"Where would you like to meet?"
She laughed lightly. "I'd like to meet in Mexico. But I think it's best we meet right here where I live."
"Sure. Where is that?"
"Gig Harbor."
He hesitated. "Isn't that where--"
"Yeah. I'm at the Washington Corrections , Center for Women. Is that some kinda problem for you?"
"Under the circumstances, I'd say that only enhances your credibility. I can be there tonight."
"Good. But don't come if there's only money on the table."
"What do you mean?"
"There's only so much chewing gum a woman can buy. I want outta here."
He froze, not sure what to say. "I don't think I'm in a position--"
"I'm gonna hang up."
"Don't, please!"
"You sound desperate, Mr. Wheatley."
",`My wife is missing. How do expect me to sound?" "Then help me. And I'll help you."
"All I was trying to say is that it really isn't my place to negotiate your release. Something like this needs to be worked out between your lawyer and the state attorney's office and the department of corrections and whoever else is involved."
"Fine."
"Do you have a lawyer?"
"Yeah."
Who is it?"
"You."
"What?"
"You are a lawyer, aren't you?"
"Yeah, but--"
"But you've never done anything like this. So what? This is about influence, not experience. Guy like you has plenty of influential friends. A lot more than that incompetent little twit of a public defender who landed me here in the first place. You expect me to go back to him?"
"All I know is you're asking for an awful lot. If you want money, you got it. But on something like this, I just can't guarantee anything."
"Your guarantee is that you'll work harder than anyone to put this deal together. Because there's not another lawyer on the planet who has more incentive to get me out of here."
She had a point. He at least had to try. "What are you in for?"
"Conspiracy."
"Conspiracy to do what?"
"Murder."
"It's not going to be easy to spring a murderer from jail."
"I'm not in for murder. It was conspiracy to commit murder."
"So what are you saying? Someone else was the trigger person?"
"I'm saying no one got murdered. It was a conspiracy. Just a plan. The police got wind of it before anyone got killed."
"It's still not going to be easy."
"You want your wife back or don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then get me outta here."
"Okay," he said, his heart racing. "I'll see what I can do."
Chapter Thirty-Four.
It was a J-shaped drive from Seattle to the Washington Correctional Center for Women, down the interstate to Tacoma, then back up to Gig Harbor on the western side of Puget Sound. In good weather and light traffic the trip normally took about two hours.
Gus made it in record time.
Gig Harbor was a quaint harbor town with bite. It had plenty of lovely old-fashioned shops, restaurants, and bedand-breakfasts. Getting there, however, meant a trip across the mile-wide Tacoma Narrows, where winds whipped so furiously across the water that the original bridge had twisted and turned and toppled into the sea just months after opening in 1940. It had been replaced by the world's fifth largest suspension bridge, but Gus couldn't cross without one or two panicky visions of "Galloping Gertie," the ill-fated predecessor that had galloped too much.
The prison was located just outside of town, a recently renovated compound that spread across several acres of cleared evergreen forest. Of Washington's twelve major correctional facilities, WCCW was the only one exclusively for women. Medium-and minimum-security facilities housed nearly seven hundred female inmates, their crimes ranging from property theft to murder.
It was well after normal visitation hours when Gus arrived. Gus had spoken to Andie en route by car phone and told her all about Shirley Borge. Andie had called the Department of Corrections. If this inmate might help catch a serial killer, the warden was all too happy to allow an after-hours meeting.
Gus entered the compound at the close-custody reception unit, a long building that resembled old army barracks. A corrections officer led him down the hall to the attorney-client visitation area and checked him in. Gus entered booth number one, a small room with one chair. The door was behind him. White walls on either side. A glass partition separated him from an identical room on the lockup side. It was empty for the moment. He scooted his chair closer to the glass, closer to the phone box on the counter. He waited.