Dead End Deal (34 page)

If memory served, Harbour Square Mall was only a few blocks away. He headed in that direction, mentally refining a possible ploy to get across the border. Which raised an interesting question: what about Feist? Was he already back in Seattle waiting for him? The way he figured, Stillman probably contracted Feist. But how far did that go? And if he could eliminate Stillman, would that get Feist off his back? A plan started to take form and soon as he found a place to hide, he’d spend more time thinking it through. For right now his highest priorities were to buy a change of clothes and a clean cell phone, then find a place for the night. Stillman and Feist . . . there had to be a way to take them both down. . . .

54

J
ON WALKED OUT
of the mall in a complete change of clothes: navy polo shirt, blue jeans, tan windbreaker, and baseball cap, the old set once again stuffed in a plastic shopping bag at the bottom of the men’s room wastebasket. He exchanged the athletic bag for a rucksack and replaced the few toiletries he’d left on the plane. Most importantly, he purchased a throw-away cell with a two-hundred-minute card, a number Stillman wouldn’t know about. If his plan took more air time than that, he’d be in serious trouble.

Two blocks later he turned onto Wharf Street, a pretty boulevard bordering the harbor, the air scented with drying seaweed and mussels. He paused at a bulkhead half a block east of the dock for the Victoria Clipper, a passenger/sightseeing ferry connecting Seattle to Victoria. The boat sat idle at the mooring, ready for the return trip to Seattle later this afternoon. A straight shot to Seattle. . . . Hmmm, now there was an idea.

He resumed walking, and saw a cash machine a half block ahead. Almost certainly law enforcement agencies had an alert on his bank card, but so what? Sidney Immigration had already notified every law enforcement agency in the Pacific Northwest that he’d been seen on the island. Besides, he’d already used his Visa. He withdrew two hundred dollars for immediate expenses and would hit a different machine in the morning, depending on how he fleshed out the plan.

A few minutes later he came across the James Bay Inn just off the harbor on Government Street, a quaint, four-story historic hotel. He entered the lobby and went to the small reception counter. A female voice from the room behind the counter, called, “Be right there.”

A small TV on the counter desk was on and broadcasting the local weather. That segment ended and the camera changed to a news anchor behind a desk. She said, “Authorities are looking for . . .” and his passport picture appeared on the screen.

Jon turned around and walked out.

He sat on a park bench across from the harbor, cap pulled low on his head, and put the final touches on his plan. What were the potential flaws? He didn’t see any. Which meant he was probably making a huge mistake. There were always things that could, and would, go wrong, even with the best-conceived plans. Yet sooner or later you had to go with what you had. He powered up the new cell and called Fisher.

Fisher said, “Don’t recognize the number. Where are you?”

“I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.” The connection had a watery distant echo quality.

“If the RCMP catch me, they ship me back to Seoul. Right?”

“Right. Unless they can be persuaded to ignore the extradition. And since you brought up the subject, did you attempt to use your passport to board the Sidney-Anacortes ferry?”

Trust him? Jon decided if his plan stood any chance of working, he needed Fisher’s help. Or, at least, his cooperation. “Yes.”

“This mean you’re still on Canadian soil somewhere on the island?”

He was grateful Fisher hadn’t asked exactly where. “Yes.”

“Okay, then this changes things in your favor. Slightly. But it’s better than if they’d caught you at the airport. Now, if the RCMP find you, there has to be an extradition order from Korea for them to even think of sending you back. I’ll check to be sure, but I don’t think South Korea and Canada have an extradition agreement. But even if they do have one, the Canadians are notoriously hesitant to act on extraditions. My best guess is they’d incarcerate you until things get sorted out legally.”

Good news. In a way. He’d rather be in jail in Canada than in Korea. “If I make it across the border what’ll you do about it?”

Fisher laughed. “Me personally or the FBI?”

“The feds. Immigration, customs, whoever handles this kind of situation.”

“Same principle. If the Koreans want you back, they’d have to submit an extradition request to the State Department. Then,
if
State was inclined to honor it, they’d send the marshals out to pick you up. Personally, I say do whatever you can to get back on US soil. Once that’s done, we can start working on straightening this mess out. Based on what I know, I seriously doubt the feds would have any inclination to send you back.”

The situation sounded better than before. Now to start setting up his plan. “You checked Stillman’s phone records yet?”

“Still working it. You were right, by the way. Calls
were
exchanged between his office and Nolan’s on the days in question. Even more interesting is that during last week he had numerous calls between his office, home, and another cell. The thing that makes these calls so interesting is that particular cell was on international roam in Seoul.”

“Got to be Feist. Which leads into my next question: Have any idea where he is now?”

“Funny you should ask. He came through Sea-Tac a couple hours ago.”

Well, that answered one thing. “Back up. That cell, it has to be Feist’s, right?”

“We think so, but we don’t know for sure. We’re having a problem IDing who it belongs to because the provider refuses to give us that information.”

“You’re kidding.”

“They cite privacy issues.”

Jon felt his blood pressure go up. He took a deep breath. “When you say, ‘calls were exchanged’ what does that mean? You sounded hesitant.”

“Simply stating the facts as they’d be argued by any good defense attorney. Even if we can prove it is Feist’s, there’s no way to prove he was talking to Stillman when the calls occurred.”

Frustrating. “Give me more than that.”

“I know where you’re going with this. You want me to say there’s enough to connect Feist to the murder of the two patients in Seoul. We can’t say that. We don’t have one piece of evidence to support that conclusion. We both
suspect
it, but as for direct evidence, there’s nothing. With what we have now, a magistrate would laugh me out of their office if I asked for anything but a cup of coffee.”

“But aren’t cases built on circumstantial evidence?” His head felt ready to explode, both temples throbbing.

“Sure. But not enough to prove a damn thing.” Fisher let that settle before adding, “And before you ask, I have someone checking the manifest for flights to Seoul around the time you flew over, looking to see if Feist flew over.”

Good. He hadn’t thought about checking that angle. “Find anything?”

“Not yet. We had to file the proper paperwork with United before they’d release it.”

At least Fisher was still working the case. He changed subjects by asking, “It should be obvious Stillman monitored the calls I made while over there. Especially the ones to Wayne. Is there any way you can find out if there’s a tap on Wayne’s cell or landline?”

“I might. But tell me this, why? What are you thinking?”

Jon explained his plan.

55

A
CAR DOOR SLAM
awoke Jon as he lay in a clump of bushes in Cridge Park. He opened his eyes but didn’t move. He could hear the soft chatter of a police radio and an idling engine. A gruff voice said, “Get up.”

Jon looked in the direction of the voice. Not more then fifty feet away a scruffy male sat on the grass, his back against a tree, a bottle in hand. An RMCP patrolman stood in front of him, hands on his hips, a patrol car at the curb with the back passenger door open. It was the middle of the night, Jon figured without looking at his watch. Probably close to 1:00 a.m.

“Why you gotta pick on me?” the man asked with the rasp of a smoker’s voice. “Why not him?” The man pointed toward Jon.

“Because I’m talking to you,” the officer replied without taking his eyes off the drunk.

Slowly Jon turned onto his belly and started to push up into a crouch.

“Aw man, give a guy a break.”

“I said, get up.”

Still watching the officer, Jon moved back behind another tree, waited a second to make sure he hadn’t been noticed, then turned in the opposite direction and started down the sidewalk.

A
T
11:32
THE
next morning brilliant sun felt soft and warm on Jon’s face as he stood next to the iconic stone seawall that rims the city harbor. A welcome contrast to the long night of moving along deserted streets while mentally reviewing his plan. By 5:00 a.m. the city began to slowly awaken and the tension of hiding began to lessen.

Around 6:00 he found a café, used the restroom to freshen up, downed a breakfast of bacon and eggs with several cups of black coffee, and then headed back into the streets. He decided it was probably safer to go back to Sidney, which would be the last place the RCMP would expect him. But he wanted to wait until traffic picked up so he’d be less conspicuous.

Satisfyingly stuffed, he headed back to Fort Street, turned north onto Blanshard, the city extension of highway 17, hung out his thumb at the passing cars and trudged north, away from the city. One mile later a black Toyota Land Cruiser braked at the curb. Jon tossed his rucksack on the seat and climbed into an interior of stale nicotine and sweat, and scattered fast food wrappers. The driver, an obese man, maybe mid-thirties, said, “I’m heading north, up past Sidney. That work for you?”

“Sidney’s perfect. I need to catch the ferry. Appreciate it.”

The man checked his watch, “Lucky. Got yourself a ton of time, son,” and pulled away from the curb.

The interior fell silent except for a soft rock station that dubbed itself “The Ocean.” Jon preferred to listen rather than delve into any small talk that might draw attention to him or leave the driver with information helpful to the authorities. Five minutes later the road transitioned into a highway and the driver kicked it up to 100 kilometers per hour. On the radio a Phil Collins tune ended and the female DJ announced, “Turning to local news, an alert is still in effect throughout Vancouver Island for Jon Ritter, the Seattle neurosurgeon wanted by the RMCP for questioning. He’s male, thirty-five years of age, medium height and weight, graying blond hair, and was last seen wearing a gray University of British Columbia sweatshirt and tan pants. Police officials consider Ritter armed and potentially dangerous. Citizens are warned not to attempt to apprehend Ritter, but—”

“I certainly appreciate this lift,” Jon said loud enough to mask the remaining description.

“Wonder what a neurosurgeon would do to get the police looking for him? Kill his wife?” The driver laughed. Jon forced a laugh. The man shot Jon a quick sideways glance. “That description could fit hundreds of people. Even you.”

“Yep, a
lot
of people,” Jon agreed.

To the west the sun hovered just above the jagged tips of Douglas firs as Jon scouted out the Van Isle Marina—a maze of slips, rust-stained corrugated-metal sheds, hull repair shops, parking spaces, and retail shops along Sidney’s north shore. Most importantly, the development contained an excellent restaurant. On his walk over, he stopped at a tired, two-story, nineteen-fifties style motel a half block to the south, and paid cash for a room for one night.

Now, he approached the restaurant and stopped by the door to study the menu in the front window. Could be pushing his luck, being out in public like this, but on the other hand, acting confident might go a long way to deter suspicion. He was hungry again.

A wiry bearded
maître d’
in denims and white shirt met him just inside the door with, “May I help you?”

Jon quickly scanned the tables, saw what he was looking for, said, “Dinner for one,” and pointed at the table.