Blood Lies (11 page)

He laughed, spilling his drink. “Unfortunately for Alex, restraint is not in my nature.”

“Too bad. Alex deserves better.” I turned away from him.

Marcus grabbed me by the shoulder. I shook free of the grip and spun to face him again.

“No question, I’m no saint.” His eyes burned. “But at least I don’t try to fuck my friends’ wives,” he spat.

“What the hell makes you think you’re my friend?” I snapped. Without waiting for his answer, I strode off.

“Hands off, Ben!” His voice followed me out of the room.

Looking back on that occasion, I realized that despite his alcohol-accentuated belligerence, everything Marcus had said was true. It didn’t make it any easier to like him, even now when I was beholden to him for the clothes on my back.

What did it matter? The petty personal drama paled in comparison to my current crisis. With time to think, the hopelessness of my situation sank in; my whole strategy now struck me as a series of long shots.

I trudged out of the bathroom and back to the bed. I sat and stared at the phone on the nightstand. I decided that the only sensible next step was for me to call Michael Prince and to arrange my surrender.

I was about to reach for the phone when Alex, carrying a thick manila envelope, burst into the room. She sat down beside me on the bed. “My brother, Peter, still has six more months left in his contract with a private hospital in Taipei.”

I always liked Pete, an easygoing internist, but I was bewildered as to the relevance. Then she slipped her hand in the envelope and withdrew a copy of his medical license.

Suddenly I understood.

“After Pete finished his internal medicine residency in Toronto, he qualified for a Canadian license,” she said. “He’s done some fill-in coverage in Victoria, and he’s kept his registration up to date in British Columbia, because he hasn’t decided on which side of the border he plans to settle.”

“Alex…”

“Pete gave up his condo when he moved to Taipei,” Alex continued. “He left a bunch of stuff in storage with me here, including the originals of all his certificates and licenses.”

“You’re going to lend me your brother’s identity?”

“Believe me, Pete would understand,” she said. “And you have to admit there’s more than a passing resemblance between you two.”

The idea struck me as surreal, but at the same time I felt a glimmer of excitement. “You really think it’s alright?”

“No.” She grinned. “But it’s the best harebrained scheme I can come up with on short notice.”

The spark of hope was dampened by my next thought. “Of course, you don’t have his passport or birth certificate, do you?”

“No.” She dug in the bag and pulled out a card. “Only his Washington state driver’s license.”

I took the card from her hand and studied it. Peter Horvath’s license photo was the typical nondescript mug shot that most of us end up with. Peter and I shared brown hair, the same hazel eye color, and strong jaw. I held it closer. “Maybe with a baseball cap and beard, on a quick glance I could pass for your brother.”

“Why not?” She winked. “After all, you and I are practically twins.”

“Without a passport, this won’t get me across the border.”

She stroked the back of my hand reassuringly. “We’ll think of something.”

I slipped the license back in the envelope and closed its flap. I viewed Alex with a heartfelt smile. “You’ve gone way above and beyond for me, but I think I better go now.”

She shook her head. “You’re staying put until things are better sorted out.”

“If the police found out, you could be charged with aiding and abetting a felon.”

Her resolve didn’t waver. “They won’t find out.”

“What about Talie?”

“She thinks you’ve already left,” she said. “Thanks to Marcus, we’ve got a huge house here. And again, thanks to Marcus, it’s just Talie and me now. So you can safely stay down here for as long you need to.”

I wanted to kiss her. “A day or two, maximum.”

“However long it takes.”

Our knees touching, we sat on the bed in silence for a few moments. When I looked over at her, her eyes had reddened. “Alex?”

“It’s all so fucked up,” she said.

“I know.” I reached over and squeezed her hand.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to lose you, too, Ben,” she said softly.

I’d never seen Alex look as vulnerable. Or as beautiful. I wanted to kiss her so badly that it was a physical ache, but I stopped my head from moving to hers. I couldn’t think of a more selfish act. She was already far more wrapped up in my personal disaster than was reasonable or safe for her to be.

I rose from the bed. “Alex, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as greasy in my life. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to hit the shower. And then try to sleep while I can.”

She nodded. “I’ll bring you down coffee and a bite of breakfast in the morning.”

I leaned close and brushed my lips against her cheek. “Alex, you’re wonderful.”

Her face lit with a sad smile. “You’re very complimentary when you’re cornered.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, though I had no intention of seeing her in the morning, or anytime soon.

I tossed and turned the night through, resisting the impulse to sneak upstairs and get at the beer in the fridge or whatever else lurked in Alex’s liquor cabinet. Only the risk of waking Talie stopped me.

I don’t know if I slept at all, but if I did, my prayers weren’t answered by morning. Still a wanted man, I had no better plan than the feeble one I’d taken to bed.

At 4:45
A.M
. I got up and headed to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, feeling dejected by the sight of the haggard face staring back in the mirror. The shadow on my chin and neck had begun to thicken but didn’t yet offer any kind of camouflage. Neither did the heavy bags under my eyes.

I hurried back into the bedroom, where I chose a pair of Marcus’s jeans and a casual shirt. They fit well enough, but his running shoes were a full size too snug. However, unless I wanted to make my escape on foot in cycling shoes, I had no choice except to ignore the viselike grip around my toes.

I dug behind the suits in the closet until I found a dusty old knapsack that smelled musty, as if gym clothes had been left inside too long. I sorted through the rest of Marcus’s clothes, choosing two pairs of casual pants, four shirts, and a bunch of socks and boxer shorts. I stuffed them in the bag. Its zipper resisted the load but eventually relented.

I picked up the manila envelope and gently poured the contents out on the bed. An ATM card fell out beside the driver’s license. I picked up the card and studied it. Registered under Alex’s name, not her brother’s, its PIN number was scribbled on an attached Post-It.

Alex, where would I be without you?

I stuffed both pieces of plastic in my wallet and removed out all the other cards that bore my name. I considered leaving my cards in the basement suite but realized they might incriminate Alex if the police came looking for me. Instead, I stuck them inside a plastic bag I found in the closet. I tucked the bag inside my inner jacket pocket, intending to dump them at the first opportunity. It occurred to me that I’d already begun to think like a fugitive; that sudden insight colored my dark mood even blacker.

I grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand. Having read an article on how satellites can track cell phones via the Global Positioning System, I knew it was more of a liability than an aid. Ensuring it was shut off, I stuck it in my outer pocket; another remnant of my life I was going to have to ditch on my way out of Seattle.

Suddenly, an idea dawned on me, and I pulled the phone out of my jacket. I found a pad on the nightstand and scrawled Alex a note with specific instructions. I scanned the note, barely able to read my own writing. I carefully reprinted my warning—“Hide it!”—at the bottom of the note and underlined it three times. Then I placed the phone on the nightstand with the note.

I picked up the receiver of Alex’s land line, dialed the cab company’s number, and gave the dispatcher an address two blocks away. Throwing the knapsack over my shoulder, I tightened the worn straps and headed for the door. I stopped and listened carefully for any indication of Alex or Talie stirring above me. Hearing none, I eased the door open and slipped out.

I took a tentative step out into the wet, predawn darkness. I hesitated a moment, half expecting to hear a bullhorn shout my name or feel the heat of laser cross hairs burn into my forehead. But after ten silent seconds, I hurried up the cement staircase to the backyard. Following the path around the side of the house, I jammed my hands in my pockets, dropped my eyes to the ground, and strode for the side street. There wasn’t a soul around, but I’d never felt more exposed or vulnerable. With each step away from Alex’s house, I felt like a soldier walking deeper behind enemy lines.

The cab arrived at the intersection right after I did. Slipping into the backseat, I nodded to the driver as I slid low in the seat.

“Where to?” the chubby middle-aged driver asked.

“Pike Place Market.”

He eyed me warily in his rearview mirror. “It’s not open yet.”

I felt my chest tighten slightly, wondering if he was on to me. “If I’m not behind the counter when it does, I’m looking for new work,” I blurted the first lie that popped into my head.

He chuckled and his shoulders relaxed. “Morning shifts. Don’t they just suck?”

“Better than graveyard,” I said, thinking of those dreaded overnight shifts at the ER. But I would have gladly done a year’s worth of back-to-back nights without pay to escape my current predicament.

I deflected the driver’s further attempts at conversation by pretending not to know who the Seattle Seahawks were. The tactic worked. He viewed me in the mirror as if looking at a Martian.

He dropped me off across from Pike Market. I checked my watch. It was still too early. I doubled back down Union Street and stopped in front of a Starbucks, but when I saw customers inside, my unease surged. Aching for caffeine, I dropped my gaze to the ground and trudged on.

Two blocks away, I found a small coffee shop. Aside from the young woman manning the counter, I saw no one else inside, so I went in. Without making eye contact with the girl, I mumbled my order for a large dark roast coffee. As soon as it was in my hand, I headed straight out the door.

Stepping back onto the sidewalk, I noticed the city’s downtown had begun to stir. More people emerged on the street. I had a yearning to grab the first bike I saw and ride it as far as my legs would carry me. I glanced at my watch: 5:43
A.M
.. I couldn’t wait any longer.

I hurried up Union Street until I reached the twelve-story modern condo complex. I typed the number into the intercom’s keypad and listened to it ring. Kyle answered on the second ring, and his voice carried no trace of drowsiness. “Morning.”

“Kyle, it’s Ben,” I said.

“Ben?” he said. “Holy crap! Come on up.”

The alarm in Kyle’s voice ratcheted up my blood pressure. As soon as the door buzzed, I yanked it open and ran to the elevator. I stepped out onto the twelfth floor and raced down the corridor to Kyle’s suite. His door was ajar. Pushing it open, I walked inside and followed the hall into the expansive living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the lights from the boats and ferries chugging through the darkness of Puget Sound, but it barely registered with me.

Looking washed out and skinny in his oversized brown bathrobe, Kyle emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in each hand. “Ben.” He held out one of the cups for me. “What the hell?”

“I guess I made the news this morning.”

He grunted a laugh. “You
are
the news this morning.” He put the coffee down on the counter and lifted up a copy of the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
. In a lab coat and stethoscope, my hospital ID photo had made the front page.

I slammed my cup down beside his and snatched the paper from his hand. I scanned the article. The S.P.D. had labeled me a “person of interest.” The reporter described me as a former boyfriend of the female victim, but there was no mention of my blood at her apartment.

I looked up from the paper to see Kyle eyeing me impassively. “What gives, Ben?”

I took a long sip of coffee, scalding my tongue in the process. “The police came for me yesterday….” Without minimizing the evidence against me, I went on to tell him of the mounting suspicion I’d fallen under.

Kyle nodded noncommittally. “So if it’s not your blood, whose is it?”

“Aaron’s, I think.”

Kyle’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Nothing else makes any sense.”

His expression held steadfast. “Are you telling me that with all their high-tech gadgetry, they couldn’t tell your blood apart from Aaron’s?”

“Being identical twins, we have the same bone marrows,” I said, aware that I’d automatically begun to refer to Aaron again in the present tense. “That means we produce identical blood right down to the corpuscle or blood cell. Indistinguishable on DNA testing.”

He fought back an amused grin. “That’s borderline creepy.”

I stared hard at my cousin. “Kyle, do you think Aaron could be alive?”

Kyle shook his head. “That trunk of his car…”

“They never found his body.”

Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. “Ben, no one has seen Aaron in over two years.”

“Which makes sense if he wants people to think he is dead.”

Kyle stopped rubbing. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “You knew more about Aaron’s life in the last few years than anyone. As his business partner, can you think of any reason he might have wanted to fake his own death?”

Kyle sipped his coffee slowly. When the cup left his lip, I noticed a new lesion that looked like an early cold sore above the edge of his upper lip. “Let’s go to the living room.”

Taking our coffees, we headed into his living room and sat down in the soft leather chairs. Dawn was beginning to break. Behind Kyle, I could make out the shadowy forms of the vessels churning through Puget Sound.

Kyle viewed me with a look that bordered on apologetic. “Right before I was diagnosed, I had a falling-out with Aaron.”

I folded my arms over my chest. “Over?”

“B.C. bud.”

“The marijuana?”

“The purest, most potent stuff in the world,” Kyle sighed. “They grow it like wheat in spots in British Columbia. Nowadays the bikers and other nasty big hitters control the business, but a few years ago, Aaron and I were two pioneers of the B.C. bud import business in Seattle.”

Aaron’s involvement in the drug trade wasn’t news to me, but it didn’t make it any easier to listen to Kyle describe the specifics. “You paid cash for the pot?” I asked.

“Cash or coke,” he said. “A dead easy trade. We had a foolproof transport system. We bought the B.C. bud in bulk in Vancouver. Hundreds of kilos. And we were making five hundred percent markup on the product flipping it in Seattle.”

I swept the apartment with a wave of my hand. “Helped pay for this, huh?”

“Yes.” Kyle shrugged sheepishly. “Paid for anything we wanted, including our own drugs. We funneled much of the profit into aboveboard investments. Aaron managed our portfolio. He was a financial wizard, too. Soon we had a steady stream of income from our legitimate investments.”

I shook my head impatiently. “So what led to your falling-out?”

“Aaron wanted out of the drug business,” Kyle said. “He always felt guiltier than I did. I argued it was only marijuana, but that didn’t make it sit any easier with him. He figured we didn’t need to rely on the trafficking for our income or even to support our own”—he cleared his throat—“costly habits.”

“You disagreed?”

“I was so greedy, it’s sickening.” Kyle chuckled a sigh that evolved into a harsh cough. He caught his breath. “There was more to it. We’d become a vital link in the supply chain. Neither of our trading partners on either side of the border wanted the middleman to drop out of the picture.”

I snapped my fingers. “Philip Maglio?”

“Phil was one of them, but he wasn’t alone. The East Indian gang members who supplied much of our B.C. bud were no happier.” Kyle pulled an imaginary gun from his bathrobe’s belt. “And those guys are notoriously quick on the draw.”

I was beginning to piece it together. “So you didn’t want to give up the money
or
get yourself killed by leaving the drug running business.”

“You’ve got it.” Kyle blew out his lips. “But Aaron didn’t see it that way. He’d changed. He called us ‘grief merchants.’” Then he added admiringly, “And unlike me he didn’t need a second chance at life to see the light.”

“Maybe he did,” I thought aloud. “Would your partners have let Aaron just walk away from the business?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why did they let you?”

“I got sick. Even those morons couldn’t expect me to run a business out of a bone marrow transplant ward.”

I mulled over the chronology in my mind. “Aaron disappeared shortly after you started treatment, right?”

“Three or four months.” Kyle looked away. “I always assumed one of our partners killed Aaron for leaving them high and dry in terms of the supply chain.”

“But you don’t have proof?”

“No.”

“Sounds like Aaron had good reason to get the hell out of town,” I said. “Especially if he could make it look as if he didn’t get out alive.”

“I guess.” Kyle played with the spears of his thinning hair. “The irony is, I was allowed to walk away from it all scot-free simply because I had cancer.”

“I’m glad.”

“I take it you mean about the scot-free stuff, not the cancer.” Kyle’s smile faded quickly. “Look, Ben, say Aaron really is alive. How do you know he’s not involved in everything?”

“As in, setting me up?”

He shrugged.

I wavered a fraction of a second. “No way. He wouldn’t do that to me. And certainly not to Emily. Someone either coaxed the blood from him or stole it. Simple as that.”

Kyle nodded.

I reached out and touched my cousin’s bony shoulder. “Kyle, I have to find Aaron.”

“And just how do you plan to do that?”

“I’m going to start my search in Vancouver.”

His frown gave way to a sympathetic smile, the kind reserved for someone you know is heading out on a wild-goose chase. “I guess it’s as good a place as any to start.”

“But I don’t know how to cross the border.”

He flashed a grin that was vintage bad-boy Kyle. “I can get you across.”