Boldt looked at her skeptically. He didn’t put much faith in handwriting analysis. She said defensively, “I’ll make a believer out of you yet.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“He’s looking for you,” Watson warned.
Boldt faced the television screen. Maybeck looked restless. Boldt looked to Daphne for advice.
“Make him wait,” she said. “We’ve got the password.”
Watson added his two cents: “You’re going to lose him. He knows it shouldn’t have taken this long.”
“We need him,” Boldt reminded. To the techies manning the laptop he said, “How long?”
“There are a couple big files. We’re doing everything we—”
“How long?” he reemphasized.
“Not long.”
“Stall him,” Daphne said. She ran over to the computer table, snatched up the instructions. “Tell him to step you through it.”
“He’s leaving,” Watson said to Boldt. To Daphne, he added, “I told you.”
As Boldt reentered the pawn shop’s show floor, Maybeck was on his way out the front door.
“Hey, asshole! Mr. Toshiba! Where the hell are you going?” he asked. “Fuck you!”
Maybeck stopped. He didn’t answer. He looked scared. Maybe he’d figured it for the setup it was.
LaMoia shouted to Maybeck, “Hey! What do you want a computer for anyway, Mr. Toshiba? I got a hell of a car stereo system over here.” It broke the ice. Maybeck allowed the door to shut, remaining inside.
Boldt argued, “You crush my stones about how important this is, and now you’re gonna blow on me? Get gone—and don’t show your face in here again.”
Another agonizing silence as everyone looked at Maybeck. The amplifier spit static. It was the only sound except for traffic noise.
“Why so long?” Maybeck asked.
“What? You think I’m Einstein?” Boldt asked, wondering how Miles was doing. “You got the handwriting of a moron, you know that?” He waved the sheet of instructions at him. “My first-grader’s got better lettering than this! Get out of here. Get gone. But don’t come back here. Not ever.”
“What? You can’t read my handwriting?”
“What did I just tell you? You gonna leave? Go ahead, leave! You got a lotta nerve wasting my time. Yanking my chain.”
“What can’t you read?” Maybeck asked, taking his first step back toward the counter.
Boldt felt a huge sigh of relief pass through him. “How about you explain it to me?”
They worked it out between them. Maybeck talked Boldt through the whole thing. It took several minutes, Boldt watching the wall clock.
When he finally returned to the back room, the techies were standing there anxiously awaiting him. The laptop was all ready to go. “We got it!” one of them said excitedly. “We got every file in the thing.”
Boldt took the laptop. One of them said, “Better give it another minute.” That minute stretched on indefinitely. “Okay,” he finally said.
Boldt asked, “What the hell was the password, anyway. I forgot to even look.” Donnie Maybeck stood less than fifteen feet away, on the other side of the closed door to this back room.
“Zoom,” the man answered. “Whatever the hell that means.”
34
Inside the chilled, damp confines of Elden Tegg’s wilderness kennel, Sharon Shaffer sat bare bottomed, her arms hugging her knees, her weak grip clutching the discarded needle she had recovered, her mind off in an imagined fantasyland where the cement she now sat on was a hot, fine, Mexican sand, and that godawful smell in the air was the sweet perfume of a trade wind. Each day she challenged herself to come up with another image, for without them her mind would decay into the depths of self-pity and her body surrender to disease. No one needed to tell her—she knew. She had seen it on the streets, usually at the receiving end of a bottle or a needle similar to the one she now cherished as if it were a key to the lock on the door that impounded her. She assumed from her diarrhea that he had her on a powerful course of antibiotics. Weakness was her biggest enemy. He was both feeding and drugging her through the I.V. She didn’t know how much longer she had in her.
Strength was everything. She knew that.
Her will carried her hour to hour, but for how much longer? She continued to remind herself that as terrible as this was, she had seen worse, had lived worse, for she had lived without faith. Faith alone now carried her forward. Perhaps this suffering was her punishment for years of recklessness.
His words haunted her: “Practice makes perfect.” This said while he held Michael’s heart. Did that mean what she thought it meant? Was her heart next? Her life?
Her years on the street had taught her some things. She had learned how to fight, how to survive, how to lie, how to deceive. Cunning, she had found, could get you out of more problems than any amount of reason or talk.
The needle remained coiled in her fingers. An eye for an eye, she thought.
The obstacles she faced seemed overwhelming. The doctor, the vet—she still thought of him as The Keeper—was using Felix to patrol the building. The dog would tear apart any intruder or her, should she manage to escape. She needed more of a plan on how to deal with that. As part of an incentive program, The Keeper had also left the dog without food. Felix used the automatic waterer from the cage to her right, its door wired open for him, but as each day wore on into the afternoon, in anticipation of The Keeper’s arrival, of food, the dog’s restless pacing increased. He would enter the cage adjacent to her, sit there and drool while staring at her. It often went on for hours; it frightened her. She would motion at him, scold him through her gag, but the guard dog just sat there impassively, smelling her. Wanting her.
What worried her most about her planned escape was the way The Keeper used the shock collar to subdue her. The collar could be triggered either of two ways: if she touched the chain link or if The Keeper used the button on the remote “wand” that corresponded to her collar. His routine was to deliver a few devastating blasts to her collar, weakening her before his entry into the cage to change her dressings. By the end of those blasts, she was feeble and in immense pain—she was putty in his hands. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking no chances.
It would require all her strength if she were to use the needle on him. She had it all worked out: needle to the eye, out the cage, out the door, lock it, into the car, gone. But his liberal use of the shock collar warned her that she would not have all her strength when the moment arrived.
After hours—days?—of contemplation, the only solution to this problem that she could arrive at was to condition herself against the effects of the collar. She had to beat him at his own game—to take more than he could deliver.
Getting started was not easy. Knowledge was one thing, execution another. For hours now, while Felix stared at her, she had been staring at the chain link, daring herself to willingly reach out and touch it. It required a morbid perversity—a masochism—that she found impossible to summon.
Nothing, she reminded herself, is impossible.
She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the power of that shock, reached out and took hold of the fence. The collar sounded its warning—an electronic buzz—and then delivered its full voltage. The kick snapped her spine straight, lifted her chin, and filled her with a savage heat. It felt as if her neck were burning. She released the fence and tumbled heavily to the cement, at first unable to catch her breath—numb, her joints welded, her muscles locked tight in an impossible, unforgiving cramp. She only realized it had temporarily blinded her when her vision returned and she saw Felix up on all fours, his stub wagging, his eyes locked onto her.
She sat up, prepared herself, and took hold again. She held on a few milliseconds longer this time, endured the seizure, the spasms, the white-hot fire at her neck, finally surrendering and letting go. Again, she collapsed to the cement. Again, her vision failed her briefly. Again, she was met by the hungry eyes of h
er sentry watching from the other side of the wire wall.
Escape was all that mattered. Since this pain was a means to freedom, she would gladly repeat this routine a dozen times, a hundred. He would shock her, she would act the part, and she would be free. Perhaps, given enough times, she might drain the collar’s battery and render it useless. She repeatedly reminded herself that there was no easy way out of here, that sacrifice was the only means to this end.
Her mouth was dry. She felt as if her insides were shaking involuntarily. She denied her fears. She combated the pain with desire.
She reached out and took hold of the fence again. It sang through her like music. It made her dizzy and light-headed. It challenged her to let go. But she fought it, refusing.
“Noooo!” she screamed into the gag that rubbed her mouth raw. “Nooo!” as she gripped her fingers more tightly.
Felix looked on with the white-rimmed eyes of disbelief. Awe. He was her audience. Respectful. He sat back on his haunches and cocked his head in question.
And then she realized she could see! Her vision had overcome the shock from the collar. No more blind moments. A small victory, but for Sharon a milestone.
Encouraged, she grabbed the fence again and again, her collar sounding its warning buzz each time before the voltage surged through her.
One step at a time, she told herself. One step at a time.
35
With Daphne looking on, Boldt struggled at the coffee machine, trying to turn it on so he could make hot water for some tea. LaMoia entered the office, bumped Boldt out of the way, flipped the on-off switch twice rapidly, tapped the machine on the side and proclaimed, “No problemo.” Sure enough, the light came on, and a moment later the water started dripping.
LaMoia bought himself a Coke. The three of them took seats around Boldt’s table.
Boldt asked LaMoia, “Well? Anything from Watson? Anything in that database?”
“He’s on his way. What I have is Maybeck.”
“I’m more interested in the database.”
“I know that,” LaMoia said.
“We all are,” Daphne added.
“Go ahead,” Boldt instructed, attempting to contain his impatience.
“Donald Monroe Maybeck has no priors, no outstanding warrants, and only a couple of delinquent parking citations. As far as we’re concerned, he’s clean.”
“Shit,” Boldt hissed. He opened a file folder just to occupy his hands, to keep busy. He had been hoping—praying—that Maybeck’s record might tell them something about the man. DMV records—all LaMoia had to go on—offered you precious little information.
LaMoia continued, “He owns a blue 1981 Ford panel van. Other than that, officially we don’t have squat on this guy. I did, however, put in a call to a buddy of mine who is able to pull credit records—no questions please,” he said to Daphne. “I supplied him with the gasoline credit card number. He’s going to poke around for us. No promises.” He sipped from the soda can. “You hear about the laptop?”
Boldt shook his head. LaMoia was one of those cops who knew anything of importance before anyone else. He prided himself on it.
LaMoia said, “J.C., who’s working the first shift of surveillance along with Butch, just called in that Maybeck already deep-sixed the laptop. He got a photo of him tossing it into Lake Union. I suppose we could pick him up for littering.”
“Well,” Boldt said, trying to see the positive, no matter how small the victory, “if we ever get as far as trial, his tossing a perfectly good computer in the drink may help reinforce the possible criminal nature of the data he had in there. We can assume he erased the data, so chances are that he also knew that the laptop was hot—maybe he even stole it himself. He’s protecting himself. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“There’s a downside to that,” LaMoia reminded. “If he’s trashing evidence, there has to be a reason.”
Daphne said, “He’s already onto us?”
Boldt felt an added pang of urgency. Bile stung the back of his throat. His stomach had turned on him. Welcome back, he could hear it saying. If Maybeck and the harvester knew about the investigation, then the laptop wouldn’t be the only evidence being destroyed. They would have to move quickly now. Every day, every hour gave the harvester more opportunity to distance himself from his work.
He scanned his current checklist. Addressing Daphne, who was still glowing with their success at the pawn shop an hour earlier, he asked, “Do we have the count on the number of vets in King County?” He had asked her for this the night before on the way to the gravesite. It felt like a week ago.
“Not officially, but we have a bare minimum.” She hesitated.
Boldt knew that disappointed look of hers, knew that he didn’t want to hear her answer.
She told him, “Three hundred and seventy.”
The number hit Boldt like a truck. “That’s a joke, right?”
“That’s only the veterinarians who advertise in the US WEST Yellow Pages. There’s probably a third again as many who don’t elect to advertise.”
“Seriously?” A number that size seemed impossible. It was impossible in terms of the investigation. Boldt instructed, “We’ve got to narrow that down. Fast. That’s way too big a list to even begin thinking about.” There were background checks to make, bank records to scrutinize, interviews to be conducted. A number like that would take a team of twenty investigators over six months to whittle down.
She added, “Some of those are clinics. A clinic can have one or as many as ten or more vets. We’re going to need an army if we’re going to go after these guys one by one,” she suggested, having come to the same conclusion as Boldt.
Boldt fought to maintain some optimism. Given his fatigue, it wasn’t easy. “I’ll hit Shoswitz up for the army—for task force status. You try to narrow that list down to surgeons. Or maybe tighter—internal surgeons? Transplant surgeons? I don’t know. See what’s possible. We’ve got to cut that list in half at the very least. Half of that, if we’re lucky.”
“I’ll do this during all my free time, right?” she asked sarcastically. He wasn’t the only one showing fatigue.
“Listen, I know it’s hard—”
“It’s impossible,” LaMoia interrupted, supporting Daphne. “I’m not laying this on you, Sarge, but we gotta have a bigger team. I’ve been pulling office hours and surveillance duty. Not only is the lieutenant gonna shit when he sees my overtime, but I’m a walking zombie. A guy makes mistakes when he gets this tired. Even me. We could be overlooking something here—something major—and we wouldn’t even fuckin’ know it.”
“Any suggestions?” Boldt asked. He’d been up all night with Dixie at the bone dig. He could hardly keep a thought straight in his head.
LaMoia said, “Like you said, a task force would sure help. We could pull guys from County Police; the FBI boys would be able to help out maybe. We’ve got to have more manpower.”
“And womanpower,” Daphne corrected.
“I said I’ll try,” Boldt snapped irritably. “Sorry,” he apologized.
LaMoia drained half the Coke. Daphne wrote herself a note.
She said, “I’ll do what I can to narrow down the vet list. Maybe Maria can help me out.”
LaMoia offered tentatively, “I’m overseeing the Maybeck surveillance, but J.C.’s got it pretty well handled. I’ll still be putting in a lot of office time. I’m available.”
It was times like this, when everyone reached deep and suddenly rallied around each other in the crunch, that Boldt remembered what it was like to be a team, what he had missed about this job. Just yesterday he had wondered why he had come back; now he wondered why he had ever left. God, was he tired.
He consulted his list again and said to LaMoia, “There’s more.”
“Always is.”
“Now that we’ve located these bones, I want a follow-up. Granted, anybody and their brother with a four-wheel-drive has access to that area of the Tolt River, but
I want to search county records for any landowners out there. Forestry leases—anything we can think of. We cross-check anything we get both with the AMA’s list of surgeons and with the list of vets that you put together,” he said to Daphne. “Sometimes people bury bodies a million miles from home—just as often, in their own backyard. Let’s check that out.”
“I’m on it,” LaMoia said, writing it down, trying his best to mask his discouragement.
“I know that it’s a long shot and a hell of a lot of work,” Boldt admitted. He also knew that LaMoia didn’t like this kind of paper research; he preferred street work. “But these bones are part of this thing. Dixie proved that with the tool markings. We can’t let this slide.” He encouraged, “If we go to task force status, we may be able to wrestle loose a chopper to do an aerial search of the Tolt region. Maybe that would speed it up.”
Daphne suggested, “U.S. Geological might have satellite maps of the area. We could look for structures, identify locations, and check county records. Kind of work it backwards. Our friends at the Army Corps might be able to help us with the maps.”
“I’ll call them,” Boldt said, making a note. “What else?”
Watson entered and took a seat in a chair over by Daphne. His glasses were filthy. He needed new blades in his electric razor—his face looked like an old weed patch. He adjusted his glasses and said, “I won’t bore you with the details.”
“Good,” LaMoia said, intimidating the man.
Watson looked a nervous wreck. His domain was wires and cathode-ray tubes. He didn’t take to a meeting like this.
Daphne advised him, “Don’t worry about John. He has a testosterone problem.”
“To every problem, a solution,” LaMoia chimed in, trying to stare her down.
“Not in your wildest fantasies.” She stared back.
“Watson?” Boldt asked. When people came under too much stress, it found strange ways of manifesting itself.
“That’s not my name, you know,” he complained.
The Angel Maker Page 23
