Dead Ringer by Allen Wyler Page B

give away freebies. Besides, by the time the ME finishes with a body, it’s usually too decomposed to be good for anything. There’s only one other way I know to acquire a freshly dead person.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Like I said when we started, Ditto’s a vindictive guy. I don’t want him coming after me.”
    “Okay, but it’s just us here. What are you saying?”
    “Think about it,” Boynton said. “You need a fresh body. Where you going to go?”
    She waited for him to make another comment, but he just shook his head.
    She asked, “Anything else to add?”
    “You free for dinner?”

11

    U SING A CAMPUS MAP from the main hospital information desk, Wendy threaded her way back to the parking lot thinking about Boynton’s unexpected dinner invitation. She’d been caught off guard and hoped she hadn’t been too rude when she turned him down. The parking lot was on the south side of Husky Stadium with full sunlight frying her motor pool Caprice. She opened the front door and stood there waiting for some heat to waft out before climbing in. No matter how hot Seattle became, it paled to the car-searing summers she’d endured growing up east of the mountains in Moses Lake, Washington.
    People always said, “Yeah, sure, but that’s dry heat.” As if that made a difference. Dry, wet, whatever, to her it was frigging miserable.
    Her dad had been an air traffic controller for the air force, stationed at Larson Air Force Base outside Moses Lake. The base became decommissioned just about the same time his tour of duty ended. With 4,700 acres and a 13,500 foot runway, it became the Grant County International Airport and an alternate landing site for the NASA space shuttle. Her parents stayed in town working as civilian airport employees for the FAA while raising Wendy and her older sister, Megan. And they loved it.
    Well, they could have it. The heat, the annual Eagles barbecue, the VFW hall, and the Grange. All of it.
    She hated the endless summer evenings sitting on the porch swing with nothing to do but listen to Mariners games on a staticky AM radio station and dream of escaping the flat, boring town. Megan never left. She boomeranged back from Washington State University freshman year, married the hayseed who’d knocked her up. Megan and her husband were raising three boys. Which, from Wendy’s point of view, held as much appeal as rinsing out your mouth with Clorox.
    For reasons Wendy could never grasp, she’d always wanted to be a cop. Right out of high school she enlisted in the army after receiving assurances from the recruiting officer that if she did well on the tests, she’d be assigned to their Criminal Investigation Division. After four years of active duty and some junior college courses, she figured she could pass the physical fitness and civil service exams for the Seattle Police Department. And she did.
    A week after graduation from the academy, she was called into the chief of police’s office.
    She stands at the desk, the fresh rookie assigned to patrol. The Chief says, “Close the door, please.”
    She does and returns to the desk. The Chief remains seated, a manila folder open on his desk. “I’ve been reading your record, Elliott … may I call you Wendy?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Good performance in the Academy. Good enough for Internal Affairs.”
    “Sir?”
    “I’m looking for a fresh face to be assigned to basically work undercover for Internal Affairs.”
    “Just what does that mean?” she asks in spite of having a pretty good idea.
    “Means you’d be assigned to a unit we have reason to investigate. Say, Vice. While there, you’ll do the work you’re assigned, but in addition, you’ll be conducting an investigation for us by looking into questions we have about other members of your team.”
    “In other words, you want me to spy on other cops?”
    “That’s one way to view it. The way we prefer to think of it is the cops we put on your radar may turn out to be the