LaMoia mentioned the string of kidnappings that had swept up the West Coast and that the Feds attributed the abductions to a man they had dubbed “the Pied Piper.”
Doris Shotz said she’d heard about the kidnappings, but her next words were absorbed in her sobs and lost to both police officers.
Together, Daphne and LaMoia then filled in the blanks: the FBI’s involvement in the investigation, the task force headed by SPD. Determining that the husband had purchased the dinner-train tickets, LaMoia directed to him, “Do you remember who you told about the dinner train?”
“No one,” he said, numbly.
“A co-worker, a secretary, a neighbor?”
“No one. It was a surprise. Doro thought we were going to Ivar’s.”
Doris Shotz nodded.
“You made the arrangements yourself?” LaMoia inquired.
“Yeah, yeah. Had the tickets mailed to the shop.”
LaMoia checked his pad. “Micro System Workshop.”
“Doro,” the husband chastised his wife, “are you listening? These other kidnappings? They have not gotten one of these kids back.” He asked LaMoia, “Isn’t that right?”
LaMoia avoided an answer, directing himself to the wife. “Can you explain some pieces of broken glass found in front of your daughter’s crib? A drinking glass, maybe—a mirror?”
“There was nothing like that when we left,” the wife replied. “I cleaned the room just this morning.”
“Vacuumed?” Daphne asked softly, doubting the woman could focus on anything but her missing child.
LaMoia sat forward on the edge of his chair, the detective in him smelling hard evidence: the Pied Piper’s shoes, his pants cuffs, his pockets. …
Doris Shotz mumbled nearly incoherently, “There’s never been any broken glass in Rhonda’s room. That carpet was laid a month before she was born—”
“That’s true,” the husband responded, reaching for his wife’s hand. “If there’s glass in that carpet, this bastard brought it with him.”
“My baby,” Doris Shotz pleaded.
“We’re going to bring her home,” Daphne declared. She met eyes with the mother: Doris Shotz did not believe.
CHAPTER
No one knew better than a homicide cop the ability of the human mind to forget.
Not only was LaMoia required to locate and interview any potential witness, but on occasion such a witness had the potential to blow a case wide open. A realtor—whose job requirements included sizing up potential clients—seemed a decent place to invest his energies. The door-to-door work, conducted by a combination of task force detectives, FBI and SPD alike, had produced little of value. If Sherry Daech had seen anything—suspicious or not—the night before, LaMoia needed to interview her immediately. Memories deteriorated quickly.
He feared that any attempt to bring her downtown would send the wrong message. He did not want attorneys involved. A quiet chat in her office seemed more the thing.
But when his first two attempts to make an appointment failed, he placed his third call as a prospective buyer, and this time he scored, convincing him that Sherry Daech wanted nothing to do with the police, good citizen or not.
“Something in the high threes, low fours, on Mercer Island. If you have anything that fits.” A secretary returned a call less than thirty minutes later. Daech would meet him out on Mercer in an hour if he had the time. LaMoia scribbled down an address.
The house was off an unbearably steep lane that serviced three others and led to a private dock on Lake Washington. LaMoia squeezed the red whale through a gauntlet of stone walls that would have sheared a fender off without thinking anything of it, and swung a hard left into the tight driveway. Daffodils, blooming in regimented rows like little suns, lit the front of the house and cut a hole through the interminable gray of Seattle.
Daech presented herself perched on a low garden wall, wearing a red Mexican skirt, a flouncy blouse marked by enormous breasts and the wide warm smile of a woman who knew her business. She wore a lot of silver and turquoise on her ears, neck and wrists. She had blonde hair, and if it was dyed it was a pro job—no dark roots; it looked like the hair of a surfer girl in her twenties. She had smooth, unwrinkled skin, and if the product of a tuck or two, it was again the work of one hell of a razor man, as LaMoia referred to surgeons. She straightened up as the detective swaggered toward her. He knew he had a good walk; women had been telling him that since junior high.
“That your ride parked up there?” he asked. “The Hummer?”
“Business has been good,” she said, not breaking the practiced smile.
“Hell of a set of wheels,” he said, lowering his eyes to her chest and then back to the emerald green that sat beneath the warm arcs of darkly penciled—or were they dyed?—eyebrows. He smiled back for the first time. “John,” he said, offering his hand and squeezing hers so that she understood his strength. He liked to get things straight right off the top. “Gulf War, right? The Hummer?”
“Yes.”
“Hell of a set of wheels,” he repeated, knowing the car cost over two years of pay for him.
“It makes a statement,” she said honestly. He liked that. Standing, smoothing her blouse and skirt until she approved of the contours, she added, “Some people respond to that. You don’t, do you?”
“Not in terms of a person’s ride,” he replied. “Other things I respond to. Sure.”
“Nice boots,” she stabbed, quickly and efficiently. Calling his number. “Some kind of endangered snake or something?” Leading the way toward the front door, she let him have two very active cheeks. She was no stranger to the Stairmaster. The woman was a prepared, well-conceived package. He warned himself to watch out; he’d have his checkbook out in a minute if he wasn’t careful.
She keyed the front door. “Owners are overseas. Microsoft. Paris. They have it priced at five-fifteen. They bought high, a couple years back. Comps would put it closer to four and a half. I don’t represent them—only you—so I can tell you all this.”
He realized his mistake then and he chastised himself. Sometimes he was too flip, too impressed by his own genius to step back and look at what he was doing. Boldt was forever on his case: “Lose just a little of the attitude, John, and maybe there’s no one better at what you do.”
He had picked the wrong house. He should have manipulated her into the house across the street from the Shotzes. The visual environment was a great stimulus to memory. He tuned her out briefly while debating how to pull the switch on her. He could claim poverty. The one across from Shotz had to be in the twos, if that.
“If someone puts a chain saw to those four pines down there, then the lake view might justify the low fives,” she said, pointing down the hill. She wore fire-engine red nail polish. It worked with the Mexican skirt. “It’s a killer view, I’m sure, but those trees are our bargaining chip.” She moved well. Knew her body. She did a slight spin and faced him, her skirt still following. “You single … or married?” she added as an afterthought.
“They’re ostrich.”
“They’re expensive, don’t you mean?” She played her game right to the edge. “The Hummer is eighty-K before the extras. That’s what you want to know. Am I right?”
The expression—“Am I right?”—was one his lieutenant, Shoswitz, used all the time. It sounded funny coming from a pair of moist red lips. “Single,” he said.
She bit the corner of her lip, lowered her head demurely and looked out the tops of her eyes at him—her little girl look. Convincing, too. “We’re going to do some business here, John.” Allowing a full grin, she asked, “Do you get that feeling?”
“I got all sorts of feelings going at the moment,” he answered.
She barked a small laugh of surprise. Maybe he had scored one on her. She whisked past him, close enough for her skirt to drag on his jeans and make a whispering sound. “Let me show you the rest.”
“I’d like that,” he added so quickly it sounded as
if he’d expected the line.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, you will. It’s dreamy. Everything you’re looking for, and more.”
“Is it built to take it?” he asked, following her up. “A single guy can kind of put a place to the test.”
“Oh, I think it can handle a guy like you, John. I think we’ve got a good match, here.”
It was a little too much fun for him to want to spoil things. He enjoyed this kind of sparring. Didn’t find much of it anymore. Maybe he’d been pursuing women too young, he thought.
“How about you?” he asked, reaching the top landing. “All those rings, a guy can’t tell if you’re married or not.”
She held up her left hand and examined the assortment of jewelry. “Is that right?” she said. “Well, you’d never make much of a detective, would you? Do you see a wedding band anywhere here?” She held out the hand for him, pulled it into a fist and motioned with her index finger for him to follow. She walked him to the end of the hall and the splendid elevated view of the lake. “Rings come off, you know.” She threw open the door. It was to the master bedroom. “Now this,” she said, returning to her saleswoman voice. “This is a room you can really sink your teeth into.”
“Do tell,” LaMoia said, wondering if he dare follow her inside.
The bathroom was marble and large enough to park the Camaro. She was wearing a good scent, warm and suggestive. In the close confines it grew stronger. “What do I call you?” LaMoia asked. “Sherry? I keep thinking of the wine.”
“You can call me anything you like, sweetheart. I answer to Sherry, but I can get used to change real quickly. In my line of work, you learn to adapt.”
“Even four and a half is steep for me. And to be honest, it’s more house than I need. I’m kind of a bedroom and kitchen guy. My needs are small.”
“Don’t underrate yourself.”
“And I hadn’t considered the bridge traffic, which was stupid. I’m thinking maybe I should be looking north of town. Above Forty-fifth. Didn’t I see a sign of yours on Fifty-second, Fifty-first?”
“Fifty-first.” She sounded disappointed. He had just cut her commission in half.
“What’s that one going for?”
“Asking two-thirty. I think they’ll probably get it.”
“Could we see it? Take a look?”
“This is a steal at four-fifty. It’s worth the offer.” The spark went out of her eye, as if he had pointed out the mole on her neck below her ear, which did bother him. When he failed to reply to her suggestion, she said, “Sure thing. Today?”
“If you have the time.”
“Well you’re the client, sweetheart,” she said, her engines running again. “What works for you works for me.”
LaMoia felt awkward turning his back on the Shotz residence as he walked up the short front path to the house. A white van belonging to KOMO News was parked out front topped with all kinds of antennae. The Shotzes had yet to grant interviews. Thank God for small favors, he thought.
Sherry Daech’s backside kept his attention as she climbed the short steps to the front door. “You know that kidnapping yesterday?” she asked as she worked with the realtor’s combination box to get the key. “Happened right there.”
She turned around to point, but saw LaMoia’s badge first and it registered with shock.
LaMoia flipped the badge wallet closed and slipped it into his pants pocket. “It’s Detective Sergeant. Crimes Against Persons division. Homicide. You had an open house last night.”
She stammered, “The house on Mercer?”
“I tried to make an appointment through your receptionist.”
“You little shit.” She looked him over. “You come on to me hoping for an interrogation? I ought to file a complaint!”
“I came on to you because you came on to me.”
“Is that so?”
“Because you’re an attractive woman,” he said, hoping to annul some of the damage. “You know how to talk the talk. I like that.”
“Is that so?” she replied, in a more approving tone, a finger nervously hooking some of the blonde hair and stashing it behind her left ear.
“The open house was during the time we believe the baby was kidnapped.”
“Was it the Pied Piper?”
“Chances are you may have seen something. A car? A man?”
“So you tricked me? Is that how you do it?”
“Every hour that baby is missing means we’re less likely to return her to her parents. There are over thirty of us on this case. Not one of us has slept in the past seventeen hours.”
“I didn’t see anything.” She glanced at the key in her hand. “You don’t want to see this house,” she realized. “You little shit! God, I can’t believe this. This is my tax dollars at work? Are you the best we’ve got, Detective?”
“Sergeant,” he corrected, thinking that Boldt was the best they had, feeling inferior suddenly. “I’d like to go inside, please.”
“Shit,” she said, keying the door for him. “Why didn’t you just ask—” But she caught herself, realizing he had. “Cops. You guys are a different species.”
LaMoia followed her inside, saying, “I want you to stand right here for a minute.” He took her shoulders gently and turned her toward the Shotz residence. “How many times you must have opened this door last night.” He left his hands on her shoulders, which were warm to the touch. It was dangerous ground, she could file a complaint about his misleading her, and the physical contact, if mentioned, would be difficult to justify to a review board. LaMoia had a history with the review board, and it wasn’t all rosy. “How many people came by to look at the house?”
She stood at an angle facing the Shotz residence, down the street. He could sense her searching her memory.
He asked, “Can you remember standing here?” She gave him a faint nod. “Can you glance over the shoulder of those people and see the street beyond?”
“I’ve never done anything like this.”
“That’s okay,” he coached. “Are my hands bothering you?”
“No, not at all.”
“You can close your eyes. It helps sometimes.”
He leaned around her to steal a peek; her eyes were pinched tightly shut.
“The house was all lit up over there. I remember that.”
Remember more, he silently encouraged. The baby sitter had confirmed the lights. She had turned on as many as she could find. She hadn’t remembered much else: a man wearing goggles at the back door—an exterminator.
Daech pointed, “An old-model Wagoneer, a white minivan, a black STS, my Hummer, an ancient pickup, kinda blue-gray. Driveway. Blue Toyota Camry. The STS and the Camry were mine—the open house.”
“You know your rides,” he said, somewhat disbelieving. They could check her recollections against vehicles owned by the residents of the other houses.
“Honestly? Listen, this may sound crude, sweetheart, but you are what you drive. When I see someone pull up to an open house, first thing I do is look at the car. You can judge one hell of a lot by that.” She added, “A couple getting out of a foreign car? That’s got good strong legs for me. I pay attention. The STS fits that: Cadillac, you know. A guy, alone, climbing out of something American and a couple years old: probably just killing time. Free glass of wine and someone to talk to. I get a lot of that. Maybe he’s got enough for the down, but I’m not betting on it. If it’s during a weekday, and it’s a woman, maybe a young kid or two in tow, a Volvo, an Audi, out-of-state plates, I’m thinking the wife is out shopping for a home while the hubby’s at the office.”
“You check the tags?”
“I’m telling you, out-of-state plates means they’re in a hurry—they’re looking to buy. Usually a little less concerned about price, more concerned about contents. Kitchen, if it’s a woman. Men are interested in the living room and the master bedroom. Women think about closets and tubs.”
The pickup truck or the minivan m
ade sense to him for a person posing as an exterminator. “A minivan or a panel van?” LaMoia asked, trying to keep excitement out of his voice. The woman clearly studied her clients and applied her own skewed science to what she observed. She was a good witness—someone a jury would find believable. He couldn’t help but jump ahead. Hope was a detective’s only fuel.
“White minivan. A mommy-mobile. You know. Pretty new. Might have been something printed on the driver’s door.”
“What? A name? A business?” LaMoia encouraged.
“Listen, I’m not sure about any of this.”
“Parked where?” He didn’t want to lose her.
“Just down the street there.” She pointed again, though this time hesitantly. “Maybe two cars ahead of where you’re parked. I was just about where you are.”
“But not in front of the house, the Shotz house,” he clarified.
She grimaced. “Pretty damn close. Parking wasn’t easy last night. A lot easier this time of day.”
LaMoia took notes. “The driver?”
“Was the driver the kidnapper?” she blurted out quickly. “I don’t know about any of this.”
He removed his hands from her shoulders. “Take your time.”
She turned around and faced him. “Maybe it wasn’t last night. Hell, I see a lot of cars, you know?”
“The driver. You were watching to see who got out,” he reminded.
“A worker bee. I wasn’t interested.”
“Worker bee?”
“Overalls. Coveralls. You know? A worker bee. He wasn’t there for me. I tuned him out.”
LaMoia asked her. “Can you describe him?”
“I tuned him out,” she repeated, seeming confused whether to answer or not. “I don’t know,” she said, searching his face for the right answer. “Maybe that wasn’t last night.” A quick retreat. LaMoia had seen it dozens of times, almost always in the suburbs. People tended to be excited at first by the idea of having witnessed a crime; they felt important, listened to, wanted. Then it slowly dawned on them that, like jury duty, police involvement meant a commitment of time and energy.
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