"You hit her again, I'm gonna see you through the front door-without opening it." "You and who else?" the guy asked. "Who's next?" Boldt called over the guy's head, ignoring him completely now.
He looked over at Maria Romanello. Her skirt was about as big as a fly swatter, her legs, in black tights, a mile long. "What kind of stones?" he asked her.
The guy was looking at her, too. Damn near drooling. Meyers let loose on electric guitar so loudly that Boldt couldn't hear himself think. Boldt hollered for him to knock it off. "Come on, man," the suspect tried once more.
Boldt felt relieved that Daphne's ideas seemed to be working. He never would have played it this way. Not in a million years. He said strongly-a teacher losing patience- "My floor manager told you yesterday: You lose the ticket; you come back after the grace period; you buy it back at floor value. if no one has bought it by then, it's yours. Those are the rules, pal. And I gotta tell you: A laptop computer is not going to be around that long. No way. So give it up. Get a fucking job for all I care."
"You got to make an exception." He offered Boldt two twenties he had cupped in his hand. "What do you think?"
"Put the fucking cab fare in your pocket, pal. You're going to need it. Wrong guy. Listen," he said, conceding a point, "the only exception I ever make on something like this is if the customer can describe the item in such a way as to convince me they're the rightful owner. But with something like this-with a laptop computer-they're all the fucking same to me. I don't know shit about computers-so you're plum out of luck."
"But they're not the same!"
"To me they are."
"Diamonds," Maria interrupted, leaning in so the man could see down her blouse. "Diamond earrings."
The guy was staring right along with Boldt. "Get outta here," the suspect said to her, but he didn't seem to mean it.
She adjusted her blouse. "Keep your fucking eyes to yourself," she said. "In a minute, darling," Boldt told her. She pumped her way over to a stool and sat down on it with her legs set wide apart. Meyers broke a string on the guitar. Who could blame him?
The suspect was still staring at Maria when he said softly, "Jesus, what a package."
"I hear ya," Boldt agreed. It brought them together. It allowed Boldt to soften. "But what if I could prove it's mine?" he asked Boldt. "You mean a serial number, something like that? Maybe. We've done weirder things before." It was an awful chance to take. If the guy produced the serial number then Boldt would have to change his mind. Or he could pretend to check in the back and "discover" that the serial number indicated the computer was hot. Something. But this was clearly the turning point. He felt warm again. He wondered if the guy could see him sweating. "You got the serial number?"
"Better than the serial number. A password. Who else besides the owner is going to know the fucking password?"
"A password? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"The thing won't work without the password."
"You kidding me?" Boldt shouted over to Lamoia, who was also in a grungy undershirt, "Hey, Benny! Know anything about computer passwords?"
"Password? I thought that was a TV game show!" He laughed.
"Check Deloris in the back. She's the only one around here with any brains."
Maria shouted over to Lamoia, "Hey, buddy? Yeah. You interested in my diamonds?"
"Can't keep my eyes off 'em, honey," he shouted back. She strained up off the stool and sauntered over to him, brushing past the suspect on her way, keeping his attention off the fact that Boldt had gone into the back room. Meyers managed to get the rock guitar sounding like a jet airplane. Lamoia swore a blue streak at him until he turned it back down.
Boldt mopped his forehead when he reached the back room. There were a couple techies waiting with the laptop. Some expensive looking cameras were locked away in wood-framed chicken wire cabinets. A belt of cigarette smoke hung in the air like a layer of cloud. It came from the real owner, who was chainsmoking from a corner seat. He looked nervous.
The techies had the laptop up and running, the cursor blinking on a line that awaited the necessary password. Daphne rushed up to Boldt. "You're doing great," she said. "Tell him to write down exactly what steps to take and that Deloris will try to get it running. You're going to have to convince him that under no conditions will you allow him or any client to work the machine. No exceptions."
"No exceptions," Bolt repeated, his system feeling overloaded. "Now I know why people smoke," Boldt said, looking over at the nervous owner. He walked back into the main room.
One of the guys working undercover shouted, "You guys all on fucking vacation or what? I want some fucking service."
Maria turned to him, "I got some friends who are in the fucking service, honey, if you're serious. But they ain't cheap."
"Up yours," he said. "That's the general idea, in case you're new to it. She returned her attention to Lamoia and went through the act of selling him her "stones."
Boldt was so entertained by this-so surprised at how convincing his people were-that the suspect had to shout over at him to get his attention. "So?" it worked in Boldt's favor.
Meyers launched into a dreadful rendition of "Purple Haze," badly out of tune. A woman with kitchen brooms for eyelashes entered through the front door. inspecting her nails. Her facial skin looked like old boot leather.
Boldt worried about her. He didn't want any civilians in here just now. She might realize that he and Lamoia were new faces. Boldt went into the back room again and told the owner to put one of his people out front. The owner agreed. The new person handled the woman.
Boldt hurried back to the suspect who was clearly losing patience. To Meyers, the would-be jim! Hendrix, he shouted, "You gonna buy that thing? This ain't rehearsal space!" To the suspect he said impatiently, "I gotta have two forms of picture I.D. from you, and you gotta write down how I do this password thing."
"I can do it for you."
"No fuckin' way. Do you read?
Do you listen? We got state rules, and we got our own rules here, you understand? And I don't got all day, neither, so move it or lose it." He pushed a piece of paper in front of him. To one of the undercovers he shouted, "How can I help you?" in no mood to wait around for the suspect. As he stepped over to help this "customer," the suspect said, "I'm with you!" He fished for his wallet. "But I only have one picture I.D."
Boldt wanted that wallet so badly, wanted this man's name so badly that he felt like diving across the counter to get at it. Instead he had to sound uninterested. "I'm not gonna do this computer shit twice, pal, so make the directions simple. Understand? Far as I'm concerned, you can come back after the grace period. Guys like you are a real pain in the ass."
The suspect slid him his open wallet. Boldt hadn't realized how hard it would be to suppress his exhilaration. He felt high. Donald Maybeck, he scribbled out, taking down the name, address and pertinent data. This had to be the rush that poker players felt. "I gotta have a second I.D. of some sort, Mr. Maybeck," he said. "You got a credit card … something like that?" Boldt had to bite his lip so he wouldn't smile. By the end of the day, he felt like telling the man, I'll know more about you than your mother does.
He owned a Shell Oil credit card. Name: Donald Monroe Maybeck.
I'll have your full credit history taxes, debts, income. You just became public property
It took everything in his cop's brain to slide the wallet back across the counter without searching the rest of its contents. He couldn't allow even the slightest indication of pleasure to cross his face. He drummed up annoyance-this asshole was keeping him from his wife and kid-and moved down the counter to the waiting "customer" while Maybeck wrote out the computer instructions. The temptation to burst into a victory smile proved incredibly difficult to resist. Finally, he faked a sneeze in order to look away. He took a deep breath, regained some composure, and returned his attention to the undercover cop.
Meyers shouted from the floor: "Hey, fatman, I'll give you two bi
lls for the guitar and the amp."
Boldt shouted back, "Wait your turn." Lamoia called out, "Hey, dick-for-brains, watch who you're calling fat. Put the guitar down and get the fuck out of this store. Now!"
"Eat shit!" Meyers called back. He turned the thing up loud and hit an ear-blistering chord.
Maria marched over to him. He stood up bravely. She planted her hand into his crotch and squeezed strongly. "You're hurting my ears, Beethoven. You want to trade hurts?" She squeezed again.
Boldt was distracted as well. The entire store was distracted.
"Out!" Lamoia shouted. Meyers left, red in the face-which wasn't all an act.
Okay," Maybeck called out to Boldt, waving the instructions at him. Boldt was thinking that had they brought this guy into interrogation and requested the password, he never would have volunteered it. Now, here he was waving it at Boldt like granny with her flag at a Fourth of July parade. Take it! he seemed to be saying. Each step closer Boldt drew to that piece of paper, his heart beat a little quicker. Finally, his fingers took hold. To his surprise, Maybeck refused to let go. They stood face to face, eye to eye. There was nothing in this guy's eyes-like looking down into a dark cellar. Maybeck's breath was foul; again Boldt recalled the comments of Sharon's housemate. It was the same guy the one who had dragged Sharon from the room; Boldt felt certain of it. He wanted to take the guy by the neck and choke him down. He wanted to hurt him.
Still holding the instructions-the password maybeck said, "You get the thing running, then I can buy it back for what you paid me, right?"
"Right."
"You'll look that up. You're being square with me. Right?" Could he sense Boldt's anger? No, it was the silence. The room had gone still. Boldt looked up a fraction of a second before the suspect. He saw Lamoia first, whose panicked eyes gave Boldt a sinking feeling in his gut.
And then he saw the uniform. A patrolman-a beat cop doing his job-had wandered into the pawn shop. Chances are he knew at least some of these undercover people by name. It had shut everybody up instantly. Maybeck went white as a sheet. Seeing this, Boldt improvised. He said strongly, but not loudly, "You've got no problem with the police, do you? We don't do business with people involved with the cops." He wanted to sound as if he were protecting himself. Being selfish. All-american. "Not me," Maybeck replied. "I'm cool." He looked terrified.
Lamoia crossed through the counter. "Officer Barnes! We're all out of Uzis this week."
Maria Romanello laughed and started mouthing off at the cop who, looking around, stood dumbstruck. He must have realized that he had walked into a sting, and now he wasn't sure how to act.
Boldt kept one eye on the cop. Maybeck kept one eye on the cop.
Lamoia said to Barnes, "I got a hell of a nice car stereo you might like." He led him over to the counter. Smooth as silk, he leaned in and whispered something when Maybeck's head was turned.
In a frightened but contained voice, Maybeck said to Boldt, "I'll be back later to pick it up." He turned.
Boldt caught him by the arm. He held on tightly. "Suit yourself, asshole. But I'm not wasting anybody's time on this unless you're here."
Maybeck glanced down at the way Boldt was holding onto him. Only then did Boldt realize that he was wearing his police academy ring. He never did this kind of undercover work, had never even considered taking his ring off. But now it glared back at him like a neon sign. He released the man immediately. Had he seen the ring? Had Boldt blown the entire setup? Had he sacrificed Sharon Shaffer?
The patrolman said goodbye to Lamoia and left the building.
Maybeck, still watching the front door, said over his shoulder, "I'm hanging. just hurry it up.
Boldt could hear Daphne's coaching. Against his better judgment he said to the man, "You sure you're clean with the cops?"
"I'm clean, okay? You gonna do this or not?"
"Wait here."
As Boldt entered the back room for a second time all eyes were trained on him-terror in most of them. One of the techies snatched Maybeck's instructions from him and hurried to the computer. Boldt felt stunned. He was tugging at his ring when Daphne caught up to him. She looked a few years older than just a couple of minutes before. She stared at him. "You all right?" she asked. "I'm taking Grecian Formula into the shower with me tonight." "You did good," she said, intentional in her cop talk.
Boldt glanced over at the techies. "Any luck?" he asked.
One of them signaled a thumbs-up. "We're copying now," he said.
Adding, "Database software, a couple of big files, Sergeant.
That's good news I think., Boldt studied Maybeck on Watson's television screen. The entire ordeal had been captured on timecoded videotape. They would relive his every move, study every word for significance. The prosecuting attorney's office would examine the tape for signs of entrapment and rule as to its admissibility in court. A process would begin. Maybeck was in their file as of now. Boldt handed Watson the slip of paper that contained Maybeck's name, address, and credit card number. "Fax this back to the office and have them run him through the computer. Do the same with the Bureau. I want to know this guy's birthmarks, if he has any."
"I'd like a copy of that," Daphne said, explaining to Boldt, "for the handwriting sample.
The instructions as well."
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 ano
ther 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."
Off 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 god awful 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 selfpity 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 do c-tor, 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.
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