This news clearly struck a blow to Adler. Looking ill again, he sank back into the couch, too dumbfounded to speak. Boldt continued: “In the short amount of time I’ve known you, you’ve struck me as being straightforward. So that’s what I’m being with you. Whether you’re an honest man … I can’t say. But whatever you or your people may have done to Mark Meriweather, it’s insignificant when compared with the lives of Slater Lowry and the Mishnovs. If you or one of your people was behind that altered State Health report,” Boldt said, “I need to know right now.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
People could lie, and Boldt, in his role as a homicide cop, had sat across from some of the best of them and could often spot them. But to his knowledge, a person could not intentionally make himself pale, much less pale to the point that the skin seemed green and the lips looked like those of a cadaver. He believed Adler.
“I won’t pretend we’re close to apprehending this man, but we are closer, and if you shut down your company now, there’s no predicting his response. We believe that the ATM surveillance offers us the fastest, most predictable way to apprehend Caulfield. Even if he is using a runner, which remains a strong possibility, that ransom money is our way back to Caulfield. Shutting down your company, pulling your product, is likely to have an adverse effect on him. Change his agenda—take his attention off the money and put it back on the mass poisoning. At the moment, he seems reluctant to deliver on his larger threat, and I for one have no intention of testing his resolve, of pushing him over the top.”
“I want to know everything there is to know about this Longview Farms incident,” Adler said too calmly. He appeared to be in shock. “What exactly do you know, Sergeant?”
“We believe the contamination was not salmonella, but staphylococcus. Staph is most commonly transmitted by physical contact, which suggests maybe one of your workers forgot to wear his gloves. Your product went out on the shelves and people got sick.”
“Good God!” he gasped.
“We believe there was a cover-up to keep New Leaf in the clear, and that it involved altering documents to place the responsibility on bad poultry at Longview Farms.”
“This is why Daphne wanted access to our files.”
“Yes it is.” Boldt added, “Your cooperation, your confidence is crucial to the success of this investigation. As difficult as it may be, you need to continue on as if you knew none of this. At the same time, your cooperation in proceeding with the investigation—helping Daphne get what she needs—would be a welcome asset.”
The man nodded slowly, his eyes in a fixed stare at someplace over Boldt’s shoulder. “Are you telling me that these killings … all of this suffering, is the result of some misconceived attempt six years ago to keep us out of trouble?”
Boldt nodded. They saw it often enough in Homicide. “The biggest crimes are often committed trying to hide the smaller ones.”
On Sunday morning he and Liz and Miles drove up to the lake because Liz asked him to, and he had no desire to fight her as well. Another member of their family was on the way, and yet the very family this child would soon join seemed fragmented and in a fragile condition. The lake cabin always helped: No phone; no radio. A game of Scrabble maybe, some chores, some reading. A fire if the evening was cool enough. A swim if he was brave enough to endure the coldness of the lake water.
But Boldt did not sleep, and somewhere in the night he strayed out into the darkness in a plaid bathrobe with worn elbows. After a commune with the flat blackness of the lake’s starlit surface, he migrated toward the car, where he had left his briefcase and his papers. When Liz rose to a cold bed at four in the morning and found him by a small fire going through his papers, she said nothing—though he knew he had ruined their stay. At dawn he did swim and it chilled him to his bones, and Liz was there with a towel when he came out.
She was quiet on the drive back; Miles was noisy. They had to leave by six in order to make work on time, and they beat most of the bad traffic. After forty minutes of following license plates and sitting tall so that his visor blocked the morning sun, Boldt reached for the radio knob in order to catch the start of “Morning Edition.” Liz reached out and stopped him.
“I try not to involve myself in your cases,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “Even cases like this—the ones that seem to kill you—because there is so little I can do, so little I know that might help, and I believe it important that at least one of us be rooted in some kind of reality to help the other find ground.”
He could think of nothing to say to that. An eighteen-wheeler passed them. He noticed that it was a poultry truck and this serendipity did not elude him. The chickens were stacked in ventilated, crowded cages; some feathers escaped and, caught in the slip-stream, were carried along behind the trailer like a bridal train.
“I think I may be able to help,” she offered, “but I’m afraid to, because in a way it violates the parameters of this relationship—and that frightens me. When I am crazy at the bank, you are my anchor, and I would like to think that the same is true for you, and I fear that if I become involved, even in the smallest, most insignificant way, that in effect that sets us adrift, that joins the two of us but separates us from any tie back to reality. Does this make any sense?”
“Sure.” But he knew he did not sound convinced.
“I am a banker, love. As in ATM machines, accounts, withdrawals, loans. Now does it make sense?”
He did not answer.
“You have explained this case to me—at least some of it, the ATM part—and yet you never asked my advice. The one area I know something about, and you didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t,” she interrupted, in order to make her own point. “And I didn’t know if it was because you didn’t want my input, didn’t want to cross that line we keep so delicately stretched between us, or because it never occurred to you to ask.”
Boldt did not like car discussions, and his wife knew it. He had to wonder why she had waited until now to start this conversation. They had just spent twenty-four hours in the solitude and quiet of the lake, and she waits for the morning commute that affords no eye contact, no real contact at all, to launch into this.
“You’re upset,” she said.
“The timing is all.”
“Car talk.”
“Right.”
“But it’s easier sometimes for me. Can you see that? For all the reasons you don’t like it, it makes it easier for me. I can avoid those hard looks of yours even though I feel them.”
“I never mean to exclude you from anything,” he apologized.
“I know that. You do it, but I know you don’t mean to.”
“And I can use all the help I can get.”
“That’s all I needed to hear,” she said, and she reached for the radio knob. This time, Boldt stopped her.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“I need to make some phone calls, research a few things. But I didn’t want to put the time into it, I didn’t want to do it, if it was something that might cause us problems. We have enough of those.”
Boldt took his eyes off the road briefly and met hers. He went back to the dotted lines and the turn signals, but that look of hers hung like a transparency through which he saw all else. She was as terrified of their future as he was, and for some inexplicable reason, he found this comforting.
He slid his hand down onto the seat and inched it over and found hers, and they rode down into the city’s sparkling skyline hand in hand, Miles grunting and fidgeting from his car seat. Part of Boldt wished he could just keep on driving.
It was clear from looking at her that Daphne Matthews had not taken the weekend off. “I spent most of Saturday and all of Sunday and Sunday night with Dr. Clements, going over the profile. He’s upset about those two faxes coming in on the same day and the lack of any attempt to place blame in the extortionist’s demand.”
> “So you were right about that,” he reminded her, trying to cheer her up. But it was not the opinion of Dr. Richard Clements that was troubling her, it was the fax she handed to Boldt.
“This just came in,” she told him.
HAVING A CRAVING FOR SWEETS?
MOTHER WARNED THAT CANDY IS BAD.
BUT YOU DO NOT LISTEN, DO YOU?
YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD.
Boldt reread the message several times, though there was no need to do so. She pointed out that in this fax the placement of blame had returned, and she did so in a forceful way that carried a subtext that she failed to explain to him.
“Caulfield bought those candy bars at Foodland for a reason,” he said. He had sensed this from the moment of discovery, but had hoped differently.
“They substituted all their candy products,” she reminded, though she gave away her own fears in the tight knitting of her brow and the way she entwined her hands in a squirming knot. “He told me about your conversation.”
“You’ve seen him?” Boldt protested.
“No, not in the flesh. But we call each other, both of us from pay phones—it’s really a perfect arrangement,” she snapped sarcastically. “Don’t worry, Sergeant,” she said caustically, annoyed with him, “we’re taking all necessary precautions.” She added, “And let me say that I consider my private phone calls my own damn business.”
“I respect that.”
“I certainly hope so.” She was clearly miffed. Her exhaustion hung over her face like a veil. “He’s incredibly angry over the possible cover-up. He offered to help get any paperwork we need, but I told him that we were more likely to subpoena what we’re after from here on out, so that we kept it admissible. I can see you’re worried, but let me tell you something: Owen Adler can handle any amount of stress and keep a poker face through any dealings. We don’t have to worry about him, Lou. He’s not going to give any secrets away.”
“I know this must be hard on you,” he offered.
“It’s hard on all of us. But thank you. Yes, it is.” She still was angry, though less so perhaps. With him, or with the situation—he was not certain.
He placed the fax down onto his desk. “I would hope that we’ve learned enough from his earlier threats to issue a second recall immediately. Threat or no threat. Freeze all sales at the retail level and try to trade out product again. Restock the shelves overnight and hope that Harry Caulfield doesn’t hear about it.”
She agreed that he should fax Adler with the request immediately.
“You know what really ticks me off?” Boldt said. “Another couple of days, the new soup labels will be ready to go. And now he goes switching products on us. And more curious to me—is he just lucky, or does he know which ATM machines we’ve got under surveillance?” On his desk were field reports for the ATM hits that had occurred both Saturday and Sunday nights. A combined amount of forty-two hundred dollars had been withdrawn. No agent had been within ten blocks of the ATM machines chosen for the hits. He did not tell her that Fowler now had a copy of the surveillance map and that they had effectively doubled their team, because to include her was to involve her—and if it went up in flames, he did not want her part of it. Boldt said, “He’s got over ten grand already.”
“Not bad for less than a week of work.”
“A little more than my take-home.” He won a slight grin from her, though it did not qualify as a smile. “So we wait for him to kill someone?” he asked. He reminded himself that Adler had offered to pull all their product and that he, Boldt, had talked him out of it. He reminded himself of the lab’s discovery of strychnine in the Longview ashes, Bernie Lofgrin’s reference to the Jim Jones tragedy, and his reasons for convincing Adler not to panic. But it was Lou Boldt who now felt in a state of panic.
“Call Clements,” he told her, passing her the phone. “Ask his opinion about pulling the candy bars immediately instead of waiting until tonight. And see what he would think about putting out the recall on the news—about warning the public about this.”
She looked as terrified as he felt. She dialed the number from memory to the room, and was put through. They talked for the better part of five minutes in the middle of which she shook her head at Boldt—Clements was advising against violating the conditions of the threats. She hung up and said, “He’s taking Caulfield at his word. But it’s still your call.”
He tasted biting sarcasm on the tip of his tongue, but kept it in. He kept in his fear as well, as best he could. Over the next few hours the clock hands actually seemed to slow down, and it seemed incredible to him that these were the same minutes by which he lived his life. They seemed hardly related at all. He willed his phone not to ring, and yet heard the endless ringing of the phones around him in a way he had never before experienced. There was rarely a moment of silence on this floor. There always seemed to be someone talking, a phone ringing, a door shutting, a shout, a reprimand, a curse. He wanted to yell for them all to shut up. Each time a phone purred, he thought it signaled the end of a life. And many of these calls did, even though they had nothing to do with the work of Harry Caulfield. The business of Homicide went right on without Lou Boldt. The teenagers, the lovers, the drownings—all required investigation. Pasquini’s squad was up to their waists in new cases.
But the department’s only black hole belonged solely to Lou Boldt, and the fax staring back at him was a signpost of what lay around the next curve—and Boldt had no desire to get there. He mentally backpedaled, knowing full well it was as useless as swimming from a waterfall.
At a few minutes past six o’clock, Owen Adler instituted the second secret recall of all Go-Bars and Mocha-Lattè Peanut Crunches, a costly, time-consuming effort that Boldt feared would prove too late. To date, as far as Boldt could tell, Caulfield had only sent a threatening fax once the contaminated product was in someone’s hands. He could envision the man as he stood around and watched, as he inspected the shelves periodically to see if his prize had been taken.
LaMoia brought Boldt some Thai takeout before heading out on ATM surveillance duty. He offered it to both Daphne and Boldt, but neither touched the food. Boldt had not eaten all day—a day that dragged interminably into evening.
When phone calls did come, Boldt answered them tersely, prepared for the worst: more cholera, more illness, more people clinging to their lives. He answered them rudely, hung up quickly, and he found it difficult, if not impossible, to get any work done.
BUT YOU DO NOT LISTEN, DO YOU?
YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD.
He thought many times of his conversation with Adler, of his efforts to convince him to allow the product to remain on the shelves. Even with the support of Dr. Richard Clements, he could only see this now as a huge mistake.
He prepared himself for nearly every eventuality—except the one that finally came. He noted the time of the call—7:22—out of habit. And out of habit he checked for his weapon, for his identification wallet, and for the keys to his car.
There were two boys dead—still up in their tree house, he was told by the 911 dispatcher. Not cholera. No chance for emergency rooms or resuscitation. Without any pathology report, without a lab test or a professional opinion of any sort, Boldt knew both the murder weapon and the cause of death.
A chocolate candy bar. And strychnine.
TWENTY-SIX
The bodies had been discovered in Wedgewood, in the backyard tree house of a home in the thirty-one-hundred block of Northeast Eighty-first Street. The hysterical mother explained to the 911 dispatcher that the boys had not responded to her summons to come inside. “They’re just sitting up there!” she had sobbed over the phone. “Just sitting there.” Because it was a death by suspicious causes, the 911 call was first relayed to Wedgewood authorities, then mistakenly to King County police, and finally, because of an astute switchboard operator, to Boldt’s office phone.
Boldt arrived reluctantly, not wanting to get out of his car. As in one of his recurring dreams, he had
a longing to turn back the clock to that moment immediately before the incident and to be there to save these victims.
The evening sun worked unmercifully to blister the tree house’s Cape Cod–gray paint. An old wooden ladder with initials carved into the stock stretched up into the darkened hole above. The tree house itself was not like the ones Boldt remembered from his own childhood. It appeared more the product of a catalogue purchase.
He elected not to speak with the hysterical mother, but headed directly to the crime scene instead. There would be time later for talking. Too much of it, as far as Boldt was concerned.
A uniformed officer stood at his side, and she knew better than to say anything. Boldt had a reputation as a loner at homicide crime scenes—and every uniform was aware of it. Dixie was on his way, as were Bernie Lofgrin and his ID crew. It was all being done as quietly as possible, though this time there was sure to be press, and this time there could be no stretching the facts to include E. coli contamination. Certainly Caulfield knew that the press and the police had to be involved—and this, above all else, terrified Boldt the most: Caulfield no longer cared; something inside him had changed.
Facing the press would not require the public information officer to make any mention of Adler Foods, or, for the time being, the candy bars that Boldt felt certain to find in the tree house above him. The press would be told that the case was an active homicide and was under investigation. No more, no less.
He looked up the long stretch of ladder once again, up into that dark mouth in the floor of the Erector Set tree house. She handed him a flashlight without a word, and he reminded himself to get her name later and to thank her for her professionalism. A few more cops arrived in the backyard, but seeing Boldt at work, they left immediately and kept others out. Only Boldt and his uniformed sidekick remained.
He climbed the ladder slowly, not wanting to see the first true homicide crime scene this case had presented him. Again, there were no witnesses to the actual crime, and again Lou Boldt would have little to go on.
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