Beyond Recognition

by Ridley Pearson

  “No, he was here.”

  “Maybe I can help the two of you,” Daphne offered. She caught a flicker of what looked like hope in the woman’s eyes. “Is he from a bad home? A runaway?”

  Emily looked hateful. “You leave him out of this.”

  “I’ll do that. I’ll leave him out of it, but you’re going to have to help.” She wandered around the bizarre room, dragging her finger along the naked women painted there. “City Services would be interested in talking to the boy.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Help me!”

  “How can I? You don’t believe me. He has not been here. Do you ever listen, or do you just like to threaten?”

  The question stung Daphne, though she hid it by looking at the murals. She removed a photograph of Steven Garman from her pocket, crossed the room, and handed it to the psychic. “Is that the man?” she asked. “Look closely,” she said as Emily began to shake her head. “Forget the face hair. Look at the eyes, the shape of the head.”

  “Absolutely not. Not even close.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “You would swear to that in a court of law?” With each question, Daphne studied the woman’s face, putting little value in her words. But what she saw there was discouraging. Emily Richland had never seen the man before. Daphne felt crushed. She had convinced herself that Garman could have created the burned hand for himself as a disguise for the sessions with the psychic.

  “It’s not him. Not even close.”

  From sour to sweet: Daphne produced a hundred-dollar bill. “I need an exact description. You withheld some details last time, didn’t you?” Every snitch did so, in order to collect more money a second time. Emily regarded the money carefully but seemed reluctant to accept it. Daphne said, “Or maybe the boy can fill in some of the blanks.”

  Emily bristled, took the money, and began a thoughtful and exacting description of her client, covering some of what she had told Daphne the first time around but embellishing upon it greatly. She mentioned Sea-Tac airport, a possible drug deal. She described the man in more detail. An image formed in Daphne’s mind—the close-cut hair, the strong build, the farm or rodeo background. The more she heard, the less she liked it. The man known to Emily as Nick—this, from the back of his belt—did not make the most likely suspect for a person quoting Plato. Two suspects? she wondered, knowing that even the suggestion of such a thing would send Boldt ballistic. A conspiracy? What would that do to the investigation?

  “Perhaps I’m wrong about this,” she said, hearing the words tumble out of her mouth and wondering from where they came. There were times she seemed possessed of two minds: one eager to solve the case, interview the suspect ahead of everyone else, even the arresting officer if possible; the other, to help keep things less complicated for Boldt and his squad, to ease the tension, improve the working environment. Most of the time, these two objectives existed in direct opposition to one another and forced her to make a choice. She heard her words and wondered if she had subconsciously already made it.

  “Perhaps you are,” Emily said spitefully, no longer holding the one hundred dollars: part psychic, part magician. The money had disappeared.

  “I want to talk to the boy.”

  “No.”

  “This isn’t up for negotiation,” Daphne warned. “The more trouble you create for me, the more you bring upon yourself. At the moment, we’re staying clear of warrants and statements and trips downtown. At the moment, as far as you’re concerned, it’s still business as usual. You’re open; you’re seeing clients, I presume. As far as I know, the kid is still working the cars for you the way he worked mine. That can all change, and quite quickly. No work, no little boy. The prudent thing to do at a time like this, Ms. Richland, is carefully weigh one’s options. Obstinacy for its own sake is such a terrible waste.”

  “The boy stays out of it,” the other said defiantly.

  “By attempting to protect others, we often endanger them further.” Daphne took a few steps closer. “Are you sure you want this for him?” She asked, “Tell me how you know what you know. A drug deal at Sea-Tac. Are you sure? Did you see it, or did he? What if it isn’t drugs? What if it puts both of you at risk? What if you or the boy were seen at the airport?”

  Emily’s throat bobbed and an eyebrow cast a lower slant, despite her admirable attempts to prevent any such reaction. Her eyes darted nervously, searching Daphne’s.

  “It’s my duty to tell you this, although quite honestly I would prefer not to, because I don’t want to frighten you any more than you already may be. Two women about your age, with about your looks, are dead. You will have heard about the arsons, they’ve been all over the news. This man Nick, or perhaps someone close to him, may be responsible. The military connection works for us … the burned hand. You saw the possible connection, or you wouldn’t have offered your services to us.”

  “You’re trying to scare me,” Emily said. “Take a look around at this neighborhood and ask yourself if I scare easily. My age, my looks? Come on! You think he’s targeting me? You think I’m next?” She grinned and laughed. “Where do you get your material, Detective?”

  “I’m not a detective,” Daphne clarified, for the sake of the tape recorder running in her pocket.

  “But you said—”

  “I told you that I’m working on the investigation. That’s true.”

  “You told me you were a cop.”

  “Also true. Just not a detective. Listen, my role is unimportant here. It’s your role that’s of concern to me. And yes, for all I know, he’s targeting you. We have no idea how he targets his victims, how he rigs the structures, how he gains access.” She hesitated. “Did you ever leave him alone in this room?”

  All color drained from Emily’s face. She collected herself well enough not to allow her panic to filter into her voice, but Daphne saw it all over her: the rapid blinking, another attempt at a dry swallow, the twitch in her left eye. She had left the man alone.

  Glancing around nervously, Daphne said, “I think it might be to our mutual advantages to work together.”

  “You’re messing with me to get at—to get at the boy.” She had almost slipped and spoken his name aloud. Daphne wondered: If she had pushed a little harder would the name have come out? Everything was measured in degrees. She didn’t always guess right.

  “Messing with you?” she questioned. “What I’m telling you is that we can’t protect you. That protection stuff works fine in the movies, but not in real life. You think we can afford the manpower to watch your place?” Daphne was hoping to confuse the woman. The truth was mixed: They could afford the surveillance, but witness protection on a local level was nonexistent. Daphne’s role was not to deliver the truth, nor did any regulation explicitly state she was obliged to. Suspects were routinely told falsehoods in order to win confessions; it was one of the techniques of interrogating, tricky at best, and a matter of pride for police entering the Box: The best liar wins. “At best you could hope for the bomb squad to do the two-step through here and try to sniff out any devices. We’d bring someone in like he was a client of yours, in case your place is being watched.”

  “Shut up!” Emily threw her head back and forth, her hair whipping the air. “Stop it!”

  “But I need the boy for that,” Daphne continued, knowing she had finally gotten through to the woman. “I have to show my sergeant that there’s some currency here, some give-and-take. You must understand that. On some level I know you do. Trust me. Let me work with you and the boy together—no warrants, no arrests. Just a little collaborative effort to put this guy Nick where he belongs.”

  Emily’s face showed rage and resentment. Daphne wondered if the woman might strike out at her.

  At the same time, Daphne hoped she had cracked the shell, hoped Emily might give her the benefit of the doubt, prayed for a shot at the boy. Child witnesses were among the best. Little kids and old ladies—Daphne knew
the statistics. Juries and judges loved them. If the boy had seen something, if Daphne could get it on tape or in a statement, Boldt would be beside himself.

  Suddenly, Daphne questioned her own motivations. Was this effort for the betterment of the investigation or to please Boldt? Was she trying to solve a crime or win points? Her belly knotted in pain, and she felt light-headed and weak in the knees.

  “You’re lying to me,” said the woman in front of her, a woman as familiar as she was with reading body language. “We can have all the currency you want, but the boy is not in the equation.”

  Daphne recovered nicely. “They have electronic sniffers. Have you seen one? A guy comes in here with a briefcase and he leaves, telling you if the place is rigged or not. Five, ten minutes. Peace of mind. Are you a target? I don’t know. I wish I could tell you that you weren’t.” The sniffers were for hydrocarbon accelerants and certain drugs. She’d never heard of one for rocket fuel. She didn’t share this. “Let us help you. Do this my way and it’s completely low-profile. Stonewall and you lose control. You strike me as a woman who wants to maintain control.”

  The woman looked confused. Daphne didn’t like that. She anticipated Emily’s reaction before it ever came.

  “Get out of here.” Emily stepped to within inches of Daphne’s face, strong and defiant. “You’re here uninvited, and you’re not welcome. I’ll file a complaint against you. Don’t think I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re overreacting,” Daphne cautioned. “Take a minute to think about this.” She absolutely hated losing. There was nothing worse. Her job was about wins, about steering people away from some thoughts and toward others.

  “Out!” Emily reduced the space farther, closing to where Daphne could feel the warmth of her breath across her face.

  “I’m going,” Daphne conceded. She stormed out, more upset with herself than with the psychic.

  The outside air was not cold, but it stung her face. She stood on the front steps for a moment, admiring the quirky six-foot metal sculpture of the world that sat on Emily’s front lawn. And then a frightening feeling overcame her: She was being watched. She glanced around—but casually, carefully—and saw no one.

  She walked a little more quickly to her car, feeling unsafe and exposed. And as she drove away, a little faster than polite for a quiet neighborhood, she wondered who had been watching. The boy? Or was it the arsonist?

  How much to tell Boldt and how much to keep to herself? How much was paranoia, how much real?

  And how was she going to feel if and when Emily became the next victim?

  30

  Another poem. Garman had delivered it downtown while Boldt had been visiting Bear. Both his pager and cellular phone had sounded nearly simultaneously. He drove home to tell Liz in person that it was going to be a long night. He didn’t want to tell her by phone. The claw-foot tub was the first place he checked, placing his large hands against the side wall, searching for evidence of lingering warmth. Stone cold, like his heart. He felt an immediate pang of regret. Trust had been the cornerstone of their renewed attempt at marriage, and here he was, creeping around and feeling up bathtubs.

  Together they put the kids to bed, Boldt looking for a chance to tell her he was going to leave her alone. Getting the kids down took longer than he expected. Things rarely went the way he expected. He finally sat down to a reheated dinner at a kitchen table cluttered with several days of mail—bills, mostly.

  “You know,” she said, absentmindedly opening a piece of mail, “I was thinking that I might leave Miles with you and take another weekend up at the cabin.” The announcement—for that was what it was, an announcement, not a request—stunned him. She had never been a big fan of the cabin. What had changed? “Maybe this weekend.”

  “By yourself?” he blurted out.

  “No, with my lover,” she snapped sarcastically. Or was she using sarcasm to hide the truth? Would she, when he finally found out, remind him of this evening when she had mentioned a lover over the dinner table? “I’m whipped, Lou. Burned out. I could use a weekend by myself. I’ll take Sarah, of course. A good book.” She added, “Not away from you, just this.” She motioned around the room. He knew she meant him. She meant Miles, who at three and a half was a handful. Although a good mother—especially, he thought, for a working mother—she reached these tolerance points with Miles; it wasn’t the first time. More important, he thought, trying to see the positive, she trusted him to take good care of their son.

  “It’s not the best time,” he answered honestly, aware that he had worked three seven-day weeks in a row. Aware he needed to get back downtown. “This case—”

  “Oh, come on,” she complained. “Marina can help you. Besides, you can’t work every weekend. Phil won’t allow that. If he knew the schedule you were pulling he’d throw a fit.” Then she caught on and he winced before she voiced it. “You haven’t filed for the overtime, have you,” she stated incredulously. Liz ran the household budget—being the banker in the family—and Boldt knew he had serious trouble with this discovery: unpaid time at work was time he could be with the kids, or working on the house, or spending time with her. This could provoke a firestorm.

  “It isn’t as simple as that. I’m sort of on loan to the fire department. I’m essentially pulling double duty as it is; managing the squad and working these arsons.”

  Her expression remained hard. “If you’re expecting violins, forget it. I need this time, Lou. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. If I could do it without Sarah—if I could express enough milk—I’d leave her with you too, but I can’t right now.”

  Boldt went over to the sink to pour himself a glass of filtered water and noticed immediately that the view out the window was remarkably cleaner. He noticed this because cleaning the windows was his responsibility and he had let this duty slip, and it seemed inconceivable that Liz had washed them, which meant she had paid to have them washed, and this in turn helped him to understand her independent and somewhat foul mood: If he slacked off on his jobs around the house, she came in behind him and hired them done, and it annoyed her to no end. He asked, “Is it the windows? Is that it? You got them washed, didn’t you? Listen, I meant to.”

  “No, it’s not the windows,” she countered.

  “You got them washed,” he objected. He could see that they had been washed—and a good job at that. Professional. He even felt a little envious at how good a job it was.

  “It was a mistake,” she said, clearly frustrated at his attempt to steer her away from the issue of the overtime pay. “The point is, if you’re not filing for over—”

  “Getting the windows washed was a mistake? I don’t think so. They look great to me.” He hoped he might be able to press this toward humor and deflect her anger, because taken together the two added up to real trouble: He wasn’t charging the department for his overtime, and he wasn’t home enough to do his chores, so the overtime pay wasn’t there to cover the added expense of hiring people to pull his weight.

  Speaking in a patronizing, condescending way in which she accented every syllable, she told him, “A mistake. The … wrong … house. I did not hire any window washer. You are the window washer. The guy was off by one street. It was a mistake … on … his … part.”

  Boldt smelled a scam. “Did he try and charge you for—”

  “No. We cleared it up. He packed up, and he took off. He was perfectly nice about it.” She lightened up a little. “In fact,” she said, “he did a pretty good job.”

  “Better than that other guy you’ve got,” he said, meaning himself.

  She came out of the chair then and, suppressing a slight grin, approached her husband and threw her arms around his neck and drew them close together. He felt like stealing a glance at his watch, but he didn’t. “Why is it I can’t stay mad at you?”

  He felt better than he had in ages. He didn’t want to let go. He clasped his arms around her waist and squeezed tightly, and she got the message and squeezed back, and h
e could feel her breath beneath his ear, and he put his lips to her ear and said, “I miss you.”

  “I need this weekend, Lou. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.” She added, “Please.”

  He felt himself nod, although it wasn’t automatic; it was born of great reluctance and trepidation. He felt some fear along with his love, some suspicion, even some anger. He wanted to keep squeezing until the truth came out of her, but Liz took her time. She needed time to think; he understood this. Her return from the cabin would bring with it a request to talk with him alone. He knew this woman well enough to understand that a change was coming—a decision. The baths were part of it: isolation, a time to think; perhaps that was all they were about. He leaned back and looked at her; he thought her darkly handsome and intelligent-looking. She looked a little tired. Troubled. “You okay?” he asked.

  She squinted. That meant don’t ask, so he didn’t push it. A pit of concern burned inside him.

  “I’ll take Miles,” he conceded.

  She hugged him thanks.

  “And I’ll get the rest of the windows.”

  She kissed him on the lips. “We’ll talk,” she said.

  “I know we will.”

  “It’s going to be okay.” She attempted to reassure him, but his years with her contradicted this; her tone of voice belied her message. It was not going to be okay, and this realization terrified him. He forced a smile, but he thought she probably saw it was forced. Their moment of peace was passing. They released their hug.

  Boldt headed to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk.

  He heard Miles calling from the nearby room. “Da-a-ddy.” It was not a cry of alarm but of longing—the father could easily discern the difference—and it caused a warm stirring in Boldt’s heart. He stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned toward his wife, the first nibble of concern beginning chew on the inside of his chest. “How old?” he asked.

  Liz, who had poured the teakettle full of water and headed for the stove, replied, “What are you talking about?”