“Whee!” she squealed, possibly appreciating that he had mixed her drink as a triple and his own as a single.
“Take a few minutes to think about us,” he said, cuffing her left wrist to the headboard. She made an exaggerated expression of concern and said, “Oh, you’re scaring me!”
The liquor glass rolled to a stop.
LaMoia hurried to the closet and returned with two terry cloth bathrobe belts. A moment later the underwear was on the floor and her ankles bound to the bed.
“Something new!” she said excitedly. “Have we done handcuffs?”
“You’ve been rude to me, Sheila. Demeaning.”
“Rank has its privileges,” she fired back at him, waiting for him to undress. “Once you’re captain, I’ll make the drinks. But you’ll still come when I call. And you know why? The twenty-year-olds gratify the ego all right, but not the loin.”
LaMoia tugged the comforter off the bed, then the blanket out from under her and the flat sheet. Hill, naked and writhing, legs bound, one hand in the cuffs, didn’t know what to make of this. She forced a smile, beginning to question his actions. He reached beneath her, and she cooperated, arching her back. He freed the corner of the fitted sheet and also stripped this from the bed, pulling a mattress pad with it. Nothing left with which to cover herself.
“What the hell?” she said.
He showed her the handcuff key as he carefully set it down in plain sight next to the television.
She looked around searchingly, suddenly understanding the game. “No way,” she said, believing it a joke.
“Phone’s in reach,” he said, pointing.
“You will not do this,” she shouted. “I am stark naked!”
He nodded. “And you know something? You’ll call me again—”
“You’re dead you do this!” She squirmed but wasn’t getting loose. Her free arm could not reach her ankle.
He moved toward the door. “And you know why? Because you’ve never had it like this. Those fifty-year-olds just don’t do it for you.” LaMoia pulled the door shut, her insults filling the hall. He wondered how long until she made the phone call to room service.
CHAPTER
With the volleyball tossed and hanging in the air, awaiting her open palm, Carlie Kittridge suddenly worried over having left Trudy with a sitter. She knew this stemmed from the pregame discussion about the kidnapper called the Pied Piper that had focused on news stories warning parents not to leave their children in the care of others until the kidnapper was captured.
Carlie caught the ball rather than serve it. Her husband shouted back at her, “Let’s go! Serve ’em up a beauty.”
Instead, Carlie bounced the ball toward Jenny, their weakest player but the only woman on the bench. Conference rules required gender-balanced teams.
Her husband chastised, “What the hell?”
She felt no need to have to explain herself. A mother’s prerogative. She searched for the car keys in the pocket of David’s warm-ups. Possession of those keys lent her a great sense of freedom and relief. “Have Danny drop you off,” she told him.
Her husband’s expression conveyed a sense of treason. “Danny?” he croaked incredulously.
Jenny stepped up to the service line, having little sense of her own inability to play the game. A member of the opposing team complained loudly about the substitution taking too long and demanded a serve.
“At least serve out the game,” David pleaded.
Jenny called out the score and served a lofting floater to the opponent’s backcourt. The resulting bump was a perfect set for the front line. The spike came right at David, who failed to block it. Side out.
Carlie hurried out of the gym.
A stunned and defeated David Kittridge shouted after his wife, far too late to be heard, “Don’t forget it’s damn near out of gas.”
Carlie Kittridge had forgotten. She ran out of gas eleven blocks from home, at the corner of 42nd and Stoneway. Blinded by her fear for her baby, she failed to pull the truck entirely off the roadway, leaving it dead, angled toward the curb and blocking traffic, the lights still on.
She came out of the truck’s cab at a full sprint, already warmed up from her volleyball, came out running like a thoroughbred from the gate. Seattle traffic being what it was, she left most of it behind as if it were standing still, blowing through intersections without looking, without slowing her pace in the slightest, her hysteria feeding off her charged system. The harder she ran, the more convinced she was of the trouble that lay ahead.
Ironically, it was the disabled pickup truck abandoned midlane that brought the police into it, not the abduction of Trudy Kittridge. Fearing a car-jacking, an abduction or simply a vehicle stolen for a joyride, the reporting motor patrol officer requested a black-and-white do a drive-by inquiry at the Kittridge residence—the name and address lifted from his wireless computer terminal that accessed DMV’s mainframe.
As Carlie Kittridge rounded the corner of 35th and Stoneway she was in abject horror and running faster than she had ever run in her life.
She approached the kitchen door already calling out for Gena, a neighbor’s fourteen-year-old daughter in whom Carlie had placed an enormous amount of deserved trust. Gena was fourteen going on thirty. She loved Trudy like a member of the family, and her own mother—a fantastic friend—lived just four houses down the block.
“Gena, it’s me,” she called out loudly, swinging open the kitchen door. Gena lay there on the floor, her clothes torn, her fourteen-year-old body exposed.
Carlie Kittridge’s scream was heard for several blocks.
CHAPTER
LaMoia awakened from a comatose sleep, summoned by the irritating beeping of his pager. His first response was anger, his second was a feeling of fear and dread. 8:00 P.M. He had fallen asleep at his kitchen table. He could conceive of very few reasons for the summons, not one of which he wanted to face.
He read the phone number from the device and heaved a sigh of relief. Sheila Hill’s home telephone, an unpublished number. She had decided to talk. He complimented himself for understanding her. She was not an easy keeper.
“It’s me,” he announced over the phone.
“Their name is Kittridge.” Her blank tone of voice and the announcement drained all color from his face. She read off an address. “Handle it.”
She hung up, leaving him with a hollow, panicked feeling.
Another kidnapping.
Within an hour, photocopies of Trudy Kittridge’s face were faxed to airports, train stations, ferry companies, the image being shown to cab drivers, limo drivers, bus drivers. Within the next hour every local television station would cut away to the same photo. Hundreds of thousands of people would see that face, and yet if the Pied Piper lived up to his reputation, no one would see the child.
Daphne awaited him as he pulled up, her face grim, her fists clenched tightly. Her job, to define the Pied Piper in terms of behavior, was taking its toll. She looked exhausted.
LaMoia said, “You take the parents, I’ll take the scene. We gotta work fast. This place’ll be jumping in a couple minutes. We need the head start. We pow-wow in the kitchen in ten minutes. You believe in miracles?”
“No,” she answered.
“Me neither.”
LaMoia had never smoked. He drank beer, but only socially. He had been blind drunk twice in his life, and had hated the lack of control. But at that moment he envied the habitual, whatever the vice, because it gave the person a preoccupation, an object of distraction. He had only the first officer’s description of the fourteen-year-old unconscious on the kitchen floor to occupy his thoughts. He would have given anything to erase it from his mind. He could visualize her lying there where now there was some litter from the EMT’s medical work and AFIDs from the air TASER. Sight of the AFIDs reminded him of the stonewalling of evidence. Sarah and the others deserved better than this.
Daphne joined him in the kitchen as planned.
She told him, “The mother is
real clear on the Spitting Image outfit. It was a tiny little sweatshirt. A gift. Knew the name and everything.”
“Did you tell her not to share said same with our distinguished colleagues?”
“That’s suppressing evidence, John.”
“Well shame on us.”
A pair of Lincoln Town Cars pulled up in front.
LaMoia said to her, “Stall them. Give me as much time as you can.” He took two steps, turned and asked, “Where are they?”
“Upstairs. To the left.”
LaMoia threw open the bedroom door, stepped inside, and closed it quickly behind himself. “Mr. and Mrs. Kittridge?” The couple was trashed, the man worse than the wife, who looked as if she had run a marathon. He knew about the volleyball game, though he wasn’t sure how the Pied Piper had made the connection.
He displayed his badge and introduced himself. He edged over to the window and peered out. Flemming, Hale and Kalidja. The full team. They walked as a group with strict determination. Flemming held an intensity that LaMoia did not want to experience firsthand—the guy’s career was in flames, and SPD was pouring on the gasoline.
“You’ve just spoken with Ms. Matthews about a certain garment that your child … that Trudy … received as a gift.” He glanced out the window nervously for a second time. Daphne wouldn’t be able to hold them for long. If the Bureau made the Spitting Image connection, then they were likely to close in on a suspect, perhaps ahead of Boldt, and Sarah’s chances went down the drain. He owed this effort to Boldt, who had made the Spitting Image connection in the first place.
“The sweatshirt,” the wife muttered.
Nervous perspiration breaking out all over, he spoke quickly to the parents, knowing he had one, and only one, shot at an explanation. “Okay. Here’s the thing. What I’m about to tell you is opinion. My opinion. But keep in mind, I’m lead detective for Seattle Police on this case. Okay? Just keep that in mind. This information, this Spitting Image connection, is what we call a good lead. You understand? It’s important information to us. Very important. To the investigation, I’m talking about. To getting Trudy back. But there are other people investigating these kidnappings, okay? The FBI I’m talking about. And they aren’t exactly our bosom buddies, if you know what I mean. They’ve had this investigation for nearly six months, and parents, just like you, are still waiting for news of their children. Okay? Six months. Gimme a break! These guys can’t even remember the kids’ names! You know what a leak is? Good. That’s great. Well,” he lied, “we think there is a leak inside the FBI. We think information like this—the Spitting Image information—is better kept close to home.” He heard footsteps growing closer. Flemming and his team. LaMoia felt a bead of sweat run down his chin. He wiped it off. “Better kept right here in Seattle. You want to deal with three-piece suits and black shoes, you go right ahead. It’s a free country. I can’t stop you. But me, I’m right down the street. You pick up the phone, I’m there. Okay? Public Safety building. Right downtown. These guys? Go ahead and try to reach them on the phone. I can’t even reach them. What chance do you have?” The footsteps were only a few yards away. “What chance does Trudy have? That’s what you’ve got to ask yourself. Six months they’ve had this. Think about that. They’re trying to handle a dozen cases. What’s to show for it? Why? Because somebody’s not clean, that’s why.”
A strong hand knocked on the door—Flemming—LaMoia knew this before the door opened.
LaMoia repeated, “It’s a free country. I can’t tell you what to do. They can’t tell you what to do. No one can make you say anything you don’t want to.” He shouted toward the door. “Yeah?”
Flemming threw the door open. In his strong, rich baritone, he addressed the parents, “Mr. and Mrs. Kittridge, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” He glanced over at LaMoia venomously, for not waiting, and then back to the parents. He introduced himself and his two special agents. “I’m sure Detective LaMoia—”
“Sergeant,” LaMoia corrected, interrupting. He said, “You still don’t know my rank?”
“—has asked you a few questions. We’d like to start all over if you don’t mind. The sooner we get this information, the better our chances of getting your daughter back.”
“Trudy,” Kay Kalidja supplied.
“Trudy,” Flemming repeated.
David Kittridge glanced over at LaMoia and then complained to Flemming, “Just like you’ve gotten all the other children back?”
LaMoia felt the warm rush of success as Flemming flashed him another angry look.
David Kittridge lifted his right hand, holding it out for everyone to see. Gripped tightly between white, bloodless fingers was a tin penny flute.
CHAPTER
“Do you know the aquarium well, the big viewing room that is under all the fish?” the creamy female voice inquired.
“Yes,” Daphne answered.
“Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”
“See you there.”
The walk to the aquarium felt good, in part because it was nearly entirely downhill. Daphne worked herself up to a good heart rate, past cranes and Caterpillars and jackhammers all busy making the population deaf. The city refused to stop growing. Unable to spread out, it grew up now, the new buildings pushing higher and higher into the sky, winning views of the bay and blocking the view of others. The streets closed in around the pedestrians. The town of Seattle was gone, a city having replaced it.
Elliott Bay’s restless, wind-scuffed green waters caught the sunshine in highlights, like Italian marble with flecks of mica angled to the sun. Freighters and ferries, their white wakes flowing behind them like wedding veils, called out in deep-throated cries. A jet rocked its wings on final approach, its wheels like tiny talons reaching for the ground.
On its best day, no city was as beautiful, no city held her heart as this one. She knew she would never leave, although she had considered doing so—distance would force a fresh start. She also knew that if she stayed she would likely marry Owen Adler. Fear had led to her breaking off the engagement the first time. Fear of being filthy rich, of attending fund-raising dinners and ribbon-cutting ceremonies instead of working psych profiles and would-be suicides. Fear of losing her identity, not a fear of her love for this man. She trusted her love. She appreciated his humor, the attention he paid her, his intelligence, confidence and determination, the way he put others first, especially Corky, his adopted daughter. She loved Corky nearly as much as he did.
She walked right past the aquarium before she realized what she had done. Owen was like that—he could occupy her in ways no other man ever had.
The aquarium was crowded with tourists and a busload of students on a field trip. Most of the display areas were kept dark, the visitor’s attention focused on the fish tanks in the walls. She navigated her way through the throng and made her way to the descending ramp that led down into the center of an enormous tank, where the humans became the observed, surrounded on all sides and overhead by coral, water and fish of a dozen varieties.
Special Agent Kay Kalidja occupied one of the two viewing benches, her purse and sweater set beside her holding a spot for Daphne, who sat down. The glass arched above them, fish swimming directly overhead, passing from one side of the tank to the other. Kalidja did not look at Daphne but at the fish. She pointed out a sand shark with a suckerfish attached. “I feel like that sometimes,” she said in her pleasing island lilt, “the one attached.”
“Yes.”
“Made to follow, to stay close.”
Kalidja’s choosing a neutral site forewarned of the significance of the meeting. Excitement filled Daphne, as she nudged, “You ran the tattoo.”
“The contents of many of the Bureau’s databases are classified. As you must know, we track everything from violent offenders to suspected double agents in the State Department. For this reason there are levels of access imposed, levels of security, pass codes, log-in records. It is extremely well-protected data. Hackers have foo
led with our Web site before, but no one—to my knowledge—has ever come close to compromising these databases.” Kalidja found it difficult to share the information. She struggled to admit, “Yes. The tattoos.” She then said, pointing out a pair of blue and yellow fish, “Spectacular.”
“The system tracks access,” Kalidja continued. “It maintains a computerized log. Not only can internal investigators see who has been working what information, but it also allows agents to see who else has worked the information, to share that information. An agent in Chicago can call an agent in Dallas who has been requesting the same information. Perhaps they are pursuing the same suspect and were unaware of the connection. The database actually alerts them. Those alerts are automatic now, offering a kind of investigative bibliography.”
“Impressive,” Daphne said, suppressing her anxiety over where Kalidja was headed.
The agent faced Daphne for the first time and spoke quickly but extremely softly, “Special Agent Dunkin Hale requested any and all information on eagle tattoos—photographs of those on file, tattoo artists known for wrapping the wings around the bird like a cape. Everything he could think of.”
Daphne had expected nothing like this. She had a dozen questions to ask, but held her tongue. Kalidja was not finished.
“Special Agent Hale has never mentioned any such tattoo in any of our meetings. Never. Not once.”
“And you had said nothing to him about it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Perhaps he saw it on your desk—”
“Never! I accepted this information from you in the strictest of confidence. I’ve told no one! Shown no one!”
Daphne tried to make sense of it. The schools of fish swimming over, above and around her added to her sense of confusion.
“VI-CIM, our Violent Criminal Identification and Markings database, has produced two hits, two similar tattoos,” she said, producing photocopies and showing them to Daphne. “One of the tattoos was shown on the biceps, the other on a pectoral.” They were, in fact, both unmistakably similar to the rendition drawn by Tommy Thompson: a bald eagle looking straight ahead, the wings wrapped around like a cape. “One is dead. The other is two years into serving a life sentence. Mind you, we only show federal offenders in the database, and only a limited number of them. It is by no means complete.”
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