“That’s all this is to you?” LaMoia blurted out. “Some fluids? Some sweating? What, I’m your gigolo?”
LaMoia dressed without showering and was out the door, but not before Sheila Hill called out, “You can go away mad, but you’ll be back. You enjoy screwing the teacher. Nothing wrong with that, John. Teacher likes it too.”
He slammed the door and was still tucking in his shirt by the time he reached the elevators where a mother and small child stood waiting. Sight of the child stung LaMoia. They boarded, but he declined to join them. He couldn’t stand that close to a child. He took the stairs. Running hard. Running fast. Running away.
CHAPTER 31
David and Carlie Kittridge, both setters on the Mick’s Grill volleyball team that had taken third in the inter-city competition a year earlier, had their eye on the big prize this year, thanks to a Boeing recruit who had played for USC’s junior varsity. The guy could spike and block right up there with the best of them. The Kittridges were such fanatics that they had timed Carlie’s pregnancy so that she delivered between the summer outdoor and the winter indoor seasons. Trudy was a week shy of five months old. Reddish blonde hair, green eyes-the cutest, most precious baby since Evelyn, her older sister.
The Wednesday night games took place in the gym of Rainier Junior High, just four blocks from the cheapest gasoline in Seattle. Carlie teased her husband for always managing to leave his tank empty until Wednesday night. After the game they would stop and he would fill up, proud of his savings. Summer months he brought his lawnmower tank along as well. If there was a deal to be had, David was first in line.
The winner of Wednesday’s game would go on to represent Wallingford in the indoor championships. Carlie Kittridge prepared to serve against the brick wall thirty feet away where a line was painted eight feet high. Hers wasn’t the most powerful serve on the team, but it was arguably the most difficult to return because of a wicked reverse spin she had perfected.
As she stood in the backcourt preparing to serve, Carlie Kittridge glanced down at Trudy’s car seat to make sure her daughter was content, and saw the little angel’s eyes closed. Evelyn was at day care. All was well. She smacked the ball and watched its beautiful rotation, the seams running back toward her. Wednesday was only a few short days away. She looked forward to it with an antsy hunger. Mick’s Grill was currently ranked number-one inter-city. David and Carlie had every intention of keeping it that way.
CHAPTER 32
Boldt had put off telling Liz for two days. He had a decision to make regarding the most recent evidence-the FedEx truck in Sarah’s ransom-and he needed Liz’s involvement, illness or not. He elected the hospital stairs over the elevator, to buy him time to compose his thoughts.
He found her in bed reading a small pamphlet. Her roommate’s bed was lived in but empty. Her face had its natural color back, not makeup. Her eyes had lost their dullness. She looked tired and older than the woman he knew, but far better than the Liz Boldt who had been admitted some weeks earlier.
“You look great,” he said, kissing her on the lips.
“Wish I could say the same. Not that it isn’t good to see you. We’ve been playing phone tag. I’ve missed you.” She waited for him to say something. When he failed to do so, she asked carefully, “Is it her?” The face behind the question twisted as she sized him up. She drew in a sharp breath. “It is, isn’t it?” She gasped, drained of color.
Boldt choked on his attempts to speak, implying acknowledgment. She meant Daphne; she had it all wrong.
“We can work through anything,” she said bravely.
Boldt teared up, confused and sorry and angry.
Her eyes held a softness, seen for the first time in months. Her pain was gone, he realized.
“Where is she?” he asked, indicating the roommate’s empty bed.
Liz pointed to the bathroom door.
“Feel like a walk?” he asked, offering his hand.
She swung her legs out of the raised bed. “I’ll need my robe,” she said. “Home tomorrow. I need the practice.” Believing her husband in the midst of an affair, she nonetheless held her composure. He stood there in awe of her, feeling small and pitiful. There was a girl involved, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it. He handed her the robe and fished her slippers out from under the bed. Her bottom showed as he helped her into the robe. It was different than the one he remembered. She needed twenty pounds. He ached, praying for her health.
He walked alongside of her down a corridor void of character to an empty waiting room called the Solarium. He turned down the TV and they sat in a far corner. “It’s not that, Liz. Not even close. My love for you … it’s stronger, more clear to me than it’s ever been. My admiration for what you’ve been through … for the strength … the courage-”
“It’s not me, love. It’s much bigger than me. But thank you.” Studying him she said, “We can get through anything, you know.”
Did she mean money? The banker in her had a way of neatly tracing most problems back to money, of seeing most solutions in financial management.
“I’m not so sure,” he said, thinking aloud.
She smiled warmly. “Whatever it is, we’re in it together.”
He burst out crying, so suddenly, unexpectedly, that he buried his face first in his arm, and then on her shoulder. She held him and rubbed him. “We’re almost out of this, love.”
He wasn’t going to tell her with his eyes buried. He leaned back, frozen by her expression. There was no good time. All his rehearsal failed him-paralyzed by her soft eyes.
“It’s Sarah,” he blurted out.
Her face went blank, her words caught in her throat. Tears spurted from her eyes, raining onto him. Her face collapsed and she struggled to swallow.
“An accident?” she mumbled.
He shook his head, no. “They took her … kidnapped her out of day care.”
Her face pale, her chin trembling, she offered only a blank stare. He had lost her to anger, as palpable as the bones in her back.
“Alive?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“You were looking after them. You said … You said you could handle it!” Her eyes pleaded him to tell her it wasn’t so. He couldn’t think what to say.
“They need her alive,” he said stupidly.
She pushed away and crossed her arms. She glanced around as if looking for a place to hide. “You did this? You let them take my baby?” She fired at him quickly, “Miles?”
“With Kathy.”
“You bastard! That’s why you vanished. You coward.”
“We had some leads,” he exaggerated. He caught himself worming his hands, just like Doris Shotz. He understood suicide then. A place for everything.
“Get out,” she ordered through blurred eyes. She repeated herself until it became a mantra.
“Liz,” he pleaded.
She curled up on herself like a crab retreating into its shell. Speaking wetly into her knees, she said, “You get out, and you bring me back my daughter.”
“I need you, Liz. I need you to help me with this.”
“This is your world, not mine,” she fired back. “I wanted none of this.”
She had asked him to quit the department too many times to count. He had nothing to say. It was a point she could hold to and that he could not argue.
He said, “She needs us both, Elizabeth.”
“You bastard!” She pulled in on herself even more tightly. “You bring me my baby!”
“I’m going to find her,” he said, his decision made, but his policeman’s logic countering everything he said. “I’m going to get her back.” He felt small and cowardly.
She pointed, her bone-thin ashen arm aimed stridently toward the door.
Boldt reached out to touch her, but she jerked away, revolted. “Liz, I …” He could not think what to say. Her arm trembled, still holding point. Wiping back tears, he
moved reluctantly toward the door. A sense of nothingness overwhelmed him, a feeling of being horribly alone. He left without another word. He knew what had to be done.
CHAPTER 33
Boldt drove into his driveway and then, before killing the engine, threw it into reverse, backed up and sped away. The same for the last several days: The house was Sarah. He couldn’t go in there.
He returned to the office, too sick to eat, and spent all of Friday night into the wee hours reviewing the computer printouts from Tech Services that detailed conversations caught by the electronic trickery of their AI eavesdropping software. For one who hated coincidences, Boldt was forced to live with the fact that had Seattle not been a port city used to smuggle everything from chopped autos to crack cocaine to illegals, and a reputed hub of organized Asian crime, his department’s Tech Services unit would never have had such sophisticated software. But with the current administration’s emphasis on returning law enforcement power to the state level, they did have it, and by a fluke of good salesmanship combined with Sheila Hill’s unquenched ambitions, it was Boldt’s to misuse legally.
Nonetheless, the software proved mediocre at best. Boldt spent hours listening to outtakes of conversations of little value, and additional hours to sections of tape the printout did not list at all. Of interest to him was that within SPD there was a good deal of dialogue. Between the FBI and SPD, nothing.
Several excerpts from the phone of Kay Kalidja intrigued Boldt, as she clearly attempted to gather in the victims’ financial statements as he had asked. She had left repeated voice mail for Dunkin Hale, and it was from these tapes, not his own phone system, that Boldt heard a message she left for him. The irony of picking up his voice mail by wiretapping did not escape him.
Lieutenant Boldt, Kay Kalidja. I wanted you to know that I have not forgotten your request, and although slower than I would like, I am making some progress. You will find some of the financial information you requested posted to your E-mail, which I thought more confidential than a pool fax, and I did not know if the fax number I have for you is direct or not. Sorry it has taken so long. I will try to speed things up. Call me if I can be of further assistance.
Ironically, it was Kalidja’s apparent willingness to help that insinuated Boldt’s first suspicions of her. He had encountered so much resistance from Flemming and Hale, both overt and otherwise, that an agent’s sudden readiness to give him information refused by others left him a little cold in the heart. Had someone gotten to her? He wondered if the information being forwarded was tainted and meant to throw SPD’s investigation, if Kalidja had been compromised by the Pied Piper, just as he had. Could that be it? Had she seen fear in his eyes? Did she know his child was missing? Suspicion bred suspicion the same way that lies begot lies.
He downloaded and printed Kalidja’s E-mail. She had sent him the full financial records-over thirty pages-for two of the former victims: one from Portland, the last city targeted; the other from Rancho Santa Fe, just outside San Diego, the first city struck by the Pied Piper. The gap in between was profound and impossible to miss. The stonewalling continued.
He reviewed the statements while he continued to listen in on dozens of phone calls, many of which overlapped in content and spread before him the complex tapestry of the ongoing investigation. By the sound of it, LaMoia had himself not a runaway train but a rudderless ship, meandering in a half-dozen different directions, some evidence driven, some driven by what could be described only as wild hunches. Many of the threads made sense to Boldt: the attempt to ID the pollen; the desire for lab reports on the automobile glass; the pursuit of Anderson’s missing photographs; the massive ongoing surveillance of transportation hubs and vacant structures around the city believed to be part of the Pied Piper’s MO. But woven together, these threads presented more an abstract image than a clear picture. The investigation appeared to be stumbling along well enough by itself, needing little hindrance from Boldt to fail.
He was going to find Sarah and rescue her, and he was going to do so without anyone’s knowing.
The FedEx manifests needed pursuing, as did the chemical analysis from Anderson’s boots that Gaynes had brought him. Even more promising was the possibility of the involvement-intentional or not-of an unidentified photo silk-screening company, and it was this lead he pursued arduously with the arrival, first of Kalidja’s E-mail and then, at six Saturday morning, of a fax received from Daniel Weinstein, cousin of Sidney and the giver of the silk-screened outfit.
March 27, Seattle, Washington
Dear Lieutenant Boldt:
I am pleased to include the following Internet address for the silk-screen company: HTTP//:[email protected]
Also “enclosed” are my credit card statements. I drew an arrow by the charge for Spitting Image, which is what I think you wanted. It jumped right out at me, and helped me find them on the Web.
Assuming you are not only busy but somewhat hamstrung by your constitutional requirements, I am taking the liberty of pursuing this myself, and should have something for you by the time you read this. (This fax was intentionally delayed.) You can thank me later.
Sincerely,
Daniel Weinstein
Boldt immediately dialed the man’s number, reaching only an answering machine that said, “I’m unavailable until Wednesday, the first. Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you.”
Boldt frantically phoned the Weinstein home and reached a groggy voice that belonged to Trish. Initially she said that both Sidney and his cousin were in town. Once Boldt explained the fax he’d received and convinced her that her out-of-state husband was in violation of his bail, she confessed that they had left for northern California early Friday afternoon. He asked if Daniel was the kind of man to follow through with such threats.
“Threats?” she returned. “They think they’re doing you people a favor. They think it’ll take you two weeks to get all the warrants and get down there and do something. Threats? They’re trying to find our baby.”
“Can you reach them?”
“Only if Sid calls tonight. If they get drinking, he won’t. He knows I don’t like the drinking. And my guess is, this is more an excuse for the two to go on a tear than to save our child. Sid, and Daniel too, they’re people who have to do something. You know? There are doers and there are people who sit around, Lieutenant. Sid and his side of the family-they are definite doers.”
Around the cop shop a “doer” was a criminal. Boldt did not miss the irony. “Did they give you an address, a town, anything?”
“No. Just that name, Spitting Image. But you already know that, don’t you?”
“I want you to listen to this next question carefully, and understand that the only way I can help them is to know everything. I have no jurisdiction out of this city, much less out of this state, Mrs. Weinstein. If I help, it’s as a private citizen. As a friend. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Listen carefully: To your knowledge, does either of them own a gun?”
She gasped over the phone line, settled herself and replied, “Yes.”
“A handgun, or a rifle, or both?”
“Both,” she answered. “Daniel does some hunting.”
“Let’s hope not,” Boldt said. “If your husband calls-”
“I tell him to get his butt home,” she interrupted.
“First you find a way to get the name of the town and the place he’s calling from. That first! A motel, a bar, it doesn’t matter. Then, and only then, you try to get him home.” He read her his cell phone number and made sure she took it down correctly. “It’s on twenty-four hours a day. You call the minute you hear.”
“I’ll call,” she promised, “but he won’t.”
With the help of Theresa Russo’s computer expertise, Boldt avoided including anyone in his search for Spitting Image’s home page. Within minutes of reading her the Internet address supplied by Daniel Weinstein she was reading back
to him the company’s physical address, E-mail address, and phone and fax numbers. Russo kept him on the line while she used an Internet mapping service to pinpoint the location of the company, and faxed him the resulting map. Within five minutes of phoning her, he had an address and map and was headed for the residential community of Felton, California, north of Santa Cruz.
A flight from Sea-Tac left for San Jose less than an hour later.
CHAPTER 34
Boldt had seen Sidney Weinstein in action with a weapon once before. He had no desire to face the two men alone. He called LaMoia from his car phone, awakening him. Weekend mornings were the detective’s only opportunity to sleep in; Boldt destroyed this chance. “I’m about to break your investigation wide open,” Boldt told him, assuming the Romeo was with a woman and probably sporting a Scotch-induced headache. “Southwest flight 192 leaves in fifty minutes.” He hung up, knowing that if he stayed on to argue his point LaMoia would worm his way out. As it was, LaMoia arrived at the gate with seven minutes to spare. He wore dark glasses, wet hair, a fresh pair of pressed jeans and his signature black leather jacket and ostrich boots. He drank buckets of coffee and ate pretzels for breakfast.
“You’re not going to tell me anything?” the detective complained from the front seat of the rental car.
“Of primary importance-” Boldt began to repeat himself.
“Yeah, I know. I heard you. It’s yours over in Intelligence for the first forty-eight hours. I keep my mouth shut for two days.” He added, “Two days is an eternity for those babies, you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Don’t push, John. You’re going to come out smelling like a rose.”
LaMoia burped on cue. “Better than I smell now,” he said.
Boldt stepped him through the evidence reports, the interviews with the Shotzes and Weinsteins, Daniel Weinstein’s credit card statements, the Internet site.
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