satisfied.

Spencer almost didn't recognize the nineteen-year-old as the tan, handsome young teenager he'd known six years ago. Garrett's looks had hardened—as if he'd grown old way too fast. He'd spiked his hair and dyed it blond. A dark patch of beard stubble covered the bottom half of his chin.

“This is a little cocktail I came up with—Valium, diluted window pane, and some other good stuff,” he explained, nodding at the bottle in Bonnie's hand. “It chills you out, makes you very cooperative. You might even trip out or fall asleep for an hour or two. Go on, honey, make him swig it down.”

Seated on the sofa bench across from Spencer, she hesitated.

“Better do what he says,” he murmured.

Pushing aside the backpack, she got to her feet and twisted off the bottle cap. She tilted the Sprite bottle toward his mouth.

Spencer reluctantly drank it. The stuff tasted like root beer gone flat and bad. There was too much corn syrup in it. He tried not to gag. Some spilled down his mouth. She took the bottle away. He started coughing.

“Another couple of gulps,” Garrett said.

But Spencer turned his head away and looked at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Well, I'll answer that question with another question, Spence-o,” he said. “How does it feel to have everyone blaming you for murders you didn't commit? How does it feel to be walking around in my boots? Your aunt—that bitch—she got me put away for killing your parents. I didn't shoot the gun. You did. You're the one who killed them—and I got sent to jail for it.”

“You—you pushed me to do it,” Spencer said. “I didn't want to. Your hand was on the gun . . .”

“But it was your finger on the trigger—and I took the rap for it.” Garrett's eyes narrowed at Bonnie. “Give him another couple of swigs, honey . . .”

With a sigh, she tipped the bottle toward Spencer's lips again.

He forced it down.

“We used to make this stuff for a good buzz when I was in juvie,” Garrett said. “I gave some to my friend Richie that night back in April, right before we bashed my father's head in and set fire to the house. I spiked Richie's last few sips with some real crazy shit. He was pretty much paralyzed when I left him behind. It was kind of funny to see him on my bedroom floor, not giving a crap—with the bed and the drapes on fire. I made off with twenty thousand in jewelry and techno toys. I'd planned the whole thing back when I was at the joint. I even got someone to switch our dental records—so everyone thought he was me.”

“Nice,” Spencer said, frowning. “Who stood in for Damon when you guys detonated the car?”

“Well, if you'd asked your pal, Tanya, she would have said it was a nineteen-year-old drug addict who overdosed and got buried on Lopez, but that was just Damon's cover story. The corpse belonged to another friend of mine, Kirk. After we killed him, we yanked out all his teeth. Then I helped Damon yank out some of his own—to plant in the car.”

Twisting the cap back on the bottle, Bonnie curled her lip at him. “You're one terrific friend, aren't you?”

Garrett just grinned. “Put that bottle on the table. You might be having a sip yourself a little later, honey. It's good stuff. It kept Evelyn docile for several hours while we had her on Lopez.”

Bonnie wordlessly obeyed him.

“I suppose you're right about Kirk,” Garrett admitted with a cavalier shrug. “It wasn't very friendly of me. He got a raw deal. He was good enough to let me know that some detective from Seattle was sniffing around, asking about me and the fire. So I followed the private dick here from Virginia, and I found out who he was working for . . .”

He twirled the gun on his finger. “You know, Spence-o, you and your aunt did a pretty good job disappearing. I was looking for you guys. And Evelyn Shuler's private dick led me right to you. He led me to Evelyn and Damon, too. After that, he really wasn't any use to me. In fact, he was a liability. When I killed him, he was getting dangerously close to figuring me out.”

“How—how did you work it with Damon and his mother?” Spencer asked. The drug was already working to slow down his senses. He felt so tired—and warm. “Go on, enlighten us. You love it. You love telling us just how clever you've been . . .”

“What can I say?” he chuckled. “I had them both wrapped around my little finger. I started out fucking the mother and ended up fucking the kid, too. It was a real trip, man. I was doing them both at the same time—and they had no idea.”

Bonnie just stared at him and shook her head.

“But it's not about the sex for you, is it?” Spencer asked. He remembered what his therapist, Diane, had said about Garrett. “It's not based on—on attraction or anything like that. It's got to do with power . . . manipulation. . .”

“Huh, you sound like my shrink in the joint,” Garrett said, smirking. “That Damon, he would have done anything for me. He looked up to me—the way you once did.”

“Did you get him to trust you—and take you into his confidence?” Spencer asked.

Garrett nodded. “Him and the mother,” he said. “It was fun to pit them against each other at times. It was easy persuading Damon to kill her—especially after I told him that his mama had been paying a guy to bully him. We were partners in crime, him and me. He was a hell of a lot better partner than you ever were. The little son of a bitch got damn enthusiastic when he started bumping off some of his classmates. He liked the idea of pinning everything on you, too. The one glitch was he wanted to have his friend on board—that idiot, Tanya. I didn't want her to know about me. I couldn't control her—except through Damon. She contributed some, but mostly she was just a pain in the ass. Anyway, as of yesterday, they'd both outlived their usefulness to me.”

Spencer numbly stared at him. “You mean—you killed them?”

Garrett just shrugged again and chuckled offhandedly.

Spencer looked at Bonnie, and she nodded. “It was on the news. Damon was shot in the head and left in a shallow grave near where Ron was killed. And last night, Tanya and her mother were killed. He slit their throats.” She turned to glare at Garrett. “You're a real piece of work. Talk about a lowlife. When they bury you, they'll have to dig up.”

Garrett stepped forward and suddenly punched her in the face. She flopped back and crashed down on the floor.

Spencer jumped to his feet, but he immediately lost his balance and fell back onto the bench. Maybe it was the drug, but he couldn't get up again. He just lay there, helplessly watching Garrett as he stood over Bonnie.

With her hair in her face, she curled up on the floor and whimpered in pain. Spencer caught a glimpse of blood at the corner of her mouth.

Garrett pulled some more rope from his backpack. He grabbed her arms and jerked her to one side so that she was facedown on the cabin floor. She let out a groan of protest.

“Now, you're going to make yourself useful, honey,” he muttered. Hovering over her, he started tying her wrists together. “You're going to help me kill his bitch of an aunt . . .”

“No!” Spencer yelled. It was all he could do. His legs weren't working. He felt as if he was paralyzed.

“You know, you really screwed it up last time we did something together,” Garrett said, still binding Bonnie's wrists together. He stopped to grin at Spencer. “This time, I'll show you how it's done—and you'll take the blame, my friend.”

Then he went back to work.

* * *

It started to rain as the cab pulled into the South Lake Union Marina.

The parking lot was only half full at this hour. Andrea figured the vehicles belonged to people who had already set sail, because she didn't see another soul in the wharf area. None of the boats moored off the docks had an outside light on. She wondered if Spencer's friend Bonnie had given her the wrong pier number.

Then again, she couldn't help feeling someone was watching the cab pull up to the pier. Inside one of those boats, Garrett Beale was waiting for her. Was Bonnie Middleton still alive? Was Spencer even here?

Her cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID. It was Bonnie again.

Andrea clicked on. “Hello?”

“Get out of the cab,” the girl whispered. “Pay the driver—and—and send him away.”

Andrea heard a click.

It sounded as if someone had been feeding Bonnie those instructions. Andrea gave the taxi driver forty dollars for an eleven-buck fare. “Can you do me a favor? After you pull out of the lot, could you park halfway down the block?” She glanced at the phone number on the placard with his photo on it. He had a thin face and a dark cocoa complexion. “Just wait there, and if I don't phone you in ten minutes, Dashawn, call the police. Tell them where you dropped me off. My name's Andrea Boyle—”

“Yes, I have it,” he said. “You gave it to the dispatcher. But I don't know what's going down here. I'm not up for any big adventure this morning. I'd like to help you, but I can't.”

Andrea sighed and took another forty dollars out of her purse and handed it to him. “That's all I have on me,” she said.

“I can help you,” he said, sticking the bills in his shirt pocket.

“Good,” she said, a little out of breath. “Also tell them you found Spencer Murray. Could you do that for me, please?”

“I can do that for you.” He turned back and smiled at her. “Whatever it is you're doing, be careful, lady.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Andrea climbed out of the cab and shut the door. Her stomach in knots, she stood there in the cold drizzle and watched him drive away.

Her phone rang again. She clicked it on. “Yes?”

“Dock C—to the left of the shack,” the girl said.

The line went dead again.

Andrea took a deep breath, and walked toward a small, shingled lean-to near the dock. The streetlight beside it was out, and the area beyond that to the water was shrouded in darkness. She clutched the collar of her jacket around her neck. She could hear the rain on the lake, and water lapping against the dock pilings.

Andrea reached the shed and started to turn the corner.

They were waiting for her in the shadows on the other side of the shed.

She gasped and stopped in her tracks.

The long-haired, pretty girl had a red mark on her face, as if she'd just been slapped—hard. Tears welled in her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Andrea recognized Garrett Beale. He'd gotten old before his time and looked rough around the edges. He stood behind the girl, holding a gun to her head.

“Where's Spencer?” she asked with a tremor in her voice.

Garrett smiled. “Like you, he's just where I want him.”

* * *

Spencer willed himself to stay awake.

He'd feigned sleep while Garrett had pulled Bonnie from the floor and led her up the companionway steps. He'd listened to her moaning in pain at one point. It had been all Spencer could do to ignore it. He'd waited until he could barely hear their footsteps on the dock. Then he'd rolled off the sofa and hit the floor with a thud. It had hurt like hell, but it had helped wake him up, too. Spencer had tried to wiggle his hands free, but the rope was too tight. He'd dragged himself to the head.