No Witnesses lbadm-3

by Ridley Pearson

  She found the flashlight, shook it several times, but it did not respond. Dark.

  Trembling, her heart now running away from her-slipping into shock-she came around the corner, found a chair that offered her back against a solid wall, her eyes on the front door, the back door down the short hall to her right, and she dragged the phone toward her by its cord.

  Twenty minutes later she unlocked the door for Boldt as she heard him running down the dock.

  Shining a flashlight on her, he said, “Jesus!”

  Daphne said, “The fuse box is inside the closet by the back door. I wasn’t about to go back there.”

  A moment later Boldt called out, “Do you have enough coats?”

  It made her laugh. Made her feel better. So did the light coming on.

  The refrigerator growled back into operation. A digital clock on the microwave blinked CLOCK at her.

  Boldt came around the corner wearing her faux leopard-skin hat. “Salvation Army time, if you ask me.” Daphne laughed. It hurt her head. He noticed her wince. “Gotta get you some pictures taken,” he said, meaning X rays.

  “I’d rather have a glass of wine.”

  He poured her one. He said, “I’m not going to harp on it, but I do think you should have that looked at.”

  “Maybe later, okay?”

  “It’s your call.”

  “You must make a nice husband,” she said. She did not mean anything more than to give out a compliment, but the comment made Boldt uncomfortable anyway. It made him think of Liz and Miles at home, where he had left them with barely any explanation. It made him think of Owen Adler. Then he looked at her forehead again and said, “Did he get anything?”

  “Haven’t looked,” she said. She locked eyes with him and stated, “It isn’t your standard breaking and entering.”

  “Not when they pick a cop’s house, it isn’t.”

  “I don’t mean like that.” She tried the wine. It tasted good. She drank some more.

  “Then how do you mean it?”

  “I’m being followed-stalked-I don’t know … Someone’s out there.” Another sip. “That someone was in here, I’m sure of it.”

  He did not argue; he did not question. He went to work. For Boldt it was sometimes the only thing he knew.

  Boldt conducted a thorough search of the house. Daphne was a compulsively neat person, so he assumed it would not be difficult to spot a burglar’s handiwork. The bedroom was tidy; the galley, he had already seen. He checked the bathroom-the head-and the back hall and closets. Daphne sat all the while, a bag of ice pressed against her forehead, the wine in the glass getting lower.

  His second time through the house, gloves on, he opened drawers, checked shelves and closets. He had not done any robbery/burglary work in years, but it came to him naturally: He had searched too many homicide crime scenes to count.

  The third time through the residence, he concentrated on minutiae-looking for smudges on the glass of doors and windows, crawling hands and knees across floors, alert for everything from bodily discharge to spilled change or a receipt-or even pet hair (Daphne did not own a pet). If she were being stalked by a parolee, it meant one kind of danger; if it was someone attracted to her looks, another entirely. For reasons that went mostly unexplained, Washington State and the greater Seattle area in particular attracted more than an average share of what the papers called “psychos.” Daphne and her colleagues used different terms. But to Boldt it all boiled down to the same thing: sick people, often violent, often targeting women; and when they snapped, their crimes were among the most heinous.

  It was during this third inspection that Boldt discovered the charred electrical outlet in the head and the small drops of water next to the sink. Without telling her, he checked the toilet thoroughly, as well as the shower/tub stall in case the stalker had used these. Masturbation was often the last step prior to the acting out of whatever violent act was planned.

  When Boldt had completed his search, he pulled up a chair alongside Daphne’s and said, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  She chuckled nervously. “You sound like me: That’s how I often get a therapy session going.”

  He waited her out. He knew she had to be terribly afraid no matter what exterior she presented. After a difficult silence she encouraged him, “Why don’t you go first? Please.”

  “Your visitor knew your schedule well enough to enter while you were on your run.” She looked good-too good-in the tight jog bra/halter top and shorts, but he said nothing. They could deal with what she could do defensively later; a baggy T-shirt and running pants was a place to start. “You cut your run short,” he said.

  This comment snapped her head toward him. “How did you know that?” she asked incredulously.

  “To put it bluntly? If he had meant to harm you, to assault you, then I think he would have tried. We both know that you can hear a person approaching. Right? He was already in the bathroom. Where are you going to head after a run?” he asked rhetorically. “So all he had to do was wait. You’re not going to carry a weapon with you on the way to the shower. But he wanted out. See? That’s why after your description I thought it was a burglary. Maybe a well-planned one. It would fit with your feeling of being watched. He determines your schedule, times your run, and breaks in after a few days of sizing you up. But you surprise him by cutting your run short. When you open the front door, he freezes. Then he decides to get the hell out of there.”

  “The door moved,” she interrupted, remembering. “The front door.”

  “Moved closed,” he told her.

  “Yes. But how-”

  “In a place this small and relatively tight, when one door opens, it moves air. It moves doors, or a curtain in a window.”

  “I think I knew that instinctively; when it moved, I was scared. I locked it immediately.”

  “He was trying to get out, but he looked back-his eyes were more adjusted than yours-”

  “There’s a night-light in the head.”

  “There you go. He looks back-he’s left something next to the sink. He doesn’t want you to find it.

  “He didn’t move after that. He stood very still, just inside the back door, which explains the small puddle of water. If you had come looking, he would have been out of there in a flash. But if he could pull it off, whatever he had left was worth going back for. I think we can be quite sure of that.”

  “But I didn’t come looking. I tried to find a light that worked.”

  “Exactly. And so he seized the opportunity. He stepped back into the house and you heard him.”

  “I hate this guy.” She crossed her arms, fighting a chill.

  “As you tried to find a light, the intruder crossed back into the bathroom.”

  “I heard the floorboard.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I turned on the light.”

  “You can imagine his panic. But he’s a fast thinker. There’s a basket of bobby pins and whatnot on the bathroom counter. He’s wearing gloves. We know he’s wearing gloves because he takes the bobby pin, spreads it, reaches around the corner into the hall, and puts the bobby pin into the live wall socket. He’s lucky. This is a small house and he shorts out all the downstairs outlets, including the light you turned on. The place goes dark again. Again, he makes for the door.”

  “I hear him and I run.” She felt suddenly colder. Perhaps it was not the sweat. Boldt’s descriptions enabled her to visualize the intruder. She felt violated. She felt lucky to be sitting here drinking wine.

  “But he hears you smack into that beam, fall over the chair. He hesitates-just an instant-unsure what to do. You’re too fast for him. Suddenly you’ve got a gun. It’s doubtful he has one. The law views breaking and entering without a weapon so much more leniently. But in any case, he didn’t come here to be shot, or to shoot you. Things are definitely looking bad. And now here you come, shouting your warnings, as you said you did, and he’s in trouble-a cornered rat … and all that. But the
point is-” He caught himself. “Are you okay?”

  “You’re a little too good at this,” she said. “It wasn’t you, was it?” She forced a smile but winced with the pain it caused her.

  “Well, you know the rest.”

  She stood out of her chair and faced Boldt, arms crossed.

  He knew that same look in Liz. “Need a hug?”

  She nodded.

  He wrapped his big arms around her and pulled her tightly to him unreservedly, unashamed, unconnected to their past and that evening when they had done this without clothes. She did not want to cry. She returned the hug, and buried her face. Her hair smelled like sweat. A boat motored slowly across the lake. She thanked him.

  He said softly, “Why don’t you point me toward a newspaper? You get yourself showered and dressed. Let’s get you settled. Okay?”

  “I’d like that. But I hate to take your time.”

  “After that, we need to talk some more.” She nodded. “Do you want to report this? Officially, I mean? I don’t want to discourage that. You have every right-”

  “No, Lou. No thanks. I’ve been there. You’re asking, do I want to stay up until two in the morning? Do I want to answer a hundred questions I’d rather not? Do I want to make a huge scene, all in order to never catch this guy? I don’t think so.”

  “Still, it’s not right of me to discourage you.”

  “I can do that all by myself.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’m a big girl now. But if you would stay. Have you eaten?”

  “We eat early. Miles,” he explained.

  “Right.”

  “I’d like to use the phone if it’s all right.”

  She nodded. She went upstairs and he heard her undressing and he thought maybe he should go. But he did not. A few minutes later she descended the ladder stairs with an unavoidable amount of leg showing, and headed straight to the shower without comment.

  Boldt sat with her as she ate warmed-up leftovers and drank another glass of wine.

  She glanced up at him occasionally and smiled through her eyes while chewing. “I feel kind of silly,” she said. “You sure you won’t have something?”

  “Tell me, if you’re ready. I’d like to hear.”

  She set her fork down, took some more wine, and nodded. He saw that she was going to have a bruise on her forehead, though maybe not too bad, and if she kept up the ice as she was, the lump might not be there in the morning. Sitting this close to her, both on stools at the galley’s food bar, he could see the dozens of flecks of gold and red in her otherwise brown eyes-magical sparks that seemed to increase in candlepower with her enthusiasm. She had a ferocious amount of energy, of reserve power that at times seemed boundless. She stepped him through her experience leading up to the monorail ride. It took Boldt some getting used to that the planetarium meeting had taken place only yesterday; if he had been told a week, he might have believed it. She also described how she had lost the man in the crafts fair. She told him about the blue car she had seen what seemed like one too many times. And then she confessed her general state of paranoia over the last few days. “I don’t know that a man can understand it,” she said. “Women come to feel when they are being gawked at. It is something society condones: men undressing women with their eyes. Call it a zipless fuck. Whatever the term, when you’re on the receiving end from the age of twelve or thirteen on, you develop a real sense for it-at least I have. The thing of it is, I feel as if the person can see what’s underneath the clothing. Does that make sense? I feel violated. More than once I’ve felt like just ripping my shirt open and getting it over with. The fifth floor is the worst. Present company excluded, I find cops the worst-and I’m surrounded by them. But the point is, I know when someone like Michael Striker is looking down my blouse.

  “And that’s the way I have felt for the last three or four days. Just like that. As if someone has a pair of binoculars trained on me. As if someone is in the room with me when I’m undressing-when I’m in the shower-all the time. Like I’m being stalked. That’s the only way I know how to explain it. Someone back there. Someone creepy. Someone all over me, like an oil you can’t wash off.

  “And then the car, and yesterday morning, and now this … I know it looks like a burglary, Lou. Especially from a male point of view. But I don’t think so. I can’t tell you what. I can’t tell you why. I wish to hell I could tell you who, but someone’s out there and he’s got my name written all over him”-her voice cracked-“and I want it over with.” Her eyes were pooled. She pushed her plate away, her appetite ruined.

  Boldt felt responsible. In a strange way he even felt responsible for what was happening to her.

  “I know I haven’t got a shred of proof,” she said, reading his thoughts.

  “You confronted the guy on the monorail?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did your feelings tell you then?”

  “I’d like to tell you that I felt as if I were looking into the eyes of Jack the Ripper-because I’ve seen those eyes before; I know that look, and there is often a look. But truthfully, there wasn’t in this one. He seemed embarrassed, put on the spot. Weird thing is, for a moment there I even felt as if I knew him, as if we’d met. But that’s the thing about a stalker, you see-about the good ones, the Ted Bundys-they know how to project that air of safety. Old friends. Good buddies. Hop in the back of my van and I’ll rape and murder you. I’ll tear your liver out and eat it for dinner, good friend.”

  “You know what Shoswitz would ask?” Boldt said.

  “Am I overworked? Under stress? Sure. I know. And if it wasn’t me, I’d be sent to me for a little chat to see what’s up. But it is me. And I am under stress, and I am overworked. But no, I honestly believe it has nothing to do with that. Good enough?”

  “For me it is.”

  Daphne said, “Probably not for him, I know. But it’s you I care about anyway.”

  Boldt asked, “Do we talk about what neither of us is comfortable talking about? That this may be related to your New Leaf work?”

  “I want another glass of wine, but if I have one I’m likely to start belly dancing in the living room, or maybe I’ll just pass out. Ever carried a woman up a ladder?”

  “I’ll leave you on the couch,” he said, standing and bringing the bottle of wine over for her. “Anesthesia. You’re allowed this once in a while.” He poured.

  “It really sucks that I’m not allowed to see Owen.”

  “I feel real sorry for you,” he said sarcastically.

  “Jealous?”

  “Maybe I am just a little.”

  Her eyes warmed, those flecks sparkled, and she was about to say something but she caught herself. He wanted to hear it, but he knew it was better that he did not. He felt no confusion about his emotions or desires, but that did not mean he could not love this woman just a little more than was acceptable-not as long as he kept it to himself. And maybe she kept it to herself, too.

  He reminded: “You first sensed this three or four days ago, you said. To both of us, that feels more like a week. Do you remember back three or four days ago? Can you separate it out?”

  “We’re going to talk about it,” she said, their exchanges suddenly quicker.

  “Yes,” he affirmed, “we are.”

  “You think it’s connected to my work on New Leaf?”

  “I think it may be. I think it’s worth exploring.”

  She ran her hand through her hair in a nervous manner. “Someone knows what I’m up to and doesn’t like it. Is that it? Is that how it goes?”

  “Several people know what you’re up to. Many more may suspect it. Maybe that guard at the archives said something. Maybe Kenny or Taplin saw you pass those keys, but hasn’t said anything. Maybe there’s an employee who figured it out.”

  “An employee involved in the original fraud.”

  “It’s serious stuff what you’re suggesting. People would have positions to protect-”

&
nbsp; “Do not bring Owen into this!”

  “I didn’t say anything,” he protested. He waited a second and said what he had to say, what had been on his mind for several days now: “Was Adler in on it? Has he said anything to you?”

  She gasped, and the warmth in her eyes froze over. She stiffened and nearly spit at him, “Some things need not be asked!” She averted her eyes and said, “Do you think I would keep something like that from you? How can you possibly think that?”

  “I think it would put you in a difficult position. You wouldn’t indict him without some damn good proof-not if you’re human. And maybe you’d look elsewhere for the proof, if things got a little too warm where you were looking. And maybe-just maybe is all-you would ask him at some point and he would say that he’d rather you didn’t, and what then? Where does that leave you?”

  She softened some. “Well, it hasn’t happened like that.”

  “It’s Longview Farms I’m focused on,” he confessed. “The New Leaf situation is of interest to me only insofar as that if it proves true-that State Health or someone at New Leaf deliberately altered records to throw blame onto Longview-then there’s all sorts of places I can run with that. We’ve talked about it. And what happened out there yesterday bears it out, I think. And maybe-just maybe-whoever was involved in document tampering at either State Health or New Leaf, if anyone, is also involved in this present situation. Crime makes strange bedfellows-we both know that.”

  “More than one person?”

  “There’s a woman involved. We’ve all but confirmed that. Is she alone in this? Is she working with a boyfriend? A lover?”

  “The sheriff,” said the psychologist.

  “I just don’t think a woman would have done that. Not what I saw.”

  “Those burns,” she said. He nodded. “His genitals?”

  “No.”

  “His face?”

  “Yes.”

  She considered this. “The face? I don’t like that. Not for a woman, I’d have to agree. You may be right. Where the hell does that leave us?”