Dead Ringer by Allen Wyler Page B

in black Hefty garbage bags. He unrolled all four, then unwrapped the surgical towels covering the heads and set them aside.
    Suddenly, Gerhard turned toward him and said, “Yo! Heads-up.”
    Bobby saw a head come flying across the room, caught it, faked left before doing a one-handed jumper through the furnace opening. A regular fucking Brandon Knight.
    “Three points,” Gerhard yelled, then pumped a two-hander rocket from behind the table.
    The head sailed toward the furnace, hit the front just above the door, fell to the floor with a thunk, rolled to a stop at Ditto’s feet. A woman, her hair salvaged for wigs, her face now indistinguishable from the dissection.
    Ditto scooped it up, shoved it through the opening. “Rebound. Two points.”
    Gerhard took another shot, this time making it. “Swish!”
    Laughing, Ditto pushed a button, closing the door, cutting off the heat entering the room. No sense keeping it open any longer than necessary, what with the cost of air-conditioning. For a moment he watched through the small tempered glass window as the heads were engulfed in two rows of gas flames. He felt relieved now that the evidence was gone.
    Ditto and Gerhard took an extra couple minutes inspecting the suitcase, making sure it was spotlessly clean. All that remained of any evidence were the damp surgical towels and wrinkled garbage bags. Gerhard balled the bags and dropped them into the waste. The towels went into a bucket of weak Clorox solution to denature any residual DNA. The towels would be washed and reused. He seriously doubted that lady cop would be back with a search warrant, but you could never be too sure.
    Finished cleaning up, Ditto smiled with satisfaction. Maintaining a neat work area was another trait learned from Dad.
    “Well, that takes care of that,” said Gerhard.
    In spite of the huge sense of relief at watching the heads incinerate, Ditto was not completely at ease. Nagging doubt still troubled him. “It takes care of any evidence, but if you’re right, McRae might still try to cause a stink. We don’t need anyone looking at us.”
    Gerhard nodded. “You can count on it. He threatened as much.”
    Realistically Ditto knew there was nothing McRae could do at this point. Still, he hated the specter of any lingering threat, no matter how small. The Tigers and Red Wings served as perfect examples of why you should never underestimate your opponent’s tenacity. Tenacity too often prevailed. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d watched a comfortable lead evaporate into a defeat. Relaxing your guard was just asking the other team to regroup and win. Never ever let up. Not until the game is over. Squash them.
    So this McRae … no way could he allow even the slightest threat to remain. And the only way to eliminate the threat was to eliminate the man.
    Earlier today he’d Googled McRae, searching for every bit of information he could find. Then, for good measure, he’d driven past his two-story house in the Magnolia neighborhood in northwest Seattle.
    Ditto handed Gerhard a slip of paper. “Here’s his address. Have a beer, relax a bit, maybe even nab a few hours shut-eye, then drive over. Find a way in. See what you can figure out in case we have to, you know …” He nodded at the oven.

15

M AGNOLIA N EIGHBORHOOD , S EATTLE
    B Y THE TIME LUCAS removed the key from the front door, Laura was halfway down the block, not having bothered to wave good-bye. Welcome home. He watched the Volvo round the corner and disappear. He’d forgotten what it was she was going to do. Meet one of her girlfriends, maybe. Was that one of the problems? Not paying as much attention to what she said, his mind too busy with other things?
    With a mixture of sadness and frustration, he carried his suitcase inside the modest two-story remodel that had originally been a one-level rambler. The upstairs master bedroom provided a southeasterly view over multiple layers of rooftops to the downtown Seattle