EMILY: No more complications if you act quickly. This boy, whoever he is, won’t bother you again. You frightened him.
HALL: He’s got my money. (Pause) Listen … Can you help me find him? (Pause) There would be a bonus. (Pause) He’s kinda disappeared.
Boldt said excitedly, “We can use this.”
“No!” snapped Daphne.
Boldt held his eyes on her, his determination. “It takes Ben out of the loop and just might give us our probable cause.”
Daphne, eyes still on Boldt said into the walkie-talkie, “If you know where that money is, sweetheart, it’s time for a vision. You tell him. We all want Ben out of this.”
Collectively, they held their breath as they awaited Emily’s decision.
EMILY: I see a brown house. Small.
Relief flooding him, Boldt said, “There we go!”
HALL: That’s the boy’s place!
EMILY: The money is there. (Pause) A second story?
HALL: (Sounding anxious) Yes!
EMILY: The boy’s room. A box. A plastic box.
Wait a second … (Pause) Rectangular.
HALL: A cigar box.
EMILY: No.
HALL: A toy safe? A lockbox? Something like that?
EMILY: A lunch box? (Pause) Ah! There it is clearly. It’s a video. A box for a video tape.
HALL: (Excited; the sound of a chair moving) How much?
EMILY: What?
HALL: How much do I owe you?
Daphne said into the device, “Let him go.”
EMILY: Ten for the reading.
HALL: I’m giving you twenty. ( Pause ) I’ll try for sometime in the next three days.
EMILY: Yes. Better than next week.
HALL: I’ll be back to check with you.
Bobbie Gaynes asked, “Do we follow?”
Boldt answered, “No, we lead. We know exactly where he’s going. Sooner or later he’s going after that money.”
Daphne said, “That personality? He’ll go for the money right away. Bet on it.”
38
Boldt planned to take Hall into custody at Ben’s house.
He confirmed that Hall’s residence—identified as a mobile home in Parkland—was already under surveillance. A backup team was put on standby.
Hall left Emily’s, the object of a dozen pair of eyes, climbed into his truck, and drove away while Homicide, ERT, and bomb squad officers looked on. Many of these people experienced disappointment, the accumulated adrenaline of the past hour finding no outlet.
The blue-and-white truck drove down 21st and turned left on Yesler.
With Gaynes driving, the brown recreational van negotiated a U-turn and headed north on 21st, right on Spruce, and right again on 23rd. The police radio identified the truck as paused for a light at Yesler and 23rd.
The police van drove through the intersection heading south. Boldt spotted the truck to his right, four cars back, waiting for the light.
“There he is,” Boldt told the others. They drove past. Boldt held him in sight as long as possible. He scrambled for a map.
As expected, a moment later the blue-and-white truck turned south on 23rd.
Boldt cautioned Gaynes, “He could be heading south to Parkland—”
“He’s not,” Daphne interrupted.
“We want to continue south until he commits,” Boldt finished, annoyed by Daphne’s confidence.
Boldt found himself willing Hall to turn left on Jackson in the direction of the Santori house. His muscles ached from holding himself so tight. He caught himself grinding his teeth.
Dispatch announced, “Suspect vehicle turning east on Jackson Street East.”
“Told ya,” Daphne said proudly.
Gaynes checked the outside mirror. “He’s too far back. I’ve lost him.”
Checking a street sign, Boldt instructed her, “Left on Norman.”
The surveillance car following Hall at a distance reported in. Boldt directed them to remain on 23rd and pass Jackson. “It’s too small a street,” he told Daphne and Gaynes. “He might spot them.”
Jackson was a dead end, up a steep hill; the Santori home backed up to Frink Park.
Boldt ordered the surveillance car left on Dearborn, two blocks behind where the van turned. The van and the surveillance car then ran parallel to each other on two adjacent avenues, the van turning right one block south of Jackson and the surveillance car, one block north. A third unmarked vehicle was told to park with a view of the intersection of Jackson and 23rd.
ERT was deployed into Frink Park, in case Hall fled on foot.
Dispatch confirmed that the vehicle came to a stop a half block from the Santori home.
With the suspect effectively boxed in, Boldt checked his weapon and sat forward to leave the van.
“I’m coming with you,” Daphne said, removing her weapon from her purse. Before Boldt could contradict this, she added, “I outrank Bobbie. No offense,” she said to the woman, a veteran homicide detective. “Lou,” she said, in a gentler voice, “I need to be reading this guy from the word go. If I’m there at the bust, it gives us a leg up.”
Daphne had always allowed her ambition to get in the way. She carried a large scar on her neck because of this. Boldt had witnessed that wound as it happened. He couldn’t put either of them through that again. She could be something of a loose cannon, in her determination to be the first inside a suspect’s psyche. But even so, Boldt did not argue. The more they understood about Hall the better. “We partner on this, Daffy. And I’m the lead.” He said it in a way that humbled her briefly.
“You’re the lead,” she agreed.
Boldt nodded. To Gaynes he said, “You’re our backup. I’ll be on radio.” He indicated for her to pass him a walkie-talkie from the front. She handed him a large flashlight as well, that could double as a near deadly nightstick. He stuck the earpiece in his ear and secured the radio in his coat pocket. The dispatcher’s voice announced that ERT was in place and the truck had been spotted and was empty.
Boldt told Gaynes, “We call for help, you send in the cavalry.”
“Understood,” replied the driver, her disappointment apparent.
Daphne was a faster walker. Boldt grabbed her arm and tugged. The two hurried up the hill and cut in behind the house on the far corner of the property. They made for a decrepit gardening shack.
Its doors were held closed by a board that spun on a nail. Boldt got the door open quietly and pulled Daphne inside with him, leaving the door unfastened.
Daphne whispered softly, “Did I mention that I absolutely hate places like this?”
It was dusty and dank, spiderwebs and mildew. There was a ’57 Chevy on blocks, too much dust across its skin to discern a color. It was ensconced in a cocoon of sports equipment, storage boxes, and milk crates. There was barely enough room for the two of them to stand. There was a boy’s bike to her left, shiny and well-kept.
Daphne threw one arm around him, like a child seeking comfort. Her body was warm and it moved behind her heavy breathing.
With the shed door open an inch, they had a good view of the house. Light from a flashlight flickered in a window, but only briefly. Boldt heard an exchange between ERT and dispatch. His heart raced in anticipation.
“He’s in there,” Daphne said, sounding excited.
A shadow moved in the same window.
Nicholas Hall stood less than twenty yards away, his attention fixed on the back yard. Boldt whispered, “He senses us. This guy has good instincts.”
He felt her nod.
Hall’s shadow crossed the window. Boldt felt it as a cold breeze.
Daphne remained pressed close. Boldt wanted to push her away, but he didn’t. Instead he drank in her warmth, the feel of her breath against his neck, the gentle touch of her fingers on his waist. “Come on out,” she whispered, encouraging the suspect.
Boldt willed the man to find the money, knowing he wouldn’t have taken that much time if he had found it right awa
y.
“If he comes out without the money?” Daphne asked quietly.
“We’ll have a mess,” Boldt answered. He didn’t need to elaborate further.
Daphne whispered, “Five hundred dollars is a fortune to him. He’ll find it.”
Boldt elbowed some distance between them. He couldn’t take her talking into his ear, even at a whisper. He couldn’t take her hands on him. His skin was hot and his pulse racing. She felt the elbow and held him all the harder.
Hall could be heard hurrying down the steps inside the house. Boldt worried that the man had given up. Disappointment surged through the sergeant. To bust him without the money on him was a simple B and E. The prosecuting attorney would laugh at Boldt. He had to make the call to arrest or return to surveillance.
The back door cracked open. Hall hesitated, unseen.
Reading Boldt’s thoughts as she so often did, Daphne said, “What about the bones? What about a suspicion of murder charge? Wouldn’t that hold him?”
Bingo! Boldt thought. “You’re worth your weight in gold,” he whispered. He handed her the flashlight and withdrew his handgun. “Ready?” he asked.
The suspect stepped out of the dark house and shut the door behind himself.
“On your count,” Daphne hissed.
Boldt clicked the walkie-talkie button three times.
He spun to face her and their lips brushed. He leaned back and held up his fingers. One … two … three …
He kicked open the shed door. Daphne snapped on the light.
“Police!” Boldt shouted. “On the ground now!”
Hall dove to the earth, hands outstretched. The move surprised them.
“One thing about those military boys,” Daphne quipped. “They know how to follow orders!”
Daphne realized that she loved him but would never have him. Her mind was not on the suspect or the house or the attempted theft but on Boldt, the man, the sergeant, the lover, the friend. The unattainable. Her thoughts had been on the suspect, and they returned quickly to him, but for that brief instant of time between leaning against him and being asked if she was ready, her thoughts had strayed to encompass the idea of a life with him and the realization that any chance for such a thing had passed. It was a thought she had entertained and refuted an equal number of times, as she did once again, though she eased incredibly close to acceptance. Her move to Owen had felt like love but in truth had been little more than a late rebound, an attempt to shed the burden of Lou Boldt. The attempt had failed, something she had acknowledged within herself only over the past few weeks, something Owen had sensed immediately. She faced the reality that her personal life was once again a train wreck. Did she think too much and feel too little, or was it the other way around? If she listened to her friends, she was opinionated and stubborn, inflexible and bossy. These were the same friends who told her how much they loved her. If she listened to Owen, she was beautiful and brainy, ballsy and supportive. If she listened to her own heart, it said that what had once been respect for Lou Boldt had matured into unconditional love. She admired him for his musicianship, his leadership by example, his intelligence, and his humanism. He was flawed: full of self-doubt, misplaced compassion, and a tendency to hide inside his moods. He was an amazing father, a loyal husband, and she wanted him for her own. Liz be damned.
He stepped toward the suspect. There was enough ambient light to see shapes but not details.
She didn’t want any surprises. “Let’s wait for backup, shall we?”
Boldt never broke his concentration. He nodded. Then he called out to the man lying on the ground, “Nicholas Hall, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent ....”
He glanced over at her—only for an instant—and their eyes met. His were full of joy.
She cherished the moment. She tucked it away and saved it. Safe from harm. Hers always.
39
They took turns with him, as if working a punching bag. Nicholas Hall had been processed like a side of beef: his fingerprints inked, his possessions stored in lockup in a brown paper bag bearing his name and record number, his clothes replaced with the humiliating orange jumpsuit with CITY JAIL stenciled in huge white letters across the back. Boldt had requested “full jewelry”—handcuffs and ankle manacles. He wanted Hall to think about it.
The prisoner had not yet requested a court-appointed attorney, a privilege that had been offered him during three separate readings of the Miranda. They were taking no chances with Nicholas Hall. The lack of an attorney meant that Hall spent three consecutive two-hour shifts in Homicide’s eight-by-eight interrogation room A, the Box. He was given a twenty-minute break between sessions, escorted to the toilet, and offered food and water. Boldt took the first hour and the role of the heavy. Daphne took hour number two and played the friend. Boldt took hour three. By the fourth hour, Daphne had begun to loosen him up by pitting Boldt against her and telling him how the old guard, the hard-liners like Boldt, didn’t like a woman doing their job, didn’t like the suspects forming any kind of relationship with her.
“I put up with a lot of shit around here,” she informed him. Hall had rough hair and soft brown eyes. The left side of his lower neck was discolored—beet purple—a birthmark, not a burn. That hand hid in his lap, shackled to its partner. “They think of me in terms of my sex,” she said. “I’m all tits and ass to most of them, that’s all. I’m different,” she said, attempting to appeal to that hand of his, “so they don’t trust me.”
“I know all about that.”
In the three hours and twenty minutes they had worked on him, this was the fourth full sentence that Hall had spoken. Daphne felt a tingle of excitement in her belly. “The hand,” she said.
He nodded.
“People think you’re a freak.”
“You got that right.”
“Me,” she said, “I’m a freak around here because I don’t pee standing up.” She wanted to place as many images in his head about her as possible, hoping to mislead him into seeing her strictly as a woman, not as a cop but as opposing the cops, the same way Nicholas Hall felt at that moment.
He smiled.
She could tell a lot about him from that smile: considerate, kind, thoughtful. Not that she trusted it. “Do you have brothers or sisters?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Yeah. Kid sister.”
“Parents?”
“Dead. My dad on the highway. My mom … she kind of drank herself to death, you know? After my dad and all.”
“My parents too,” she lied. “It trashed me at the time. Tough stuff.”
“My dad was driving pigs, Des Moines to Lincoln. Can you imagine? They say he caught a wheel on the shoulder. The pigs all swung at the same time and carried the trailer over. Trailer took the cab. Rolled down into that middle part. I was fourteen.”
She nodded sympathetically. She reached up and scratched the back of her neck, giving Boldt the signal.
The sergeant came charging into the interrogation room, red faced and angry. “It’s my turn,” he announced. “You’re out of here.”
“No way,” Daphne complained. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“What the hell do I care what he wants?” Boldt asked. “He killed a woman and left her in a crawl space—”
Sitting forward, his handcuffs dragging on the table, Hall said, “That’s bullshit.”
“You’re interrupting me, Sergeant.” She glanced at her watch. “Nick and I aren’t through,” she said, using his abbreviated name. Until that moment she had only called him Nicholas. The idea was for her to develop a rapport and isolate Boldt as far as possible. “You mind if I call you Nick?” she added, checking with the suspect, who looked confused and afraid. To Boldt she said, “If Nick wants to speak with you instead—” She left it hanging there.
“No!” objected the suspect.
“There you have it,” she informed Boldt. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”
“You’re not going to
get anything out of him,” Boldt complained. “Let me have him. I sense Nick and I are on the verge of some real progress here.”
“I don’t think so,” she countered. “The door is that way.” She added, “If your head isn’t too big to fit through it.” She glanced at Hall. The suspect grinned. Just right, she thought. He’s all mine. “Out!” she told Boldt.
The sergeant glared at them and left the tiny room.
“These charges are bullshit,” Hall stated. “I didn’t kill no woman.”
“You know, it’s better if you don’t play dumb,” she informed him. Quietly, she said, “If they think you’re cooperating with me, we can keep you up here. Otherwise it’s down to lockup. And once they arraign you, you can spend weeks there—months in County. The backlog in the courts is awful right now.”
“I am not playing dumb,” he protested. “I don’t know nothing about no dead woman.”
“Listen, the thing is, they can place you in the house. What were you doing there, if not trying to cover up your knowing her?”
“I don’t know her.”
“Didn’t,” she corrected. “I’m telling you, these guys are not real long on brains.” Raising her voice, she said, “They’re just about as dumb as they look.”
“Are they watching us?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Listening?”
She nodded again.
“Can we talk—I mean, just you and me? None of that?”
“I can check.”
“Check it out,” he said. “I’ll talk to you, but in private. You know? Off the record.”
“Right,” she said. None of what was said in that room was ever off the record. It was written down in a notebook, or tape-recorded, or videoed. But the rule of the Box was to please the customer. “Let me check,” she said.
“I didn’t kill no woman!” he repeated, shouting at her. “Never been in that house before! You gotta believe me.”
She left the room, immediately greeted in the office area by Boldt and Lieutenant Shoswitz. “You’re a genius,” Boldt said.
“He’s coming around, I think.”
“You think? You’ve got him by the stones,” Boldt encouraged.
Beyond Recognition Page 27
