The Pied Piper

by Ridley Pearson

  Silence fell. Weinstein whined, “You put it like that … I guess that’s right.” He hung his head. “It wasn’t exactly how I was thinking about it. No,” he corrected. “Anderson said it was probably a thief. That made sense: Burglars stake out houses all the time. So we put some stuff in the safe deposit.” His eyes clouded and Daphne knew he was thinking about his missing son. He cleared his eyes and said, “Hell, you know anyone in Seattle hasn’t had their car stolen, or their house broken into? Anderson said catching these guys isn’t so easy. They make you. They take off, stake out someplace else. I offered two hundred on the back side. That sealed the deal.”

  Too much television, Daphne thought. Every John Doe a cop.

  Weinstein didn’t strike Daphne as a target for a second-story man. Car theft maybe. She wondered if Anderson had simply strung the man along for the down payment.

  “You called Anderson to check in. To see how he was doing,” LaMoia stated.

  Flemming glared at LaMoia, unhappy with the leading statements. Unorthodox.

  “Protect my investment. Of course I did,” Weinstein answered.

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “First time said he didn’t have anything. So call back. Next time, a day or two later—”

  “Two,” LaMoia refreshed him.

  “Said maybe some progress. He renegotiated. Said he could get pictures, but that expenses had gone up. Cleared it with me, I guess you could say. Expenses plus another fifty.”

  “And so you continued your arrangement,” Daphne stated.

  “Sure I did. He all but confirmed someone was watching the house. Actually all he said was that he was working on it. I didn’t like him stretching me out for more money. That bothered me. Plus, a couple times he tried to sell me a home security system, an alarm system.” He hesitated and asked, “Do you guys use them? At home, I mean?”

  “Did you?” Flemming asked. “Buy one?”

  “No. I’m not sure why. I just didn’t feel like it, I guess. I will now. Hayes kidnapped. Anderson murdered.”

  “Anderson’s death has been ruled an accident,” Flemming corrected.

  LaMoia and Daphne exchanged glances but neither challenged Flemming.

  The attorney barked, “An accident or a homicide?”

  Weinstein interrupted, “Listen, if you people had responded to my calls I wouldn’t have hired him in the first place. Don’t dump this on me. Is that what this is about?” He sounded a little hysterical. His attorney placed his hand on the man’s arm to settle him, but Weinstein shook it off. “You guys got the pictures, didn’t you.” It was a statement. “You just don’t know who’s in them and you want me to tell you. But I didn’t see them either.”

  There had been no mention of a camera in Anderson’s property inventory.

  “He had pictures for you?” Flemming asked.

  LaMoia reminded, “You said he renegotiated to include photographs.”

  “That’s right. I agreed to the fifty.”

  Flemming said heatedly, “Did he notify you about having these pictures?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Weinstein answered. “Never. Listen! Screw the photos! What about my boy?”

  Flemming ignored him, arguing to the group, “He would have wanted payment for any such photographs. I think it’s fairly safe to say he did not have any such photographs.”

  Daphne said, “Everything we’re doing is in an attempt to get Hayes back as quickly as possible.”

  LaMoia made notes. “What do you think about the photos?” he asked Weinstein.

  “I think he had shot some and was going back for more.”

  “And why is that?” Daphne inquired.

  The attorney leaned over and whispered into his client’s ear. Weinstein shook his head. “No,” he answered audibly, and then to the others, “I never saw any photographs. I was never expressly told they existed.”

  Daphne pressed, “But you believed they did exist. Why?”

  Weinstein turned slightly to face her. He wore a boyish, surprised expression. “He said he had something going for him. I don’t remember the exact words.” Weinstein anticipated her next question and said, “This came after the call about the extra fifty bucks. See?” Then a spark filled his eyes and he said matter-of-factly, “You know what it was? He said that he’d get his money when he delivered Mr. Stranger Danger. That’s what it was.”

  Daphne felt a spike of heat from head to toe. To police, “Mr. Stranger Danger” referred to child abductors. The association with the Pied Piper seemed unmistakable. Pencils went to paper. Anderson had identified a suspect he believed a kidnapper of children.

  If Weinstein had it right, it was the Pied Piper.

  When Weinstein and his attorney had left, LaMoia offered for Flemming’s agents to join in a second search of Anderson’s duplex. In a surprise move, Flemming politely refused, implying he was happy to have SPD run his errands for him so long as any evidence discovered was shared. Flemming and Kalidja left together, leaving LaMoia and Daphne alone.

  “So?” LaMoia inquired.

  She said confidently, “Weinstein was nervous at first. Intimidated. But he loosened up. He’s bankable. His respiration stayed regular. No noticeable perspiration, squinting, twitching. Not even much chair adjustment. He remained alert, focused—and we were throwing a lot at him.”

  “Had Caldwell prepped him?”

  “It’s a possibility. That would account for some of it.”

  “So we buy his statement?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “What?” LaMoia asked, aware that something was bothering her.

  She pursed her lips. “It’s not Weinstein, it’s Flemming. He remained pretty quiet until mention of the photography. At that point he became much more animated.”

  She asked, “Why did he pass on your offer to search Anderson’s place for the camera?”

  “That stunned me, I gotta admit.”

  “And what about his attempt to convince us that the photos didn’t exist?”

  LaMoia hung his head in thought. He said, “It makes sense if they’ve already worked the Anderson crime scene.” He mumbled, “Fucking-A!”

  Pouring ice into his veins, Daphne asked, “What if they already have Anderson’s photos?”

  CHAPTER

  The Box, a small, rectangular interrogation room with gray walls, white vinyl floor tile and an acoustical ceiling, was hot. It held a single war-torn table, the metal legs of which were bolted to the floor, and, on that day, five gunmetal gray straight-backed chairs with padded seat cushions that whooshed when sat upon.

  A woman officer by the name of Marsh accompanied Boldt and Daphne. Somehow McNee had identified the vacant house used for the drug lab; the Pied Piper had identified this same house, and that methodology was now critical to the investigation.

  As a Narcotics detective, Marsh had the collar, but she granted Boldt this chance to work the suspect since the meth lab raid had been his idea. A previous interrogation already complete, Marsh was content merely to be present. She looked and dressed like an art student returned from Europe. She sat at the head of the table and remained silent. Boldt’s plan was a simple one: Hit the man with everything they had.

  On paper, Jeffry McNee was not someone Daphne had expected to find cooking at a meth lab: white, mid-twenties, with a degree in chemistry. Daphne had coached Boldt that McNee would likely test them to measure his opponents. He would sort them out, identify the weak player and work only with this person. She advised Boldt that if he wanted to lead, he should play dumb.

  McNee being assigned a public defender surprised Boldt. It implied he hadn’t the money or contacts to hire a lawyer specializing in drug defense. That fact suggested a rogue, freelance operation and offered Boldt some leverage. He might fear returning to the street more than going to jail. Drug turf was violently defended.

  McNee had a boyish face with alert green eyes. With his black hair and ruddy complexion he belonged either in a Scott
ish kilt or selling junk bonds on Wall Street. The orange jumpsuit marked KING CO JAIL on the back did him an injustice. His attorney was a hundred and seventy pounds of Hawaiian mama, with enough mascara and lizard green eye shadow to qualify for stage work. She chewed gum vigorously and wore smudged eyeglasses. Her tent dress hung from her enormous breasts like a waterfall of lime green in a loud print. Her voice was a deep baritone, her teeth fake.

  “My client wants to know what’s in this for him,” she said, from a chair all but swallowed by its gelatinous occupant.

  “We’re part of a homicide investigation,” Daphne said, playing the role of the intelligent one. To the suspect she said, “A man who may have had your drug lab under surveillance was found murdered. Anyone in your position would take a dim view of such surveillance—”

  “Give me a break!” the Muumuu sputtered like a big truck attempting to start.

  “A conviction for which will earn you life,” Daphne addressed McNee. “Not ten years. Not sixteen. Not with the current administration. Life without parole.” McNee didn’t seem the least bit ruffled. As she had expected. The stage was set for Boldt to do some damage.

  “You sure about that?” Boldt asked Daphne, wearing a gumshoe expression of fatigue. “Can’t we plea him down if we want to?”

  “Trust me on this,” Daphne said while simultaneously measuring the Muumuu for her take on Boldt. He had a reputation. If she knew of him, their ruse was unlikely to work. But she was unfamiliar to them both, most likely a newcomer to the public defender’s rotation.

  “You’ll pardon me for interrupting,” the suspect said calmly, “but do I detect a presumption of guilt or innocence?”

  “Assumption of innocence,” Daphne told him, “is a luxury afforded by those across the street.” Her superior air helped McNee to quickly identify her as the enemy. Boldt was not yet so clearly defined.

  The man addressed Boldt, “My pals and I were doing a little chemistry experiment. What’s the big deal?”

  “A man is dead,” Daphne replied. “You have plenty of motive to want him that way. We can connect him to investigating a person or persons at the address of your lab. We will have documentation of that shortly. You would be well advised to play ball. Your attorney’s shaking her head, telling you not to talk, but we can offer you a plea position on the dope charge.”

  “This is entirely inappropriate,” Muumuu said. To her client she explained, “They can’t offer this.”

  Daphne said, “No one can make any promises. But one thing is for sure, you go up for this, in the state of Washington, and you’re gone for good. The key is tossed out. Ask her,” she said, indicating the dress and the chewing gum.

  “What do you want?” McNee asked Boldt. “What is it you want?”

  “Don’t do this,” the attorney advised halfheartedly.

  “What we want are a couple very simple answers,” Boldt explained calmly. “What we have to offer is protection.”

  “Oh! This is bullshit!” the Muumuu complained. “Do not listen to them. They have no authority to plea you, and they cannot, will not, offer any reliable protection. Forget it,” she told Boldt.

  Ignoring her, Boldt informed McNee, “You take the dive and you end up in our big house. Everyone who’s anyone in drugs has their people there. It isn’t me that’s been pinching Tommy Chen’s turf. What do you suppose your life expectancy is?”

  Daphne supplied the important piece of the puzzle. “A federal conviction would move you out of state.”

  “Safer,” Boldt said. They had won McNee’s interest.

  “Don’t threaten, people,” Muumuu warned them. “And don’t make promises you can’t keep.” But now even she seemed interested.

  The suspect, who had acquired a sheen on his brow, looked silently between the two police officers.

  Daphne said, “We’ll put in a recommendation that the Feds take your case.”

  “How much do you know about Tommy Chen?” Boldt asked.

  McNee did not answer.

  “What about your parents?” Daphne inquired, thinking McNee too clean cut and too young. A degree in chemistry and nowhere to hide.

  McNee went scarlet.

  “Have you called them?” she drilled.

  The suspect glared.

  “The wire services have picked up the story,” she explained. “Do your parents watch CNN?”

  “My parents are not part of this.”

  “They could be, if you want them here,” Boldt said naively.

  Daphne asked, “Do I start the tape now? Or do we move this same offer down the hall?”

  “Go,” the suspect said.

  “Under protest of counsel,” the Muumuu growled.

  Boldt started the cassette recording. He recited the particulars: date, time, location and the names of those in attendance.

  Daphne went first. McNee had been recruited out of graduate school by Asians offering three times the starting salaries of other biochemical firms. Two months into his work McNee had faced the reality he was supplying elements to cook street drugs. Six months later, he asked for more money, and was threatened. McNee ran to Seattle, set up a roaming meth lab and sold wholesale to a street gang he refused to name.

  Boldt asked, “Run it by me again how you picked your safe houses? Did you know the owner or what? Someone next door? Down the street? I forget.”

  “I didn’t say,” the suspect answered.

  The Muumuu fiddled with her watchband. It carried big lumps of turquoise fashioned as small turtles. “I don’t see the relevancy,” she complained, impatient now.

  “Humor me,” Boldt said to her. “I’m curious.”

  Muumuu glanced at her client and nodded.

  Boldt appeared casually disinterested. In fact, the task force needed to know if the exterminator had a system for identifying his surveillance points.

  McNee’s face revealed a man wanting to guard a secret.

  Boldt pretended to read some notes. “Okay. So tell me this: Did you use a point man? Was that exterminator yours?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Daphne answered, “How you IDed the vacant house.”

  Boldt said, “A man was seen with a tank and a hose. An exterminator.”

  McNee looked confused. Daphne wondered if he was a good actor or ignorant.

  The attorney said, “This exterminator wouldn’t happen to be your vic, would he?” To her client she said, “Don’t answer this.” Her face flushed with anger and suspicion.

  “Junk mail piling up by the door,” Daphne guessed.

  “No,” McNee said.

  “Don’t answer this,” the Muumuu repeated, sitting as tall as possible, a difficult task.

  Boldt said, “You know about the exterminator,” recalling his conversation with the snitch Raymond.

  McNee looked nervously between Boldt and his attorney as Boldt said, “Tommy Chen’s people would have killed some stranger creeping around his lab. Instead, we get a tip you guys have put the word out to ID the guy.”

  “We knew about him. It’s true,” McNee confirmed.

  “The gang provided you protection. The shooters,” Boldt guessed.

  Daphne said, “You weren’t going to kill a cop or—”

  “We didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You shot at us,” Boldt said. “You wounded officers.”

  “They did.”

  “Their side was protection,” Boldt repeated.

  McNee nodded.

  “That’s enough!” the Muumuu protested.

  “I don’t see a street gang identifying vacant houses,” Daphne said.

  “A guy I know is a realtor,” McNee allowed. “Is that what you wanted? Does that buy me the federal courts?”

  Boldt glanced hotly at Daphne. He said to McNee, “A realtor.”

  “He’s always looking to skim off the cream. He has a notebook filled with vacant, unlisted houses.”

  Daphne said, “We need a name.”

  “
No way.”

  Muumuu said, “You’ve got too much already!”

  “We need that name,” Boldt confirmed.

  “They must all do it,” McNee said. “You show me the federal court and I’ll give you a name.”

  Boldt signaled Daphne; he was in a hurry.

  “All we can do is make the request,” Daphne reminded.

  “Make it,” Muumuu said.

  Boldt stood to leave.

  McNee said, “What’s going on?”

  Chewing her gum like a dog eating its dinner, the Muumuu said, “Looks like you just became an expert witness.”

  CHAPTER

  LaMoia looked forward to another meeting with Sherry Daech but could not escape the pressure of passing time. Rhonda Shotz and Hayes Weinstein were out there somewhere, counting on him. Hayes had been missing for four days; Rhonda, going on two weeks. The chances of finding them alive seemed slim. He had eaten only sporadically in the past few days. What time he found for sleep was bridled with insomnia.

  Boldt had told him about McNee’s realtor friend who kept current on abandoned houses.

  “The guy probably watches the obits,” Boldt had said.

  “And who knows what else?”

  “Find out.”

  LaMoia intended to do just that.

  Sherry Daech did not answer any of her numbers, but LaMoia found her Hummer parked outside the agency offices, a small white clapboard house in Wallingford. The building was locked though some lights were on. He rang the doorbell and was greeted through the glass by a man in his youthful fifties, graying hair and blue eyes. LaMoia showed his shield through the glass and was admitted.

  The building’s interior felt more corporate than quaint. He entered her upstairs office with his usual swagger. However practiced and forced in junior high school, it had long since become part of his muscles and ligaments, and therefore a part of him. It telegraphed an overconfidence and conceit that his co-workers accepted and that strangers found outlandish. LaMoia was a modern-day carpetbagger; he took what he wanted. What he wanted from Sherry Daech was information. He needed a list from her; he would not leave until he had it.