She wanted to hit him for saying that. Where had he been this last week? "Don't worry about him," Boldt said as Shoswitz hurried out of earshot. "I'm not worried about him," she said. They reached the one-way glass that looked in on Interrogation Room A. "It's him I'm wondering about."
On the other side of the glass sat Donald Monroe Maybeck.
Boldt had never seen teeth like that. He and Daphne studied Maybeck through the one-way glass. Boldt said, "As far as he knows, all we have him on is the gaming charge, the pit bulls. But the other arrests were allowed to post bail immediately, so he's got to be wondering why he's still here." Teeth like a junkyard dog, a grotesque gray brown. Despite the no-smoking sign he smoked a nonfilter cigarette, holding the smoke in so long that when he finally exhaled it left as a thin gray ghost. "We can book him on a list of charges, but none of them except this pit bull fight is going to stick, and it's a misdemeanor. The laptop was out of his possession-we, a bunch of cops witnessed it being stolen. He or an attorney can use that to his advantage. Even with the password, he can claim someone put that database onto the laptop while it was out of his possession. Things like that are tricky to prove. Proctor won't go for it, I promise you. I'm betting he killed Connie Chi, but we have yet to connect him to it. ID has that condom has the sperm. We can make like we're going to run a DNA typing. We can humiliate him: Make him jack-off for the lab boys. But proof? A match? Maybe, maybe not. What I'd like to do is wear him down, crack him open, and get a full confession on his involvement with Tegg and his murdering Connie Chi. Slam-dunk him."
"And we both do the questioning?" she asked.
He nodded. A vague smile flickered across her lips. "What do you say I get to play tough?" She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.
Boldt thought: So she's breaking out the serious hardware.
"Sounds good to me."
She waited for him to open the door for her. He did so and said, "After you."
"Put out the cigarette," she ordered as she and Boldt came through the door. "You?" Maybeck let slip, recognizing Boldt from the pawn shop encounter.
This was the fun part for her. This was where it became interesting. It wasn't quite a game, but it was close. Maybeck looked up at her, drank in every curve of her body, and left his eyes boring a hole in her crotch, so she would feel it. So he knew how to play the game too. So what? He smiled; his teeth looked like a rusted garden rake. You hit guys like this. You hit them head on. "Nice teeth," she said. She turned to set her case down, turned to prevent him from trying to vent his anger by communicating with his eyes, turned, as she did, unbuttoned two more buttons so that by the time she swung back around, her blouse sagged open revealing enough cleavage to get lost in. She knew the Maybecks of this world; she worked with them. If men wanted to use her sex against her, then she would use it right back. When Lou's eyes fell for the trick as well, producing a momentary flash of embarrassment in him when their eyes met, she knew she had scored a direct hit. Maybeck wouldn't be able to resist the distraction.
it was a cheap stunt. Nothing more. Who cared? Maybeck was punk trash. She'd seen a photo of Connie Chi taken on her last day on earth. It was enough motivation. "One thing good about correctional institutions," she said, looking him directly in the eye, "they have free dental service." He didn't flinch stronger than she had expected. Test and probe. He kept his lips pinched tightly shut. Good-embarrassed. Ashamed, even. Nothing as strong as shame to turn the vise. His eyes strayed to her chest again, so she leaned forward to allow her blouse to hang open, giving him a nice long look. "Nice tits for a cop," he said, striking back. "You fuck your way to the top or what?"
It knocked her back a step. When her eyes met his again she introduced Boldt with, "You guys never officially met, I don't think. This is Sergeant Lou Boldt. Homicide," leaning on the word as well as the table. Then she saw in him what she had wanted to see, more than a flicker of panic. She buttoned herself back up. "You want to tell us about Bloodlines?" Boldt asked, clearly knocking the wind out of Maybeck, "Or do you want to do the dance?"
"You look a little old for dancing," Maybeck said. "Her … she's okay. Have you fucked her yet?"
Boldt raised his hand to strike the man, but caught himself.
That was what Maybeck wanted: a way to beat the legal system.
She said quickly, "Yeah, the dental work is free in the big house, but so are the condoms. It's kind of a tradeoff. Depends how keen you are on HIV. Some people say AIDS was invented just to keep the prison populations down."
"Come on, man. Hit me," he baited.
Boldt warned him, "We're the front line, pal. We're the ones who will listen. The next line of defense is the attorneys. Then come the judges and the jurors, the witnesses-"
"Maybe Connie Chi's sister would make a good witness," she threw in just to catch his reaction. "Real shame about Connie."
Boldt edged closer. "In-mate. Nice ring to it," Daphne said, worried Boldt might hit him anyway. Boldt was supposed to play "nice guy"; she would play tough-the exact opposite of what Maybeck might expect. Toy with his sensibilities. Turn him upside down and shake.
Boldt looked over at her and rolled his eyes. He was back in control now, she hoped. He was good at this, better than most because he didn't believe he was any good at it, and that made him work harder. Something Daphne appreciated. He listened. He learned. He knew to meet the suspect in the middle, to establish a rapport, to mimic body language, and avoid any outward display of judgment. '/you face a very important decision," Boldt cautioned him, "because the way you play this can mean a difference of years for you. Years, Maybeck. Got it? You may want to think about that."
"Maybe I want to call me an attorney."
"You were given your phone call. Don't hose me, friend. I'm telling you: We're the best chance you're going to get."
Maybeck said to her, "You sure don't look like no cop. if Daphne answered, "And you don't look very smart, Mr. Maybeck, but I hope I'm wrong about that. We can connect you to Bloodlines. We can connect you to Connie Chi. We can connect you to that database. Twenty-seven harvests. Three of them are dead-did you know that? Chew on that with those pretty teeth of yours." "I think I'm through talking," he said, suddenly restless. A good sign. His veneer was cracking. "You stop talking, and you're through all right," she said quickly.
Boldt repeated, "Once the attorneys get into this, it's out of our hands. You understand? When have attorneys ever made things simple?"
"If you play dumb," Daphne said, "you are dumb."
"Talk to us," Boldt encouraged. "Tell us about Tegg.
You give us Tegg, you may just walk away from this."
Maybeck glanced back and forth between the two of them. This was the best sign yet. Indecision filled his eyes, which to Daphne indicated a vulnerability and dictated different tactics. "Are you prepared to take the heat for Tegg's crimes?" she asked. To Boldt she said, "I don't know … maybe he should wait for his attorney, because if that's the way he plays this, he's certainly going to need one." Boldt said, "We're not running a tape recorder. Have you noticed that?"
Daphne cautioned Boldt, "He's not smart enough to understand any of this. I told you he was a dumb shit. I can spot 'em, Lou. You're gonna have to cough up that twenty."
"You're betting on me?" Maybeck asked incredulously. "Betting is for Vice," she advised him. "Sergeant Boldt is Homicide. Maybe you missed that the first time around. You think he's here to discuss a pit bull fight? Christ All Friday, get a clue!"
"Tell us about Bloodlines. You got the donors for Tegg. You offered them cash for their kidneys and they bit. You delivered them to Tegg. Is that about right? Because if it is, then you've got to think this through, Donnie. Can I call you Donnie? You don't mind? Because you can trade that down to bullshit. Even a first-year PD can get you out of that. See? But kidnapping? Interstate transportation of stolen goods-those are federal charges. That's FBI shit. That's three-piece suits and wingtip shoes. You know what you're getting yourself int
o? For what? Talk to me. Use your head, Donnie, and talk to me. Please." "Not this one," Daphne said. "He's too stupid. Look at those teeth, would you? That ought to tell you something. Shit for brains. The next thing he's going to hear is metal on metal. Boom! That door's going to shut for a long, long time." "Up yours," he said. "Oh, no. Not in the big house. Not up mine, though they'll tell you it's just as nice. It's up yours, Gatemouth. And it's not very pleasant."
That shut him up. Boldt was blushing. Maybeck had allowed his mouth to hang open and his teeth to show. "I bet you like it," he said.
She struck him. She open-handed him right across the cheek. He smiled. "Don't forget, asshole," she said angrily. "This is all off the record." His smile faded.
Boldt said, "In the eyes of the law, Tegg's crimes are your crimes. It is important that you understand that. Do you see any tape recorder, Donnie? It is off the record. We're giving you the benefit of the doubt. We're giving you a chance. All we want right now is a little cooperation."
"We want Tegg," she explained, "not you."
Maybeck said through his gray teeth, "I can smell you from here."
Daphne reached down and found some control. "Tegg's using you.
He uses everybody, doesn't he?" She tried a different tack.
"How much does he pay you? What's he told you a kidney is worth? You know what they pay for them in Argentina, Egypt, India? Between five and fifteen thousand." She saw the devastating effect this had on him. When all else fails, play to a person's greed. "How much of that did you see? What do you owe him? The remaining years of your natural life? Because that's what you're looking at."
Boldt advised, "How do you think the law reads when it comes to performing surgery without a license? Tegg knows exactly how it reads. We're not even sure we can hold him for that. Get it? Why do you think he has you and the others doing his dirty work? Who do you think is going down now that we've busted this thing? Him? No way! Why do you think we were interested in talking to you first, before the serious charges?"
"Let me tell you something," she said. "The smart ones talk. You may not think so, but that's the way it works. The dumb shits end up investing in a couple cases of condoms and praying like hell they can convince the gorillas inside to use one once in a while." She added, "You haven't done time in this state, Donald. We know that. We pulled your prints off the laptop. We know that four years ago you worked for Norwest Power and Light. We know you haven't filed a tax return-" But she caught herself and stopped. Maybeck had lost a full shade of color. Was it the mention of doing time or the mention of the power company that had that effect on him? "You got me mixed up with someone else," he said.
She fired right back: "What is it, Donnie? What is it you're hiding?"
"I got a right to an attorney, don't I? So give me one. I got nothing to say to you."
Boldt said, "Who's running the organs up to Vancouver for Tegg?
" A sharp knock on the door caught all three of them by surprise. The door opened. The man standing there was all Brooks Brothers-all business. All attorney. He stretched his arm to Boldt first and then to Daphne. She resented that. "Howard Chamberland," he introduced himself.
Daphne was thinking: The Howard Chamberland? Where did scum like Maybeck get money for those kinds of fees?
She couldn't believe it. A moment earlier Maybeck had been asking to be assigned an attorney. What was going on here?
Chamberland chided Boldt, "I had heard such good things about you. I hadn't expected something as cheap as this. A little gaming? Some dog fighting? You-a Homicide lieutenant-"
"Sergeant," Boldt corrected. "You've been speaking with him, I presume." He shook his head in disgust. "You can forget all that now, of course. You would be wise to forget the charges. Pit bulls? What are we talking here, a hundred dollars and animal confiscation? What are you, the ASPCA? Come on! Whatever your intentions, you had better speak to Bob Proctor. I certainly am going to as soon as I am done here. Are you bringing additional charges against my client?"
"Your client?" Boldt asked. "At your fee? Or are you doing charity work now?"
"My relationship with Donald is confidential." Daphne said, "it must be. He doesn't like that name. Has anyone even introduced you two?" To Maybeck she said, "You called Tegg, didn't you?" but she watched Chamberland for a reaction. He was expressionless-worth every penny. Daphne felt the frustration as a knot in her throat. So close! What were Sharon's chances now?
Boldt said, "A few minutes ago your client was requesting to see a public defender, Mr. Chamberland. Are you sure you have the right man?"
"Are you?" asked the attorney, holding the door open for them, waiting for them to leave.
As Boldt and Daphne headed down the narrow hallway leading from Interrogation, Lamoia rushed toward them waving a pink telephone memo, his face a youthful combination of fatigue and exhilaration. Before the detective reached them, Shoswitz appeared behind him at the main door and shouted loudly, "Everybody-and I mean everybody but uniforms-in the Situation Room now! No tears!" he emphasized, meaning he would take no excuses. "I don't like the sound of that," Boldt warned. "I don't like a sharpshooter with Chamberland's reputation representing Maybeck." She added, "He's a heavy hitter." "Agreed. We've lost Maybeck."
"I'm about to scream."
"Better not." Boldt happened to catch the lieutenant's eye, just a fleeting glimpse that caused him to make an aside to Daphne. "We're baked." He had worked with Shoswitz for over eleven of his seventeen years with the department and had learned to measure even the slightest nuance in his expression.
Such a sixth sense was a prerequisite to a successful career in Homicide; it told you when to shut up and when to push hard. This was one of the times to shut up. "I think you're right. The last time he called for all of us," she reminded, "was that neo-Nazi thing three years ago."
"Lamoia!" Shoswitz chastised, stopping the man. "The Situation Room is the other way! I said nowill Lamoia switched directions abruptly. He shoved the memo into his pocket. The two sergeants increased their strides, attempting to catch up with Lamoia. They entered the large, open room with its folding chairs and tables.
Daphne rushed to a spot along the wall closest to the room's only other door, hoping to sneak out if necessary. Shoswitz could be long-winded. Sharon couldn't afford long-winded.
The room was in a temporary state of chaos, as investigators of all ranks flooded the seats and established leaning zones. There were two other women in the room besides Daphne, both detectives: Bobbie Gaynes and Anita Desilva. The two women on loan from Sexual Assault for the pawn shop sting were back on their regular assignments. "Sit down and put a lid on it!" Shoswitz ordered.
Lamoia reached them and stood behind Daphne, leaning against the door. Facing Shoswitz along with the two men, she said, "What have you got, John?"
"The name of the courier," he whispered.
He pulled out the memo again, and Daphne snatched it from him without looking, stunning him. "The employee lists arrived on my E-Mail while you two were in Interrogation. I called over to Port of Seattle Police and they started running the names through the airliner computers. We got luck on two counts: One, she used an airline early in the alphabet, which was how we started our search-Alaska Air; two, she was greedy-she credited every single flight to her mileage program. It was my buddy's idea, the first place he tried, because the data is essentially already sorted for you, and barn: Twenty-some-odd flights stacked right in a row, all to Vancouver International, all on the dates of the previous harvests."
"What's the name?" Boldt asked anxiously, cocking his head just slightly over his shoulder. "Listen up, people, and listen up good. Come on. Quiet!" Shoswitz roared. "Meyers, put a sock in it! Boldt, you done having your meeting? I'd like to get on with mine."
Daphne, who was just about to read the name to Boldt, slipped the memo back into her pocket. She felt her face burn.
Shoswitz became intensely serious. "Listen up. Five minutes ago, a little after 4 P
.m., a male Caucasian entered the Stoneway Safeway and opened fire with a semiautomatic weapon as yet unidentified."
"The guy or the gun?" an anonymous, disguised voice shouted out. It won some limited laughter.
Shoswitz wasn't having any of it. His face remained rigid and impassive as he continued, "Eleven known dead." A hush swept the room. Maybe no one was breathing. "Including two children, an infant and seven women. One of those women was the daughter of state Senator Baker. SPD and County Police vehicles are presently in pursuit of the suspect-five-foot-eight inches, brown hair, camo clothing, jump boots-believed to be headed north on Aurora around the Eighty-fifth Street crossing. You're all assigned to this one, people." There was a major grumbling of protest throughout the room. "All other investigations, except-" he pulled out a cheat sheet, "the docklands bombing, the Toyland rape/assault, and the harvester kidnapping take backseat to this. On those cases just mentioned, only, I repeat-ONLY! — the lead detective remains active." More grumbling from his audience. "All support activities, including surveillance, are terminated until notified." That really stirred up the crowd. "Listen! Listen! This is from the top down okay? Don't kill the fucking messenger-excuse the French. I want you all to roll to the crime scene immediately, but watch your driving, especially you, Lamoia-no stunts. We want witness reports, a full ID workup; you know the drill. "We're going to be under a microscope on this one, people. National news affiliates are already working with Public Information. This has got to be first-class police work. Let's see that it is. Let's zip it up. I will be coordinating along with the Bureau's boys-those experts in homicide." This finally won him some sympathy. A ripple of laughter swept the room. The FBI, who taught homicide investigative techniques, annually conducted fewer homicide investigations on a national basis that a even a small experience, they occasionally caused bad blood by exerting that authority. "Matthews, we'll want you to interface with the FBI on a psych-" He paused. "Where the hell is Matthews? Matthews, pipe up. Raise your hand or something! Boldt!" he hollered, "wasn't she standing right behind you?"
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